Free The Maxwell Sisters by Loretta Hill

pride and joy.
    She drove on through the car park, eager to get to the house. She parked out the front beside two other cars, both Holden Barinas, just like the one she had rented.
    My sisters must be in town.
    It was strange how they were all so different, but when it came to cars, exactly the same. Her nerves hit a crescendo as she stepped under the timber arches, shading the front door of the house.
    Here goes.
    She took a deep breath and knocked.
    The door swung open after a few moments and a rush of love overcame her at the sight of her mother. It was like no time had passed. Anita wore an ancient looking floral dress that Natasha was sure she had first seen as a kid. Her large coal-coloured eyes grew wet as she spread her arms.
    â€˜Tash! My darling girl.’
    Natasha returned her mother’s embrace, which required her to half-bend, half-stand to meet her mother’s diminutive height.
    â€˜Why did you knock?’ Anita scolded. ‘You know it’s open.’
    â€˜Sorry, Mum. City habits.’
    â€˜Where are your bags?’
    â€˜In the car. I thought I’d bring them in later.’
    â€˜All right. Come in, come in.’
    She felt her mother’s critical eyes on her as she stepped over the threshold. ‘You haven’t been eating properly, have you? You’re as skinny as a leaf.’
    â€˜Am I?’
    â€˜Don’t play dumb. Your sister Phoebe is exactly the same. She looks like the wind blew her in. Well ,’ she shook a stern finger as she shut the door, ‘that’s all about to change.’
    â€˜Really.’ Natasha smiled at the direct order. Though to be honest, she was rather hungry. She hadn’t brought anything to snack on in the car on the way down. She’d just driven non-stop till she got here.
    Her mother grinned at her. ‘People come to the South-West to eat and drink. And you girls aren’t going to be the exception to the rule.’
    It was true. The region had its own chocolate and cheese factories and all the pickles, jams and preserves you could possibly desire. Not to mention the liqueurs and candies, pasta sauces and every fruit and vegetable available to pick fresh off the trees should it take your fancy. It was no wonder most tourists were in town simply to drive and consume organic produce. And of course there was the added advantage of wine tasting as well. But for her, it was her mother’s cooking that brought her to Yallingup. Cheesy filo tiropites, her famous chicken soup – avgolemono – and nutty, cinnamon-spiced baklava drizzled in syrup. Her mouth was watering just thinking about it.
    Natasha stepped further into the house and aromas from her childhood assailed her. There was a blend of pot pourri on the hall table in a delicate glass bowl, purchased in a glass blowing house in Margaret River back when Mum and Dad had been a young married couple. The pot pourri itself was her mother’s own creation. No doubt made from cuttings from the Tawny Brooks’ garden. Also faint, but still discernible, was the cleaning agent Anita used on the polished wooden floorboards, a natural blend she made herself from black tea and vinegar. The floors were shiny enough to see your face in. Natasha swallowed a lump in her throat as memories flooded her mind.
    â€˜Is anybody else here?’ she finally asked, snapping out of her reverie.
    Her mother’s lips pulled into a straight line. ‘It’s just your father left to arrive now.’
    Natasha blinked. ‘Dad? But where is he?’
    â€˜I have no idea.’
    Uh-oh.
    She didn’t quite know how to respond to this. Communication had never been a problem for her parents. They had always had a very solid, loving marriage.
    Who are you to talk?
    She had seen how fast that could change.
    â€˜He left this morning,’ her mother continued. ‘And hasn’t returned.’ Anita’s face clouded. ‘I sent Adam to go find him, but he