Elviscraft Limited presents an unabridged recording of The Tides That Lie, written by Jen J. Mloud and read by Stephanie Tobin.

Philosophobia, noun, a clinical phobia characterized by extreme and irrational fear of the sea. Word origin: Greek, thelassa (sea) plus phobus (fear).

Epigraph: My father loved life and us, but he died, and I let it happen over 30 years ago. The high tide swept him and my recollections away, but some memories. Memories I'm learning are not so easily taken. No matter how high the tide or fierce the ocean, they remain on the edge of the sand, the edge of our minds. And like the tidal detritus, we pick through. Some we discard, some we treasure. I guess that's why, despite the years, I'm back at Sandbar, still missing dad. Still commemorating him. Still wishing I had chosen differently that day.

But being here doesn't explain why I've left behind the family home I love, my fortress, to camp alone in a tent, and with the sound of waves pounding the beach. The ocean is not my friend. It will never be. Not even the type of friend that requires a certain cautiousness and restraint when in their company. I want to trust the tides again, and myself. Because the more I fight life's urban flow, the more I thrash about indiscriminately clinging to everything I treasure, the more I risk drowning and pulling my family down with me.

If dad were here today, he'd offer profound advice like, "Have faith in the rhythm of life, Chelsea girl. Ride the waves and reach for the horizon." Then he'd say, "But remember, just as you can't see where the earth ends and the ocean starts, you must convince yourself it's okay to not know some things."

But is it? All I know is I sit in a storm-battered tent alone, in hearing waves pounding the sand. I'm both a lousy decision-maker and a woman who holds too tight to all the wrong things. So tight that I failed to notice the most precious treasures of all slipping away: my husband and my family.

Social media now keeps tabs on the people I love, telling me where in the world my travel agent sister is and in which country Mom is spending husband number three's money. Meanwhile, with my boys deployed to the other side of the world and the emotional battle with my daughter ongoing on the other side of the country, I'm a mother lacking purpose, a wife short of a husband, and a daughter struggling with guilt and regret. And yet, I'm here, preparing to face the hydrophobia monster.

My fear of the sea is an irrational one. There are no evil ocean dwellers. Nothing lurks beneath the surface, and nothing can hurt me. Nothing. I'm already three decades beyond the worst hurt in the world. The angriest of oceans will not stop me reclaiming my life.

My need right now is for my big sister, the one who used to love and protect, to recognize the day and commemorate Dad with me. But that's unlikely after all these years. Even though there's supposed to be an unbreakable bond between sisters. While I'm proof such bonds do break, I'm unsure what estranged us. That's Leila's story to tell.

My story starts 34 years ago. Rock fishing with Dad, 1981. "Can we go, Dad? It's freezing." For the first time ever, I hate fishing. Hate, hate, hate it. The sky is no longer blue. My toes rubbed raw by my thongs, staying in the salt water. And without rubber soles under my feet, the rocks are slippery and unsafe. While I picture Mom and Ila back at camp with their beauty masks, both trying not to laugh in case their faces crack.

Dad's face is set in a strange scowl as he stares out to sea. He's not talking much, not even when he lands another fish. "Today, the Taylor are running. So, while we won't bring home the bacon like Dad promised Mom, we sure won't go hungry. Dad's bucket is cho block."

"Don't we have enough?" I ask, getting more tired and cross by the minute. Worse still, the promised secret spot isn't so special. We're fishing the same rocky point as always, but the northern end, which you can't get to from Sandbar Beach. There's so much to explore and lots of new rock pools.

I asked Dad if I can go beachcombing and explore the caves. He says no, which is why I'm sitting on a rock, bored out of my brain, and craving our caravan's cozy interior that will be smelling of Mom's pan-fried cheese and Vegemite sandwiches. Even when Dad mutters something about the time and the tides turning as wishy-washy as the weather and then announces a different bait should do the trick, I don't budge from the rock.

Maybe like Ila, I've outgrown the tidal pools and make-believe mermaids and magical underwater worlds. Once again, I've almost broken my neck on the slimy green moss. And while looking for shells, I'm only allowed to collect broken ones. I reckon I saw a blue-ringed octopus hiding under a rock. Mom would go ape if she knew how close my hand had come to touching the deadly creature.

I called to Dad. "Mom will have a timer on us and she'll be crossed if I get a cold." A dreadful thing to catch, for sure. I can almost smell the steaming bowl of ice-stinging eucalyptus. She'll force my face over after covering my head and shoulders with a towel. An accusation will follow. "This is your fault, William." And ordinarily, I would silently disagree. I mostly side with Dad. Not this time, though. If a cold results from us staying out late in this weather, it will be his fault because we'd walked so very far through sunless scrub after leaving camp too late in the day.

Why did we wait? When it comes to fishing, he's usually up with the sun and raring to go. Dad says "raring to go" a lot, but for most of the day, he lollygagged. Mom uses the word "lollygag" to describe how Ila wastes time when she should be studying. But before setting off today, Dad had insisted on a big family lunch with a fire and an old-fashioned fry-up of fresh fish. After wrapping vegetables in foil and burying them in hot coals alongside the damper in the camp oven, Dad suggested we play cricket.

Soon after eating, he takes Mom to the caravan to talk, like he does sometimes, telling us girls to go for a walk and make it a long one. We do what we're told, even though I don't want to waste more of the day. I want the secret spot with the promised rock pools. My parents finally emerge, all lovey-dovey and giggly, and Dad tells Mom he loves her almost as much as he loves fishing. When Mom smacks his bottom and they kiss again, I know at that moment I will meet a man just like him, and we'll live happily ever after.

When finally on our way, Dad and I walk single file on the skinniest path. Dad talks mostly to himself until I ask how much further. His reply is more of a "hurry up," followed by more walking and more climbing. Up, up, up. I'm about to ask if we're walking all the way to the horizon when we come across a big flat space with fallen-down buildings made from rocks and wrinkly tin sheeting. At the center of the clearing is a round concrete thingamajig the color of rust, to match the chunky length of the chain at its center. It reminds me of a giant bath plug, like the old brown one in the laundry tub out back.

Branching off the big plug are tunnel-type structures, like drains but draped in vines boasting pretty blue flowers, when Dad ducks inside one opening, calling me to follow. My tummy wobbles. I'm scared because I'm reminded of the open storm-water drain that runs under the road outside the school. Local kids gather there to smoke cigarettes and stuff. Dad says they're dumb, and Ila and me are too smart to do anything so dangerous. Then why is he calling me to follow him into a drain?

"Come on, you're safe with me. These tunnels are the secret bit in the secret spot. They'll lead us safely to the rocky platform. It's the only way down from the headland." I don't want to go in there. "What if it rains?" Dad says the storm-water drains extra dangerous in the rain. "Okay. Well, the best rock pools in the whole world are within your reach. But if you want to go back to your mother and sister while they paint nails and braid hair, or whatever you girly girls do to occupy yourselves while the hunters gather food, we can do that. We can go."

I bite my lips so hard it hurts. "Um, what if we came back again tomorrow in the morning?" I suggest. "It's late now and getting later by the minute," Dad mutters, checking his watch. "Besides, the tide will be all wrong tomorrow. Then we head home. I guess I'll be keeping the secret to myself." "Are you sure there's no other way?" I ask. "The beach, maybe. You know, crossing Sandbar's estuary isn't safe, and the high tide will stop us from getting back to camp. It's this tunnel to the northern side of the headland, or nothing. So, what's it to be? And don't dilly-dally when deciding. The day is getting away from us. You won't want the incoming tide to swallow all those rock pool riches, and you don't want to make me regret bringing you."

I don't understand regret and can't think of anything except how tired my arms are from lugging my fishing gear. "Would it help if I carry your load?" Dad asks. "I'm going to leave my backpack here. We won't be needing it after all." I think about asking what it is he's carrying all this weight for nothing, but Dad seems sort of angry and anxious all at once. Then he says, "Very well, back to camp and then home. Just give me a minute."

Suddenly, Dad slumps to the ground, his body hunched, head and hands. "What? Dad, what's wrong?" Though he doesn't lift his face, not even when he speaks, it's not hard to tell. The man who loves to laugh is crying. "I thought this was the best way. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I should be content to go home, too. It's just I'm tired."

"Tired of what, Dad?" I plunk onto my bottom to sit cross-legged, ready for the rant that is bound to follow. Like when Mom goes on and on about being tired of this and tired of that. "Tired of treading water," he says in an almost whisper. "I'm drowning in that house, Miss Fix. Out here, I can breathe." Chelsea almost chuckles. "You're being silly, Dad. You can't drown. You're almost as good a swimmer as me. Besides, people don't drown in houses."

"They do," he tells her, head still bowed. "We can drown anywhere, anytime. Like in the bath." I recall the day a few years ago when my dolls needed a good wash behind the ears. While yanking out the bath plug, Mom said I could have drowned. Then she declared the bathroom out of bounds.

"You know what?" I pat Dad's knee the way he does when telling me and Ila to buck up and be brave. "If you were drowning for real, I'd save you." Looking up, his smile small, he asks, "And how, Misfix, would you manage that?" "Easy," I puff up like an abandoned blowfish on the beach. "Even if the plug was as big as that one," I point behind me, "I'd yank it out and let the water run down the drain."

"That is a big plug." A bigger smile wrinkles his face and squeezes a fat tear from one eye. "I love you to the horizon, Miss Fix." "Love you too, Dad. And if it makes you feel any better, we can stay for fishing. We're here now. We might as well go all the way." "You're right. And you are my brave girl," he says with a hug. "Come on. I'll carry this lot for you." He reaches for my gear.

As one tunnel turns into two, then splits again and slopes away, I imagine I'm a tiny silver ball in a palm puzzle, tilting this way and that. On and on I roll through the maze, wondering if we'll ever find the way out. Then daylight. "Stay on the track and watch your steps," Dad says. "I do, but I'm mesmerized by the cavelike construction of rocks and concrete we pass." "Is this like a cubby? A bunker?" He explains. "During the war, soldiers would hide here to keep watch. This headland has two. One looks north and one overlooks Sandbar Beach to the south. The entire coastline is littered with wartime bunkers."

"Can I go look inside?" "Not now," he says, tugging me in the opposite direction. "Times are ticking and we have the tides to think about. The best fishing is on an incoming one. Watch your feet. It's steep."

At last, we reached the rock platform, and it's pockmarked with a million magical tidal pools. I'm so happy I almost wet my pants with excitement. The very first pool has my favorite Neptune's pearls. So I snapped two small strands and draped the bauble like seaweed over my ears as earrings. The next rock pool has seen an enemy, a family of five warning me off with their spiky, venom-filled tentacles. Therefore, Dad warns. "And remember, Chelsea, when you get home, this place must remain our secret. Understand?"

I nod, knowing Mom would have a fit and yell the house down if she learned how far we'd come. She yells at Dad a lot and says mean things like telling him she'll call the police and have him taken away for being a bad husband and father, and that they'll believe her. "The police always believe the wife," she reckons. Dad never yells back. He just slinks away to the garage or the backyard. For that reason, I won't ever tell Mom this secret, or Ila. I can't get Dad in more trouble. Not ever. Dad's the best, and I'm safe with him. He's always looking out for Ila and me and teaching us stuff like observant fishermen don't die and follow the rules, read the rocks, monitor the tides, never turn your back on the sea.

"Chelsea, that pout of yours will scare the fish. But it's been ages. It's almost dinner," I say, my mouth watering from the imaginary hot Milo milk and toast oozing with hot cheese. Dad looks around at his watch. Out to sea, at the sky, and back at his watch. "Another hour, and it'll be time. Time to go. I can only hope." "Yes, but first go grab fresh bait. We'll give the old KJO a try. The fish have gone off pilchards." "Kjivoy." I scan the rocky platform, looking for the clumps of leathery brown tubes normally abundant at low tide. "There is none, Dad. The tide's coming fast." "There's a bunch of the stuff back towards the track," he points behind those boulders where we turn right, remember?" I nod, even though I'm not good with my left and right. "Take a bucket, go all the way past the big round boulders, and you'll see where the rock ledge falls away to the sand. Go left or right, depending on which way you're facing, of course."

I saw loads of Kjivo when we arrived, but I'm curious. "We have more than enough for dinner, and Dad usually grumbles about BS who catch more than they need just to show off." Back at camp, "Your bucket's full of fish already." "Then empty your bucket. Here, take it," he says, scattering my collection before I could scream. "But my shells!" I snatch up the unbroken conch that I planned on sneaking into my jacket pocket. "Chelsea Scott," he snaps, while passing me the now empty green bucket covered with mermaid stickers. "We don't take away. We appreciate Mother Nature. We learn and we leave."

When my bottom lip buckles into a sob, Dad squats, grasps both my arms, and says, "I'm sorry. Only snapper are allowed to snap, right?" He waits for my nod. "Remember, I love you, Misfits." My head bobs like the bobbing dog on Dad's dashboard. "And you love all the creatures in the sea," he adds. "Which is why these treasures stay behind." Now he stands and checks his watch. "Time is ticking. Do you need your dad's help, or are you a conjivo collector extraordinaire?" Feeling silly for crying, I puff up. "I can go by myself." "Yes, you can," he says, ruffling my already windblown hair, dank with sea salt. "Remember, Chelsea girl, you can go anywhere and do anything. Follow your heart and let your dreams guide you." "Guide me how?" I ask. "To where?" "To the place that makes you happiest. That's where you should be, my darling girl. That's where we all deserve to be."

"Dad," I whisper, forced to squint into the brilliant orange sun slowly sinking behind the headland. "The place I'd be happiest right now is back at camp with Mom and Ila." Dad's laugh sounds sort of sad as he lifts me onto my tippy toes for a hug. "You'll be home with your Mom and sister soon, and they'll spoil you and fuss over you and paint your nails, whatever you want. But first, go get that magic bait. There's one more big fish in the water with your name on it. And take your time so you don't slip."

Waterlogged conjivo is much heavier than the clumps I usually find dried up on the beach. It's a lot to carry, especially given only the creature's bright orange innards get used for bait. Tiptoeing over the slimy rocks, I call out to Dad up ahead. But he doesn't turn around. He just sits there, or hunches. At first, I giggle. Such a big man sitting in a small rock pool looks so silly. Then I see his pained expression, a rip in his pants, and a blood-soaked fishing rag wrapped around one leg. "I'm frightened. I'm hurt bad, Chelsea."

"Tide's coming in quicker than I realized, and a rogue wave hit, washing your shells under my feet." "My shells made you slip." "Don't blame yourself. Accidents happen. Your thongs washed away as well. Should have kept them on your feet, kiddo." I stare down at my toes, blue with cold, now the same color as my lost thongs, and then at the bloodstained water swirling around my Dad's knees. "Does your leg hurt a lot?" He nods. "Seems we've got ourselves in a bit of a pickle. The cold water does the pain, but it's a nasty injury. I won't be walking out of here without help."

"What do I do, Dad? You can't fix this alone." He says, "You'll need to get back to camp as quick as you can." I turn in the direction of Sandbar Beach. "If I run very fast, I'll reach the June track before dark." "No, not that way. Even if you can climb over those boulders, crossing the estuary alone is dangerous, especially at high tide. The only way out is up and through the tunnels. You'll need to retrace our steps." "Oh, okay." I wish I could sound more certain. "I've come such a long way. But Daddy, what will you do? You can't stay here."

"I'm only 12, but Dad has told me everything about the ocean and the tides. I know its magic, its dangers, its fury, and its fickleness. And he knows I know. I'll be fine." Dad says last night's high tide mark is all the way down there. He points to the line of pumice and seaweed. "Tonight's will be much the same." "Are you sure?" "The tides don't lie, Chelsea girl." "I could stay, Dad. Whenever we're out late, Mom sends Ila. She'll find us." He reaches for my hand, squeezing it. "What am I going to do with you, my contrary girl? One minute you're pestering me to go, and the next you're wanting to stay in the cold and dark. Remember, this spot is our secret. Ila won't look for us here. So, think hard about what you want because once properly dark, we'll be here until morning. Or," he adds, "you can hurry back up to the headland and run back to camp."

"Mom's going to be really mad, isn't she?" "Yes, my girl. She's probably already rung the police." "The police?" I panic. "Will they take you away for being a bad father? I don't want you to go." He tilts his head to one side and grins curiously. "No one and nothing can take me from my girls. I'll always be in here." He touches me where my heart thumps wildly at the thought of the journey ahead. "Go quickly, Chelsea girl. Soon it will be dark." "Okay," I whimper, wishing I had a torch. I don't like the dark.

Chapter 1. Chelsea. Day one of seven. 2015.

"You're doing what?" Chelsea didn't understand why her friend was yelling. Was dodgy phone reception the problem, or was Vicki also in a dark and scary place with a howling wind and lashing rain? "I'm camping," Chelsea shouted back, expecting her pop-up camping cocoon to lift off any second. "C-A-M-P-I-N-G. As in T-E-N-T," Vicki's reply. "And what's the noise I can hear?" "Probably wind," Chelsea says. "Then I'd avoid the tin beans, sweetie. They're only camping essentials for cowboys and old American westerns. Speaking of beans, Timmy is shoving one up his sister's nose. Hang on."

Chelsea could always rely on Vicki for a laugh, for a good shake-up. And both were in order tonight. As well as being a regular running mate, her friend filled the sisterly void left behind after Ila, in her early 20s, distanced herself from the family. Vicki was also the one person Chelsea could text and, unlike her mother and sister, get a reply. Communicating with her mother, Wendy, was always a mistake, a prelude to disappointment. While Ila was deliberately incommunicado around this time of year, she sure wouldn't care to know Chelsea was at Sandbar campground today to remember their father.

Vicki had been a constant in Chelsea's life, rock solid and reliable, while daughter Gabby kept in touch by tagging Chelsea in Facebook posts showing her beautiful grandbabies. Twins, Travis and Tyler, recently shifted to the next big thing, something called Instagram, because the app focused on pictures rather than words. Like their mild-mannered granddad, Chelsea's sons were creative and gentle souls. Not Gabby. The Halt's firstborn had inherited her auntie Ila's aloofness. Immensely proud of her three children, the family had benefited from Chelsea being a stay-at-home mom. Growing up in the old Scott family home, and with the financial security of her dad's insurance policy payout, the Holts had wanted for little. Perhaps her husband needed a reminder of William Scott's contribution to their comfortable lives next time he complained about the daily train commute or missing his beloved beach. Both were a small price for Dale to pay. Besides, her dad had sacrificed in much the same way when his wife insisted a new house in the fast-developing Penri Plains District would be a smarter move than renting a rat-infested flat in Bondi's back blocks. Sure, growing up out west in the '80s and '90s meant a day at the beach translated to a half day on the sand and 3 hours on the road, but the Halt family was better off than their peers, and the kids would always have a familiar place to land if ever needing somewhere to call home.

Because security and stability were important to Chelsea, and not the fact they were sitting, as Dale said, on a fortune and in the worst house on the best street, she constantly pushed back when it came to selling. More than a home, the beach shack, her dad had named the place by nailing a sign under the letterbox, remained Chelsea's fortress, protecting her family and preserving her memories. Memories like those weekends during summer when Dale and the kids would barrel through the front door late on a Sunday, their saltwater hair dried stiff on the long hot trip home. Or on a Saturday with Victoria's faces muddied from football and only the occasional broken limb.

Chelsea sighed. As much as she might have preferred to keep three children safe by locking them in their rooms forever or making them afraid to do what they loved, the whole children made their own choices. In doing so, they left behind parents who had forgotten how to be alone, with or without each other.

"Still there, hun?" Biggie's voice snapped Chelsea back. "Bean crisis averted. Where were we? I was about to say I'm hungry enough to eat tin beans. I went walking earlier when I should have finished setting up. I tried making the beach, but it was too much, too soon. Then suddenly it was dusk and raining, so I grabbed one bag from my car. Now I'm starving and stuck in a tent in the storm with a supply of snacks but no wine, which proves the only thing worse than my timing is my decision-making."

"Wait, spell the place you're staying?" Vicki demanded. "I'm checking weatherraar.com." "Chelsea suggested she try Whale Rocks. It's bigger than Wandari and a few beaches north. Vic, hello, you there?" "Good grief," a friend screeched. "This is why I avoid places with no cocktails, cabana boys, or cyclone shelters. Chelsea, sweetie, get in the car and come here where it's dry and you have solid walls, a real bed, a hot shower, and wine waiting."

Although hardly cabana boy status, Chelsea toyed with telling Vicki about Mr. Titefly sitting outside his old caravan, and how his hat and sunnies, along with a sun-creamed nose and delta-shaped torso, had reminded Chelsea of her father. Especially the way Dad lounged in his camp chair like lord of the manor at the end of a day's travel. Beer in hand, he'd crow, "Wouldn't be dead for squids." Without fail, Mom would shout a reply. "The saying is quidds, not squids, idiot." And Dad would wink at Chelsea.

"Oh my," Vicki trolled. "I googled Wandari and camping and found Wandari Eco Community. Seriously, doesn't a hippie nudist cult in the jungle have a cabin or a yurt for hire?" With every adorable exclamation to escape her friend's lips, Chelsea's angst subsided. She even laughed. "What on earth did you search, Vic? Besides, hippies do not live in yurts. It's a forest, not a jungle. And Wendari, as far as I can make out, is an off-the-grid community, not a cult." "There are none on the north coast that you're aware of?" Vicki persisted.

"True," Chelsea cheddar while stripping down to her bra and undies, shoving the wet clothes in a plastic bag. "But I've not spotted one nudist. I've actually seen very little of the area because the weather changed not long after I popped my cocoon." Vicki hooted. "Don't let anyone else hear you talking that way, sweetie. They'll think you're crazy." "What I am is delirious from no dinner, melting from the humidity, and I'm about to run out of phone battery. As soon as the rain stops, I can charge in the camp kitchen and call you back."

"Does D know where you are?" Chelsea was about to answer when something sounded outside her tent. "Uh-oh." "Uh-oh. What, sweetie? What's wrong?" Chelsea cupped a hand around the phone and forced a whisper. "I think I see legs outside my tent door." "What do you mean you think? What sort of legs? Hairy ones?" Vicki didn't wait for a reply. "Stay where you are. Turn off the lights and pretend you're not home. Whatever you do, Chelsea, do not answer the hairy legs."

Despite her increasingly soggy situation and the possibility her airbed might float away, Chelsea found another chuckle. "I'll call you back, Vic. Harry Legs is saying something." And Chelsea thought she recognized the voice. It was the same one on the other end of the telephone earlier today. "Pick any camping site anywhere you like. Plenty of choice," the man had said during the requested phone check-in process. "Anywhere?" she'd queried. That's great. It was a lie, and her great a reflex response. Decision-making had never been Chelsea Halt's strong suit. Not since the age of 12 when a wrong decision, the kind that made a mother not love her daughter very much, broke the Scott family forever. Leila, 4 years Chelsea's senior, and made up for her mother's emotional absences until also drifting out of Chelsea's life. Enter Auntie Rita. Not a real aunt, but their mom's friend from school who had comforted the family, intervening as needed to guide both girls through their grief. While Chelsea never fully recovered from the trauma of losing her dad as people said she would, her mother Wendy moved on too quickly, in Chelsea's opinion. While Ila's multiple coping mechanisms morphed over the years from mournful crying to medicines, booze, and self-inflicted body piercings. One day, she talked Chelsea into a homemade tattoo. The design, a starfish, was supposed to represent regeneration and renewal. Nowadays, a sister's drunken depiction of a starfish remained an odd blue freckle at the base of Chelsea's left thumb. If only it could help with letting go of the past, because renewing and restarting by moving forward was something her husband seemed committed to, with or without his wife.

Chapter 2. Tadpole.

A drenched Thaddius Pool. Tadpole to Sandbar campground regulars and Wandari locals waited in the dark for a reply from inside the odd-looking tent. When no answer came, he headed towards the camp kitchen. Surely she was there and taking advantage of the sturdy, dry, and well-lit structure. Tad hoped so. For reasons unknown, the woman had occupied his thoughts all afternoon. He'd earlier spotted the solo traveler struggling to peg her tent in the windy conditions. Unsurprising, given she left herself exposed to the elements. Experienced camp dwellers usually tucked in behind the thickest of coastal vegetation to avoid the unpredictable southeasterly, especially during December, which was pretty much mid-storm season. Even when a wind gust had sent her loose tent fly into a flap, and the woman looked certain to become a human kite, he resisted the urge to offer advice, mostly because one thing was worse than sandflies sneaking under your board shorts, and there was an independent female who saw a gentleman's offer of help as an affront. As Tad had been bitten too many times, he observed from a distance, intrigued that a tent could look so much like a blue igloo. He also took comfort in knowing should everything take off in a stiff wind, he'd be sure to witness the woman in her tent sail by Mary Poppins style, after which he'd help pick up the pieces and mend whatever was broken. In such matters, Thaddius Paul had ample experience.

Around dusk, Tad had been resting under his shade awning and surrounded by his wheel estate, the only real estate he bothered with these days. When the woman stopped short of the beach track entrance, worry evident in her expression. She'd hesitated a little, fiddling with her phone a lot, and then retraced her steps back. "Good day," he called out. She'd looked up from her phone briefly to wave, but turned away. "Could get a storm," he'd added. At the same time, Tad grabbed his groin and grunted in response to sudden nerve pain gripping the stump that was his leg these days, and a sure sign of rain. "I find keeping a tight fly helps," he called again, thinking a hint wouldn't hurt. Faux pas realized when her pace quickened. Tad laughed. He no longer apologized for being the person he was, and Lucky Shaw didn't care about the occasional faux pas or politically incorrect perspective. A happy observer of nature, life, and good-looking women. That Paul remained unapologetic. Not only totally, madly, and deliriously in love with life at Sandbar Community Campground, he was a man on the other side of 60 who enjoyed spearing the nose of his board headfirst into a shimmering crest of a wave, at one with the sea. But these days, he needed to nudge Lucky into action. The dog would stand, allowing Tad to fit the assistant harness and the two-wheeled gig especially designed to a surfboard. After years together, his working dog knew the score. Second to surfing was watching newcomers like Miss Lily White Legs with the discernible digital dependency. Some old-timers objected to folk visiting Sandbar. Not Tad. He enjoyed watching their bodies unwind after a day of driving, when the slump of their ranged shoulders straightened out and faces squinted at sunshine rather than at phones. As a rule, Sandbar holidaymakers started out with the same cautiousness of bare feet on nature's carpet before easing into a lazy amble by holidays' end. Having returned home to eco community 10 years ago, Tad easily recognized certain traits, and a person's gait said heaps about them. But this potential Mary Poppins had accelerated away from the beach track like something nipped at her heels. With Sandbar Beach usually the first thing people aim for after establishing camp, the weary traveler drawn to the golden sands and lively breezes, whatever this jittery woman's problem was, the 1 km stretch of pristine coastline waiting on the other side of the dunes would surely loosen those slender shoulders. So why turn back before the bush track, especially when dusk was a perfect time for beachcombing? Bounded by ocean, estuary, and a pristine forest, and bookended by two bluffs, Zambar Beach could be a million miles from anywhere. While Wendari rarely rated a mention on road maps, rather the state's first intentional community was everything the parcel holders wanted it to say. A commune-style habitat hidden away on the north coast of New South Wales. Its shackles lost among the sprawling stretch of protected forest. As a child of Wendari, Tad had spent his youth shoeless and not wearing very much at all. In his 20s, when fishing the estuary and surfing waves no longer fulfilled him, he'd left for Sydney. After his mom passed away quietly, even though Prudence Pool rarely did anything quietly, Tad found himself the reluctant owner of a single-room shanty, one of 60 in the long-established Wandari eco community. But with self-imposed seclusion not his thing, Tad sold the pool land parcel for a nice profit, started renovating disused caravans, and set himself up at Sandbar as campground caretaker and sort of landlord. More recently, he'd established Surf Aid, a website and program encouraging amputee kids to embrace their passion for surfing and to not be afraid. These days, Thaddius Pool survives on sunshine, sand, and peak season tariffs. Because when Sandbar campgrounds swell to bursting and colorful tents sprinkle the sand like confetti, his wheel estate pays him triple the low season rate. His pride and joy, Sea Esther, all fabulous 16 ft of her, have been abandoned on site three decades ago. Left to rust away, the lovingly refurbished Viscount Caravan now sat proudly on the concrete slab opposite Tad's geriatric and aptly named caravan. "This will do. This will do us," say Lucky. "Sandbar is perfect. Rain, hail, or shine," Tad said while checking the camp kitchen and thankful he was able to fix a plastic roller blind that had come loose and was flapping wildly in the wind. His caretaker role could be hard work. Life with only one leg came with challenges. But Thaddius Pool was a survivor. Having endured more than one tragedy, he needed very little, wanted for less. And with a past he couldn't change and a future he couldn't predict, Tad remained hopeful of finding someone to share what was left of his very simple way of life. "Left of me?" he muttered while massaging the stump below his knee. "There must be a woman out there somewhere lucky. Want to see Sandbar as the ideal place in the world to live and no better place to die," he mused, aware when his time came, locals need only drag him to the shoreline. The tide will do the rest. Even if this will do could come out of retirement and off the bricks, Tad's roaming days were over. And while nothing was going to budge him from his piece of paradise, the same cannot be said about the little blue tent now bearing the brunt of an east coast low and likely with a petrified Mary Poppins still inside. "Come on, Lucky. We better check again." Glad to find the tent holding firm, he moved closer and called louder. "Are you okay in there?"

Chapter 3. Chelsea.

Despite the echo of her friend's warning, Chelsea had no choice but to answer the hairy legs this time. He was very persistent, and if the wind didn't blow her away, she'd soon float away. So much for the waterproofing and the $50 fly. The lightweight cover was supposed to keep rain out if pulled taut enough. "Tight fly." That's what the guy had meant this afternoon. "It's him." "Hold on," she called, reaching for the door zipper.

"Oh no." The abrupt movement caused the undulant, half-inflated mattress to heave, catapulting the phone off the bed and onto the flooded floor. Now down on all fours, Chelsea poked her head through the tent opening only to have headlights blind her and sideways rain slap her face. "Figured you might be damp in there," Harry said. "Not as wet as you are out there," Chelsea retorted, pulling the blue nylon flaps spotted like around her chin before looking up. With a hooded high-vis raincoat concealing his facial features, she saw only floral board shorts and two legs, one a prosthetic. Beside him, a German Shepherd dog eyed Chelsea. "Do you need my help with something?" "We wanted to ask if you needed our help. I have a caravan at the far end of the park. She's clean and dry and safer than a tent in this weather." "That's kind of you, but I'm fine." Chelsea even contemplated adding the line about her husband being home any minute. If only. "I'm offering my spare caravan. Siesta is a rental," he clarified. "You walked right by her and me earlier. I waved." "Ah, you're the tight-fly guy." Either oblivious to or ignoring her faux pas, he explained a last-minute cancellation meant the van was hers for the night. "If you want it, I'm the campground caretaker, not some weirdo pervert. This rain isn't expected to ease for hours, and without a tight fly, you're exposed to the elements." As if to prove his point, a wind gust slapped wet leaves over her face. "What about the tent?" Chelsea spluttered, grateful most of her gear remained dry in the car. "A few solid pegs will help," he said over a crack of thunder. "I'll come back and batten down the hatches, as they say. First things first, let's get you settled and safe." At that, he raised an arm and an umbrella mushroomed. "Take this, get in your car, then follow us."

Snatching the few belongings close at hand, a soggy mobile phone, handbag, and a shopping bag of snacks, Chelsea crawled out, stopping to zip the tent before standing and making a dash for her car. After slamming the driver's door shut behind her, the hooded man collapsed the umbrella into a walking aid and trod the soggy ground that earlier had presented as the perfect camping spot. With powerful strides, despite the other sneaked prosthetic and one thonged-wearing foot, he and his torch guided Chelsea through the pitch-black campground and across a gravel road turned sludge. As the car wipers juddered and pushed mushy leaves back and forth over the windscreen, her headlights caught his high-vis raincoat, one arm urging her to veer left, then right. By the time Chelsea had steered her little car under the cover of a corrugated tin carport and grabbed a travel bag from the back seat, the caravan door was open, lights ablaze, welcoming. Relieving Chelsea of a load, the hooded man slid the soft bag across the caravan floor, shouting over the million raindrops hitting the metal roof. "Up you go. Drier inside than out." "I need to pay you." "Tomorrow is fine. If you need anything, call numbers above the door. I'm staying close, tucked into my old van across the road, the one with the Tibetan prayer flags. This will do as my shelter from the storm and my office. I won't sleep much. Never do on nights like this. I need to stay alert and on hand in case." "Okay. Well, thanks. This will definitely do," he said. He grinned. "Towels are on the bed. Oh, and the stove is LPG. I'll turn the bottle on as I go, but give the gas time to come through." "I understand how it works," she shouted. "Thanks again. See you tomorrow."

Locking the door, checking it twice, Chelsea towelled her arms and legs until she stopped dripping. "A bit of water hurts no one," she could hear her dad say, unperturbed that his straw hat and board shorts would get a soaking while fixing a leak in the caravan. Board shorts were William Scott's go-to, while on top he mostly wore a tiny pot belly, which he rubbed each time he burped, much to their mother's displeasure. Also earning Wendy's wrath was the collection of leather neck chokers, usually adorned with a feather or some kind of totem. The family's caravan, Vinnie the Viscount, had braved Mother Nature's fury on numerous occasions, requiring many buckets and all hands on deck to batten down the caravan hatches and hammer more annex pegs into the ground. "Storms pass," a dad would espouse. "We get through each one only to wonder what the fuss was about."

While surveying Siesta's cozy interior, she noted its coordinated cushions and window coverings in shades of red. The compact kitchenette featured beige cupboards and red retro canisters lined up on gold-speckled laminate. Grateful the restoration included vinyl and not fabric dinette seats, Chelsea lowered her still soggy self, sighing long and deliberately loud. She realized the van was similar in size and shape to the one the Scott family had holidayed in decades ago. So strong was the memory of any and of William Scott standing outside and urging her to help. Hammer and spare tent pegs in hand. The years rolled back to when Chelsea was 11 years old and working alongside her dad.

Camping with Dad, 1980. Being the Scott family's fifth annual holiday in Vinnie the Viscount. "I'm an expert at just about everything when it comes to setting up camp. First, I chock the wheels with lumps of wood. Then I place the soaps container to catch the kitchen sink water. Only when my chores for Dad are done do I help Ila erect the two-man tent Mom lets us sleep in. Once the caravan is unhitched and leveled and the gas turned on to get the refrigerator cold real quick, 'cause Mom likes cold wine. Dad double-checks the tent pegs while me and Ila take turns blowing air into our Lelo mattresses."

"Tea might be nice, love. No rush," Dad calls into the open window. "Chelsea girl, go in and grab my hat off the bed." He flops into a camp chair. "This is the life, eh? Wouldn't be dead for squids." "It's quidds," Mom grumbles from inside as she dribbles water on the drain board. "Water's running to the back of the sink," she tells the entire park. "No one's going anywhere until we're level." Hoisting himself up, Dad dons his hat, winks, and walks to the drawbar at the front of the caravan where he finds the jockey wheel handle winking again. "Happy wife, happy life, Chelsea girl."

I'm keen to skip the tea-drinking part of setting up, unlike Ila, who at almost 15 fakes liking the watery brown goop to look grown up. I reckon tea tastes disgusting when black and totally pukeworthy with milk. Besides, it's plain dumb to waste perfectly good beach weather. "We can drink tea at home. Can we go to the beach, Dad? Please." "If I find the thermos, we'll take the tea with us," he replies, ducking as he enters the caravan door before turning back to me. "As usual, your mother has brought everything from home except the kitchen sink. You girls, take your buckets, head into the trees at the back of the park. We need kindling for tonight's fire. I'll be in here helping Mom look for the thermos and the toasting marshmallows. I may need to tickle their location out of her. So, take a walk and take your time, girls," he adds, closing the door to muffle their mother's cackle.

With so many trees surrounding the campground, finding firewood isn't difficult. But I don't hurry. I've half-filled my bucket, green and covered with the Little Mermaid stickers, I snapped from the breakfast cereal box. When my sister downs Dad's red bait bucket to tug her ponytail tighter and to huff, Ila has been taken to huffing a lot lately. "Hey, Ila, how can Mom hate almost everything about camping? Do you reckon she and Dad have anything in common?" "Their initials." Ila chuckles and wraps an arm around my shoulder. "And us. I will always have them, right?" Leila shrugs. "All people grow older and get sick like Gran and Gramps. No one lives forever, Charles. But I'm not going anywhere. You'll have your big sis until we turn old and gray. Come on, let's go check out this year's Christmas decorations."

Leaving our half-filled buckets on the ground, Ila and me wandered the small streets where permanent park dwellers live in mostly dilapidated caravans they've chopped with bits of wood and bricks. Each December, residents drip their homes and tiny pot plant gardens in tinsel and stake Santa cutouts into the sandy soil. Some residents get real creative, with most happy to offer a treat when polite visitors pass by and admire their efforts. White Christmas fudge is my favorite.

"Oi, you two!" Dad finally calls from the open van door as we're wandering back to camp. "You haven't been bothering the permanents. I hope we can't go until the firewood is stacked, so make it snappy. Fish are waiting to buy my hook." "You go with Dad," Ila tells me. "I'll finish." "Okay, see you." I dash across to Mom for a goodbye hug, but dart away before the woman can reposition the dorky canvas hat. "Be good and be careful. And for goodness sake," Mom calls. "Look after your idiot father." "Are you sure you don't want to come, Ila?" I ask, hopeful. But I know the answer. Even if I don't understand why growing up means missing out on the fun stuff, like body surfing, building sand castles, and standing side by side on the beach casting a fishing line with Dad.

"What on earth have you got in that thing?" Mom calls as Dad settles the straps of a bulging backpack on both shoulders. "Wouldn't you like to know?" With Dad already walking away from camp, I run to catch up. I love him.

Chapter 3. Tadpole.

Chapter 3. Chelsea.

So much. I love the rowdy holiday version even more.

Born is the choir man who takes the morning train Monday to Friday before I'm even out of bed and who comes home too late and too tired to bother with bedtime stories. With mom mostly lost in what dad calls her brooding billionaire books, Ila has become the family storyteller, and she's good at it. When tucked up in bed, my sister invents nonsense tales, and we laugh and laugh until mom in the next room reminds us Dad has an early start. I'll have no trouble falling asleep tonight.

I'm struggling to keep up with dad's big strides across the campground. We're heading for the skinny bush path that traces the back of the dunes and goes forever. Dad loves hiking. Some mornings he gets up before anyone, grabs his backpack, and doesn't return until after mom is washed up after breakfast. With today windy, the rustling leaves make Dad's chatter hard to hear. But he claims to have found a secret fishing spot on the far side of the biggest headland.

"Can we please go to the secret spot now?" I beg. He shakes his head. Tide's all wrong for rock fishing. Maybe next year when the tide's right, I'll take you, but never tell Mom there's a special spot. Okay, now sit tight for a bit while I go bush. He disappears into the thick undergrowth, returning a few minutes later looking relieved. All set, he announces, adjusting his grip on the fishing rod, tackle box, and net. Up and over, Chelsea girl.

Thermos in one hand and my green bucket in the other. I charge uphill until both feet sink ankle deep in the soft sand. Finally, I'm at top the mountainous dune and surveying my sea kingdom. Sandbar Beach is so pretty. And while I love fishing, it's the treasures waiting to be discovered that makes my tummy tingle. Look at me. I made it. I'm queen of the castle.

"Hey, Dad," I ask when he stops on the crest beside me. "How long would it take me to swim to the end of the ocean?"

"There's no end to the ocean, Chelsea girl. The sea goes on well beyond the horizon. In fact, it just goes and goes and goes."

"Goes where, Dad?"

"Everywhere but nowhere."

I'm confused. How can something go everywhere but nowhere?

"Easy. Your imagination does all the time." He chuckles when I scrunch my face. "You probably think your imagination is stuck in here, right?" He taps my skull. "But it goes places if you let it. Lots of fabulous places."

"Like where, Dad?"

"Wherever you want. Whenever you want. You'll understand when you're older. Come on."

When he nudges me into action, I plant my heels firmly to slow the June descent in sand so fine and soft it threatens to swallow me whole. Racing ahead, I jump over dried and graying puma stone set in lines by the morning's high tide. While Dad stops to pick up a piece of twisted driftwood about the size of his forearm.

"One small bit won't hurt," he says, answering the surprise in my wide eyes and open mouth. "I promised your mom. She wants me to make a Christmas centerpiece for the table at home. Don't you worry, we'll return this one to nature on our sandbar trip next year." He examines the many twists and knots from different angles. "Perfect specimen for your mom. Dried up, gnarly, and weathered. But don't tell her I said so." He laughs and lets the wood drop with a thud into the bucket.

If that's a dad joke, I don't understand. Just like at 11, I don't get the importance of table centerpieces. Christmas is about Santa stockings, presents, roast veggies, and fruit pudding with its hidden coins.

"Hey, Dad," I say as we near the shoreline. "If not the secret spot today, where are we fishing?"

He drops his gear. "Reckon the spot in front of us has your name on it." I giggle, eyeing the long stretch of beach with our two footprints side by side.

"No, it doesn't." Taking up the stick of driftwood, he scratches the words miss and fix in the sand.

"Does now?" He grins. "Let's get fishing."

"What made you call me Miss Fix?" I ask. Dad stops digging in the tackle box to tussle my hair before positioning the sun hat hanging down my back. "That's for me to know and for you to figure out." A tap to my head settles the hat almost over my eyes. "Let's get these lines out. The best fish are caught on an incoming tide. Once the water line washes those letters in the sand away, the tide will have peaked and the fish we didn't catch will head home."

"As will we?"

"Yes, I think. But not before I make him chase me down. He'll catch me. He does without fail. hug me tight while calling me a giggling sack of beachw worms. Then charge into the water, throwing us both into the tumbling waves. Eventually, Dad will make for the shore and suggest mom will have the timer on us. Then, hoisting the bucket containing our catch, he'll say, 'Enough for dinner and no more. Come on, Miss Fix. Last one back to camp is a rotten egg.'"

Chapter 4.

Ila childless by circumstance rather than by choice. The sirenike scream of a toddler in full tantrum mode while in the confines of economy class would ordinarily poke Ila's 50-year-old buttons in all the wrong ways. Fortunately, she could snuggle into the spacious business class seat, mutter her appreciation to the travel gods for providing an upgrade for the return flight to Sydney, and feel smug about other in-flight perks bestowed by the airlines on travel agents. Enduring a longhaul flight any other way would push her to the point of madness, and not for the first time.

Ila had worn Looney Leila Scott as a label in her late teens following several attention-seeking self harm incidences. Looney probably wasn't the word dog good is used while literally picking her out of the gutter on her 21st birthday. That englorious incident had put her on Doc Dashing's very comfy couch for the first of many sessions. For years, Leila drifted aimlessly back and forth between Gutter and Doo Gutter, drawn to abrasive people and sharp objects, aware anything or anyone damaging had the potential to end her misery. The day Dr. Trench Dashwood, the out-of- bounds bachelor with the honeyed voice and smoldering eyes, marked her file, no longer a danger to herself. She'd believed the impossible. He'd saved Ila from Ila. What he couldn't fix, however, was the relationship with her sister.

"All your intolerances for badly behaved kids," she mused while tuning out of the squeals and economy by tuning into the familiar and soothing hum of the aircraft's engine. Was it Ila's good fortune or any potential child's that she never ventured down the parenting path? The closest thing to a motherly urge was during those rare long ago visits to the old house in what used to be called the Penri boonies. Gabby, her amusing knees with a mischievous spark made the morbid family gettogethers tolerable. The occasional pill and alcohol overindulgence also helped Ila cope with Chelsea's insufferable reminisces about their father. But when determined, Doc Dashing had denied Ila such vices, she'd resorted to nicotine hits, slipping into the backyard to smoke. That was until her teenage niece started pestering her for a puff. Although delighted young Gabby had considered her worth emulating, Auntie Ila with the addictive personality, not to mention one monstrous family secret, had not been appropriate mental material for a growing girl. Add to that the skeleton in the Scott family closet, certainly no little white lie. Leila's survival and sanity had remained best served by distancing herself from family gatherings. Invitation still came, but a travel job provided an endless array of excuses, making it ages since she'd seen her sister in the flesh. Texting was best, the pair agreed.

As news captions on the inflight screens updated passengers on the day's global happenings, Ila wondered how Chelsea was acknowledging the dreaded anniversary. Was she at home this minute? setting his place at the dinner table and announcing the centerpiece display was courtesy of a backyard shrub or tree their father had nurtured and loved. Lucky trees after the meal with her sister insists they watch home movies or play stupid board games. The go-to in the Scott household on wet or windy days had been mousetrap. an ironic choice for their family given the game starts with players working together to build a ridiculously complex and totally over-the-top rude Goldberg like mousetrap only then to turn against each other once they'd finished the project. How did Chelsea's husband and kids tolerate such ritualistic crap? Or a time cel Chelsea's obsession to commemorate the man Ila never wanted to remember? Adjusting the airline provided eye mask and pillow. Leila knew one thing. Flying from one side of the world to the other would help us sleep through the anniversary. If only there were a way of avoiding the bustling baggage claim area overflowing with tearfilled greetings and happy family hugs. The only thing waiting for Ila each time she landed in Sydney was a painful truth and a one better flat. Her luck ran out in Singapore when a changeover and an over booked flight saw an end to the perks, putting Ila back in the economy section, but with a window. Seat 41A might not be so bad had a rambunctious mob of five not spread themselves across row 40. The Scott family had squabbled over all kinds of things, but never over seats on a long haul flight. Their holidays never amounted to more than a trip to Sandbar campground where Ila would work on her tan lines while staring up the contrails in the sky and imagining exotic locations anywhere other than the New South Wales North Coast. If Ila never saw that campground again, it would be too soon. With the squabbbling siblings in row 40 impossible to ignore, Ila leaned back and let their excited squeals trigger the movie reel of childhood recollections. Playing on the inside of her eyelids were images of her 5-year-old self happily cramming Cabbage Patch Caroline into a cupboard, ready to play protective big sister to a real life baby. For years, she and Chelsea had giggled over silly secrets, held hands on the way to school, played hideand seek, and pretended to be famous. As the lanky one in the family, Ila had dreamed of being a model or an air hostess, or both. She had their mom's light blue eyes and dyed brown hair so thick and rebellious, it repelled every rubber band in any attempt to hold it in place. A chorus of sh made Ila lift one corner of the eye mask. Three girls of varying ages, but with matching brown eyes, stared back from row 40, smiling through identical mouths. "We're going on an adventure," one said. "You'll never guess where." Ila and Chelsea used to enjoy family holidays. The muddier, sandier, or wetter the better. Until keeping up appearances mattered more to Ila than beach and bush expeditions with little sisters and dorky dads. "Do you want to know?" Another whispered. "It's a secret, but I can tell you." "No thanks. No more secrets for me." She managed as the mother cast Ila an apologetic look before wrangling her trio back into their seats. Leila needed no more secrets. On her 16th birthday, she discovered a family skeleton and a lie devastating enough to turn her tears to stone. Not having asked for the secret, nor knowing what to do with one, she held it tight to protect her sister until the weight of truth became too painful. And Ila tried too hard, too many times, and too many ways to stop the hurt. Besides, she was far too preoccupied with the text message that had dropped into her phone while in Singapore. It was from her mother, and the news was not good.

Chapter 5.

Chelsea. With the same finger she'd scribbled the words miss and fix in the condensation on the caravan's foggy front window, Chelsea flicked a tear from one cheek. "What are you doing here?" She couldn't even claim the decision to come camping as hers alone. Two so-called trauma and phobia experts on Talkback Radio have been debating the pros and cons of self-imposed exposure therapy. One expert claimed emotional wounds were healed by recalling and then modifying the bad memory into something else. Apparently, if done in a place that feels safe, the brain disconnects the discomfort and sense of panic that might otherwise turn a traumatic incident into a lifelong phobia. The other expert espoused the benefits of facing fears head-on through repeated exposure to whatever triggered the bad memory or phobia. If she achieved nothing else, Chelsea hoped to return home to renewed and ready to cauterize the emotional wounds she was bound to incur while preparing her beloved beach shack for the market. While not yet ready to tell Dale she was letting go in case the plan went pear-shaped and Chelsea changed her mind again, she owed her mother a heads up. Having dried her phone as much as possible, Chelsea began a text message. No salutations needed, the Scott family hadn't bothered about such civilities for years. "Not sure where in the world you are, Mom. We need to talk about the house. You remember the house, don't you?" she paused to mutter. "The family home you abandoned for husband number two and way too fast in my opinion. There's so much stuff in boxes under the house. And don't forget the emotional stuff you and Ila left behind when basically walking out of my life." Deleting the last sentence, feeling all the better for having written the words, Chelsea instead typed, "It's been a long time and you've moved on." Husband number three. I hoped you might at the very least want to revisit the boxes in storage under the house. I don't want the responsibility of choosing what stays and what goes. To me, it's all precious. But taking everything kind of defeats the purpose of downsizing, which my husband is insisting we do now the kids are grown. My very absent husband, you left to give me space and time to think about what I wanted." Chelsea's tapping on the keyboard began to sound somewhat hopeful. "Maybe, Mom, you'll visit the house. Any day that suits or night is fine. When are you next in town in the actual country?" You grumbled. "I'm away for the next week camping. You'll never guess where. Sandbar." Three exclamation points seemed appropriate. And when the angry rumble of distant thunder confirmed as much, Chelsea chuckled, saying, "Yes, that's right, Mom. I'm camping. I had to come back. I need to forgive myself and to do what I need to remember. And what rubbish." With a growl and the same exploitive repeated over and over, she deleted the draft message in its entirety only to begin again using the more familiar mother daughter Morse code. "Selling house. We'll email when home. Camping at Sandbar. Talk later." After pressing send, the phone screen went black. "Oh no, no, no, no. Could the day get any worse? Did Chelsea need more signs to confirm this trip was a dumb idea? It sure wasn't the alone time she imagined. All afternoon, her blue nylon dome had garnered interest from fellow holiday makers. People in nearby caravans had peered, understandably curious about the middle-aged woman struggling with her fresh out of the packet pod-like shelter. its manifest fold lines and pristine pegs glinting under the summer sun. The purchase had seemed like a good idea with impromptu trips away doable since Fred's passing. The pop-up contraption was also reminiscent of when the Scott sisters would share an old-fashioned A-frame tent, whispering in the dark before sleeping and giggling awake each morning. While much of Sandbar Campground appeared unchanged, the same could not be said about Chelsea. As a girl, she had loved the outdoors, especially the beach. 10 minutes after setting up camp, she would be in her toss and headed for the water. With no fear, she would race her dad into the ocean, dolphin diving through the waves over and over until her nose ran, her eyes stung, and her bikini bottoms turned heavy with beach sand. Now grown, the only diving Chelsea had wanted to do earlier today was back into the igloo-like structure to hide from nosy people. Like the greyhead woman under the awning of a caravan, he raised a full to the brim wine glass with a big upward curve of her lips that said, "Come join us." Kelsey had retreated like a threatened turtle pulling his head inside a blue nylon shell. No way. Having happy hour or yappy hour from 3:00 in the afternoon with a bunch of gray nomads was not why she returned to Sandbar. There was no happy anything about her spur-of-the-moment getaway and nothing to raise a toast to unless she counted having successfully erected the cozy camping pod without losing an eye. Thankfully, the hunky adventure store salesman had alerted her to the potential hazard. Unfortunately, he neglected to mention the pod's cozy interior would have little spare floor space once she fully inflated the super plush mattress. But where she slept for the next week hardly mattered. She achieved what she hoped to change the sad narrative of her empty neester existence by facing her demons and learning to smile in the place she cried as a child. Those radio theorists had agreed on one thing. It was not impossible to overcome trauma or feel genuine regret for something that could not be fully recalled. And Chelsea's memories seemed selective, as if she wasn't supposed to remember the detail. For that, she blamed her mother and sister, who insisted the way to recover from grief was to forget. Chelsea's nightmares eventually stopped, morphing into weird recollections. But she never forgot the nature loving man and his lessons about living an honest life and never settling for less. Huh? Chelsea huffed at the irony. Settling for less? Wasn't Dale expected to do just that all these years? To settle and give up on his dream of owning a place with a water view and sea salt in the air? No amount of ocean breeze room deodorizer in a three bed weatherboard house in Penrith would ever satisfy his longing to live by the beach. But Chelsea struggled to let go. She had suffered a complicated grief. The loss bringing out the best and the worst in the people around her. Her mourning had not come in prescribed stages. For a guiltridden 12-year-old, grieving had been messy and confusing, and to this day still whispered its painful reminders. While there was no changing the past, she could meant her marriage, but only once misfixed fixed herself. And so she was back in nowhere to remember the good times like helping dad load the old Vic count caravan Vinnie and always with the same conversation starter. "Where are we going for the holidays, Dad?" "Nowhere, William Scott replied." "Dad," Chelsea would giggle. "We can't be going nowhere." "Yes, we can. We can go anywhere and do anything if we want to desperately enough. Remember my words. Head for the horizon and never settle for less." Chelsea girl, though too few, those family camping holidays had taught Chelsea what it meant to want desperately. Like when she and Ila would beg their dad to drive faster so they might snafle the top camping spot before anyone else. Until they'd state their claim closest to the beach track, Chelsea's insides never stopped turnurning with anticipation. Truth was, it took years to fully grasp the meaning of desperate. like desperately wanting her children to need her and her husband to come home. More than anything right now, Chelsea desperately wanted to find better and happier memories to assign to this time of year and to the father who had loved life and looked for the magic in it everywhere. The phone trilling melody intermittent screen blank ended her oneperson pity party. "Hello." "Thank goodness," said the familiar voice. "Vicki's been on the phone to me. Something about rescuing you from a storm. Where are you, Charles?" "Nowhere," she told her husband. "Why can't I see you?" He asked. "Or hear you properly." "Press the FaceTime feature." "I can't see it. My phone got a dunking. Hold on." Plugging into power might help. The charging beep sounded, but the screen stayed blank. "You there?" she asked, settling awkwardly on the bed, wishing for a longer electrical cord. "More to the point, why are you there?" Dale asked. "What's going on?" "I bought a tent." If tent was the right word for the pop-up pod she'd abandoned in the dead of night. "I'm where I need to be, Dale." She pictured his piercing blue eyes blinking in disbelief. "Hun, I've always taken the kids camping because you hate it. I'm worried. What can I do?" Tempted to suggest he either let her go or come back home, she instead bit down on her quivering bottom lip and lied. Mlin was not where she wanted to be. "Nothing. I'm fine. The camping idea was a quick decision. I at least deserve points for making one," she mused while covering her head with the throw rug to do the deafening ricochet of hard rain on a metal roof. "Hun, you're completely koozy and I love you." Chelsea let those three little words, I love you, play in a loop like a happy gift. She wanted to believe his declaration was not simply habit. The call and the worried voice was surely proof of his sincerity. The reason she hadn't told Dale about the sandbar trip was because her husband was a warrior. He looked out for her since the first day she walked into his year 10 classroom as the new girl. The change of school had been Auntie Rita's idea. A fresh start in a different suburb. Ideal. Ideal for Auntie Rita maybe, who for four long years had traveled from her narrow bean beach house to Western Sydney to check on both Scott girls, fill the refrigerator, and lecture Wendy on her responsibilities. Wendy's growing number of acquaintances, however, took precedence over parenting, while Ila's disconnect from family and from society in general worsened. Dark became her sister's signature. Bloss, hair, nails, makeup. When Chelsea's schoolwork started to suffer, Rita relocated her to Naraban Beach for both their sakes. From day one, her uniform cleaned and pressed Crisp. Right through the last two years of study, Chelsea Scott was Dale Holtzy girl, the kooky and crazy girl who would stare across the room in detention, silently introducing him to a secret blink code. Da taught her to smile again and they'd laughed throughout their marriage until recently when he said those other three words and made her cry. "I am leaving." "Have you heard from your sister today?" G was asking. "No, I thought you might be Ila calling." Her husband replied with a hum of understanding. His mind no doubt turning over with ways to help. Dale liked to help. He spent his days coaching kids to cope with change, which allowed him to understand Chelsea's grief and her lifelong habit of retreating to her bed cover cubby. As a teenager, while on a date to the local McDonald's, Chelsea had divulged everything about her home life to Dale, listing every floor and confessing to every sin. From stealing coins from her mom's purse to unintentionally flushing her sister's favorite earrings down the L and setting Ila's journal on fire, a Big Mac, fries, and a soft serve later, Dell was holding Chelsea when she cried over not being able to fix the family she'd broken. Years later, Dell had confessed to falling in love with her that night. The man still loved her, but yes, there were often butts. He was ready to move forward. More specifically, he moved to the other side of the country for work, leaving Chelsea with her empty neester emotions as company and a crippling guilt rendering her unable to move or to make a decision in case it was the wrong one. Or plain stupid like this solo return to Sandbar psychotherapy caper. Hearing the beep of an incoming call and with the screen remaining blank, Chelsea asked Dale, "Is that for you or me?" "Me?" her husband replied. "Hang on." Naturally, the call was for him. No one needed Chelsea. No kids demanded dinner, nor was there an animal to feed. Poor old Fred. Tears for the little terrier tipped over onto Chelsea's cheeks. Not only had she taken the vet's advice and said goodbye, but she'd also lost her last excuse for not selling the house. No longer could she claim unnecessary cruelty for forcing an old blind dog to adapt to new surroundings. "Let's hold off on moving," she told Dale. "He won't be with us forever." If it wasn't hard enough farewelling the dog alone, returning home had made Chelsea realized the void old Fred had filled. No family member needed her like Fred had. Not today, not yesterday, and not in the months since Dale packed his bags for the Perth posting. The same pressure his giant hands had placed on the over stuffed suitcase to close it tight that day. Chelsea had felt on her chest as she'd struggled to find the right words. Strangely, all she told her soon to depart husband at the time was how windy it could get in the West. So, best throw in a second coat and a hat, she'd added. Dale did look fantastic in the fedora Gabby had sent last Christmas. "Sorry, hun." Dale's voice jerked Chelsea from her wretched ruminations. "Work call. I'm back. Where were we?" She might have replied miles apart on opposite sides of the country or inquired about the West Coast weather. But surely more important topics needed discussing. Subjects such as the state of their marriage, her daughter's increasing aloofness, or how Dale's departure had left Chelsea to mourn alone when the vet said, "A quick end is kind for Fred." She wished the man had clarified. When Vicki had suggested Chelsea adopt a new dog, she'd agreed company and a beating heart to love her back might be nice. She could rescue another Fred from the pound, an old dog, abandoned, one needing love and comfort in its final years. But each time Chelsea came close, common sense stopped her adopting. Owners rarely surrendered their pets unless sick, nippy, recalcitrant, or recitous runaways. With Chelsea already feeling abandoned by a family moving forward without her, the final straw would be a rescued dog running away. Besides, a pound visit required decisions. Puppy or mature, big or small, one or two, black, white, or brindle? How would she ignore the hundreds of hopeful faces and wagging tails to choose a single dog? "You there, Chelse?" "Yes, but I'm not sure about the phone. With no screen, I have no way of knowing if it's charging or even Damn." "Hello." Ordinarily, Chelsea might have thrown her head back on the pillow in frustration and cursed the lost connection, but truth be told, she was too miserable to talk to Dale tonight. After 7 hours driving, two detours around road works, followed by 10 uncooperative tent pegs and a floppy fly, all on top of her tharted effort to make the beach. Chelsea was not only drained and disillusioned, but she was disappointed her dad's anniversary was passing by without the reflection and commemoration it deserved. This special day was partly why she'd come to Sandbar so impulsively. She could try calling Dale back, or she could get off the bed and unpack the other essentials from her car, like the bottles of red on the back seat. A drink would lift her mood. Instead, stripped of wet clothes and prone on the mattress, staring up at the overhanging cupboard covered in stickers, she recalled the time Ila had got cranky with mom and gouged a rude word on the underside of Vinnie's overhead cupboards. Covering the underside of these overhead cupboards were sheep stickers. Dozens of cartoonish creatures ready for the counting by exhausted holiday makers. But Chelsea couldn't sleep. The only thing not a blur from last camping holiday 34 years ago was her 12-year-old self screaming at the wicked and wild sea responsible for snatching her daddy away and the tearful trip home curled up with Ila in the back of a police car. While in the front, their mom had howled. For weeks afterwards, a constant flow of friends and strangers visited the beach shack. All offered the same warped solace. "At least your father died doing what he loved. It happens." The notion had terrified Chelsea back then. She loved all the same things. The adventures, the bush, the sea. Tempted to hide in the bed cover cubby like she'd done as a child. The phone's crackly ringtone sounded and the screen flickered twice before turning black. Chelsea shook the phone. Frustration shook her voice. "You stupid bloody." "It's me again, Dell announced. I'm worried you're alone in that place." "Well, don't be. The truth is should have come back a long time ago. I should have done a lot of things years ago," she told herself. "But you're not cut out for camping, Charles." "I was once," she retorted. "Once upon a time, I was a lot of things, and I intend finding that person for me more than anyone else. But the beach, Chels, really? I witnessed your meltdown at Bondi when we went for the twin's 10th birthday. You haven't put a single toe in the ocean in all those years I've known you, and for good reason. I get that. What I don't get is why you waited until I was on the other side of the country to do something this crazy." Another silent question screamed through her. Why be on the other side of the country? But Chelsea knew the answer. Her stubbornness had pushed her there. And as much as she might have wanted Dell to drop everything and race home, she wouldn't force him to choose her over the job he loved. Because he would come if she asked, wouldn't he? "Look, hun, I might tease you about never making a decision, but are you sure about this one? What will being in that place achieve, especially at this time of year?" Doubt swamped Chelsea. What was she doing? saying goodbye to her dad. Did she believe a person's spirit only crossed over once whoever had wronged them acknowledged their mistake? Would being here wipe away all guilt or tell Chelsea more about that day? Might she finally stop obsessing? That had been her daughter's criticism before moving out of home. "At least obsessive was an improvement on indifferent." Chelsea remembered pondering. "It is better, isn't it, Dale? I'm sure a few days in the sun will do me and my phone good. Even if it rains the entire time, being here feels right. In fact," she added while poking a corner of one sheep sticker, refusing to adhere to a gouge section of wood. "This caravan feels inexplicably right." "Well, if you need me and shells, honey." Dale spoke those three words like she might break. Was it a good or a bad sign Chelsea recognized the tone? "I'm okay," she reassured. "And thank you for recognizing his anniversary and for caring. My mother doesn't and my sister is incapable of recognizing the importance." "Her prerogative, Chelsea conceded years ago. It's taking me a while, Dale, but I'm finally waking up to the fact that everyone else has moved on. It's my turn." "Sorry, hun. Got to go," her husband announced in a whisper. "A team member is hovering. I'll try you later." Team member working at this hour. Earth was 3 hours behind the East Coast, but it was late to be at work. "Don't go there, Chelsea."

Chapter 6.

Chelsea. Chelsea sat up on the bed, avoiding the hazardous overhanging cupboard. From the tunnel bag at the foot of the bed, she plucked out the toiletry bag, unzipped it, and stared into the mirror glued into the inside flap. For a split second, she saw her father looking back. Then she noticed the crow's feet and dark shadows around her eyes. Did she look like him? Even if she recalled the details of his face, Chelsea, at 46, had grown older and lived years longer than her lifeloving dad. The man who' wrapped his family in sunshine and magic, taking them on fun, far away adventures, real and imagined, died too young, lost at 37, to the dark world of wicked sea witches. Every night in bed, young Chelsea had bargained with the evildoers, preparing to sacrifice anything to bring her daddy home or to rewind the day and make different decisions. Not until years later, while helping Dale study guardianship law, had Chelsea learned the part of the brain responsible for decision-m and sound judgments did not fully develop until a person reached their mid20s. Still, she blamed herself with her mother's words from all those years ago painfully clear. "You left your father alone," she'd wailed. "They would have rescued you both if only you'd stayed put." The irony of those words was not lost on Chelsea. Here she was three decades later, determined to stay put in the family home and losing Dale because of it. Had his stubbornness not shushed him every time he'd hinted about moving to a better, more modern place, might their relationship be different and her marriage happier? Had she not battered away every suggestion, or had her indecisiveness not crippled her all these years, Dell might not be on the other side of the country? The man couldn't have made his thoughts any planer over the years, anytime the subject came up, and always starting the same way. shells about the house. Those three words and the home she treasured caused most of their marital spats. Their first fight was 12 years ago as the boys prepared for high school. "About the house," Dale began. "I get what you're saying about the twins's schooling, but the commute is killing me." "Commutes don't kill," Chelsea wanted to respond. "Oceans do. Giant seagoing monsters with white foam fingers snatch people from rocky shelves and pin them to the seafloor where the sea witches live." Of course, she didn't say such a thing, rehashing instead the lines her husband knew verbatim. "You understand what this house means to me, Dale? What it means to us? I grew up here and our children are growing up here. It's their home." She pointed towards the myriad cherished features, the laundry door with two generations worth growth charts marking the frame, the backyard with its 40-year-old fig trees, and the 84 handmade pavers fashioned by her father and laid in the checkerboard pattern to match her mother's kitchen lenolium. And who could forget the living room with the corner bar made from old surfboards and hula skirts. "I want to stay put, Dale. That's that." "And what anyone else wants doesn't matter?" He asked. "The twins matter," she replied. "Moving house now will mean a new school and at the worst time. I remember feeling new and awkward when starting high school. But I was lucky. I found you. And they'll have each other, Charles. That's the benefit of twins. But what about Gabby? Our miss independent." He let out the laugh Chelsea adored. Dale laughed love. Playground primadonna by day's end guaranteed. "A new school can be life-changing. Remember I do," Chelsea conceded. "Then get on board and find our place with renovations and the current real estate market. The timing is perfect and we're mortgage free thanks to your family." He spoke the last part with the usual disdain. "We can find a beach suburb north of Godzford. The choice is ours." "That's my argument, Josie said. Dad never got to choose. Moving west was a huge sacrifice, but he agreed renting was a waste of good money. Buying a house meant keeping a roof over our heads and and full bellies. Yeah. Yeah. All hail William Bloody Scott. Dale Cord. What about my sacrifice? Living so far from the beach was not my first choice. And to be honest, I'm sick of feeling like a visitor in this place." The same argument played out the same frustrating way every few years, ending with Chelsea accusing Dale of being unfair. The most recent episode had concluded with her husband taking the fedora hatch from her hands, throwing it on top of his Perthbound suitcase and pulling her into a farewell hug while the taxi driver waited. "I'll miss you, hun, and I understand the connection to your dad, but I'm drowning under the weight of your father's memory. I'm drowning in his house." So violent was Chelsea's reaction to the statement that she gasped and gagged and her eyes teared up. "Don't ever say that." "Sorry, but it's how I feel." He stroked her shoulders, his face angled to meet with her downcast eyes. "I thought we'd finally whittled our selection down from six potential suburbs to two. I'll happily agree to any house, wherever you choose. If not the coast, what about the Blue Mountains? I left a lura house brochure under a magnet on the fridge. We could fit two houses on the block. Maybe even a granny flat for visiting kids." "The property is five train stops west," she said incredulous. "The commute you complain about would be longer. How is that moving forward?" "It'll be ours," he said quicker than a blink. "Yours and mine together. So, you're saying my family home is our home, Chelsea?" He corrected. "It's our home and supposedly a stepping stone to a bigger house more suited to our family. Something we can choose together and get excited about. A place to make memories in yours and mine and with our kids. All I'm asking while I'm committed to 6 months in Perth is to pick a suburb. Decide what you want. Why me?" he said, sounded like a 10-year-old. "If you want to move so badly, you choose and let's be done with it. No, I'm over being the sole decision maker. At least ask your mother or call your sister or whoever you need to consult about getting the place sorted and ready for sale. Or don't," he said. "I'm not forcing this to make you sad, Chelse. I'm asking you to choose us to treasure our lives more than your father's beloved beach shack. Please commit to our future. It's coast or country. Lera is west is north and both regions have commuter services. Because they are chalk and cheese, choosing should not be difficult. Just decide what it is you want for us." "Okay." "No, it's not okay." She silently shouted through sobs as Dale's taxi sped away and Fred's front paws inched their way up her left leg. Cradling the little dog, she kissed the soft fur between his ears. "At least I have you, buddy. Don't you leave me." During the months following Dale's departure, she rattled around the house. No one in the family but Chelsea loved. At work, keen to convince colleagues and acquaintances she was fine, she'd boldly talk up the benefits of being home alone. Then Fred died and Chelsea's tearful teachers lunchroom meltdown had ended with a recommendation. She didn't wait until the end of the school term to take a break. "A couple of weeks away before the Christmas crazies might help," said the principal. The so-called Christmas crazies had been behind her parents decision to pull Ila and Chelsea out of school early each December. Destination Sandbar Beach. Now here, Chelsea was in a caravan and fully cognizant she could no longer keep both the beach shack and her husband. Nor could she continue resisting change. Incredibly, Fred's passing had let Chelsea see that beating hearts and not material memories made a house a home. But with Chelsea the sole custodian of the family footprint until Gabby the twins took over as the curators of their grandfather's legacy, she would hold tight to William Scott's memory through special momentos. As for the numerous boxes under the house, even though Wendy had walked away at the first chance she got, and Ila might lack any scar of sentimentality, sorting the contents without their input was both morally wrong and emotionally unfair. Hopefully, a lovely couple would inspect the place and buy with their heart, unconcerned about the foundations drying out and twisting the frame so much that the internal doors no longer closed properly. A heart buyer would fall in love with the quaint and quirky like the garden sculpture made from rusty anchors and the collection of mooring floats eternally entwined in two giant gum trees out front. Though not the neighborhood's most treasured feature, the multicolored marine detritus that draped like festive bals made everyday feel like Christmas. "How do I say goodbye?" she asked, staring up at the rain spotted caravan hatch with the increasing condensation on the inside. As a drip fell, splat on Chelsea's forearm, a tear escaped from the corner of one eye and trickled into her ear. Was Perth getting rain tonight? What about Sydney's west with the acre of trees and garden William had planted that Wendy had later neglected and Dale had restored? As Chelsea dabbed the wet spot from her cheeks, the beach shacks ocean blue exterior with sandy yellow trim on the doors and window frames materialized. The place had gained quirky status when developers began snapping up neighboring acreages and selling modern monochrome houses designed to blend into the landscape. What landscape? Chelsea and Dale would scoff. Concrete and bumen. Apart from her dad's handmade pavers, the only concrete on the Scott property was a path to the clothes line Wendy had insisted on. The day Chelsea and Ila had helped mix concrete in the wheelbarrow, father and daughter had dropped to their knees to press their handprints into the curing mix. Not their mother. Wendy was a wife inclined to oppose her husband in every way. Like Lura and Wo, Wendy and William had been chalk and cheese. Good grief. Was Chelsea turning into her mother? No. She was too much like her dad. Family ccentric and not fussed with fancy stuff, which is why she boked the day Dale had suggested engaging a business to help ease Chelsea's burden. Clarhouse.com claimed it could help sellers prepare their house for the market. Chelsea had almost spat a mouthful of breakfast tea over Dale's iPad while reading the sales blur. "Clear a house can vermoose what's not valuable. Redo any duds and renovate or remove the worthless. We'll restyle stale homes to add the street appeal that attracts serious buyers, leaving you with a squeaky clean, neat, and decluttered shell ready to sell." Seriously, Dale? A shell ready to sell? But before he could utter a word, Chelsea was yelling. "No way will strangers strip all the things that make this place special. It's not a bloody showroom. This is a beloved family home made of quality hardwood and with features you won't find in those McMansions down the street. Pinewood frames with trusses stapled together and made to look like brick castles are popping up all around us. Somewhere out there is a family who will appreciate the beach shack's characteristics and want to live in it, not pull it down." "Our home, Chelsea," Dell said pointedly. Then, after sighing long and deliberately loud, he planted both palms firmly on the countertop. "While you keep digging those heels in, I'm moving on to Perth." on to Perth if that 6 month secondment in WA is still available. "What? Why?" "Because I'm tired of this merrygoround we're on. Let's get off. shells. Come with me. We'll have an adventure together." When Chelsea hesitated, he added, "Or while I spend quality time with Gabby and our very special grandies, you can stay put and enjoy your quality built house with its special characteristics." With another tentative trill from the still blank phone, Chelsea hears several exploitives while slamming the unresponsive device into the mattress. "Mom. Mom, are you okay?" As Chelsea flipped the phone over, there was her daughter's pixelated face. "Oh my, Gabby. She's remembered the anniversary after all. Bless her." "I can't talk for long," her daughter replied. "The moronic paper shufflers and my ex-s superanuation company have sent forms for me to sign, but to my old address. Has anything arrived for me?" "No, nothing," Chelsea replied, tempted to add. "It's been 3 years. I'll keep an eye out though and forward mail to your Freemandal address. Are you still there?" She queried concerned the crackly connection had disconnected them. "Yes, Mom. All four of us are still here, still together and happy." A suitable amount of surprise and cynicism accompanied the retort. Gabby had misunderstood Chelsea's query. "We'll stay put here until the twins are older. If I learned anything from you, it's how kids benefit from stability." "Just not too much, Gabby, if I've remembered correctly." Regrets slap Chelsea silent. "I'm sorry. Hang on, Mom. Come on, babe. I said take this one from me. That is a data squeal, not a mommy cry." With her daughter too distracted to realize the phone camera was doing an accidental sweep of the living room littered with baby bounces, toys, and piles of unfolded laundry, Chelsea was unexpectedly privy to a slice of her daughter's life. "Hey, quit that, Bozo. Can't you see I'm on the phone with mom?" As a slap, a giggle, and a deep voice sounded, Chelsea pictured the playful interaction between the bearded biker and her willowy, big eyed daughter, aka the spitfire who spoke first, only to write vague apologies a few weeks later. Gabby's last bout of silence had left Chelsea stewing for 6 weeks until a birthday card had arrived with a note inside. Her daughter was sorry. Sorry for yelling. Sorry for calling Chelsea obsessive and overbearing and unwilling to let go of the past and sorry for hanging up on her. There have been similarly hurtful outbursts says Gabby had slammed 18 years of belongings into suitcases and shoved bulging plastic bags into the Honda Civic hatchback. Destination Western Australia, aka as far away from this place as possible. Her daughter's parting words from 3 years ago still landed like lemon juice on an open wound. the sharpness stirring Chelsea's insides as she recalled the discussion. "Shit happens, Mom," Gabby said while breaking her embrace to deliver one of those annoying 20something shrugs. "And unlike you, I'm not afraid of cutting the bow lines and losing sight of the shore." "I am not afraid," Chelsea protested as Gabby turned another draw of knickers over the already bulging packing box. "Yes, you are," she said with irksome millennial impudence. and you've tried to make my brothers and me afraid. You're scared of everything, Mom, but mostly you're afraid to want." "Not true," Chelsea silently disputed. She did want. She wanted to know right then and there what the hell her daughter meant about making them all afraid. "I'm sure about what I want, Mom. And this is my life. You can't stop me." "My purpose in life, Gabby, is to love and protect. It's not to block you. I've known since you were a child you were like your aunt Ila. There's no holding either of you down. And while I always support

You, I. Well, I mean, the man is almost twice your age. Having things in common with your partner is important.

The man's name is Mick, and you simply don't get it, Gabby declared. Love is love. Gender or age shouldn't matter, but you seem happiest living as if it's 19 freaking 80, and we're all stuck in the past with you and granddad's ghost. I hate so much about this place." Gabby swung her arm to point out the room she'd occupied since old enough to demand privacy. Throughout school, I was the weird girl from the weird house who got picked on and teased. But Mick loves me, warts and all. And if loving him is a mistake, I'll manage the fallout. But it's not. She was quick to add.

You're just like Gran. You used to tell us kids about how Wendy got embarrassed when Granddad walked around the neighborhood in his swimmers and thongs wearing leather chokers and bracelets and with his hair tied into a ponytail. Well, you're no different to her. Mick's not your idea of a son-in-law, and you're freaking out about what people will think. Gabby's palm flash gagged Chelsea, which was just as well. The thing is, Mom, you only care about my decisions when you don't agree with them. I know, I know, another palm flash. That's your prerogative. But before criticizing my choices, try making a few decisions of your own. Why can't you be more like Auntie Ila? She and Gran dwelling on the past. Losing anyone is a But they moved on to live full lives.

Chelsea hadn't known whether to laugh or cry at her daughter's observation, so she didn't either, saying instead, "Gabby, darling, distance makes everything harder. I'll miss you. Tell me it's not forever." As always, regret showed itself in the reening of Gabby's cheeks. "It's ideal for the time being, Mom," she said, her voice softening. Mick's fly and fly out contract makes Perth practical.

If only you'd given me a chance to like Mick, Elsie said. Our one meeting was too brief. Gabby's exaggerated shoulder slump inside conveyed more than words ever could. Because, Mom, that was the most excruciating and embarrassing meal. I couldn't wait to get Mick out of the house and explain the whole try and place sitting at the head of the table thing and the dad Christmas stocking ritual. As for that stupid mouse trap game you insisted we play, I should have warned Mick. And you might have warned me about Mick's what? Tattoos, bike, man bun, earrings. No, Chelsea retorted. That he was previously married to one of the soccer moms. Next time when I see him, I won't act so surprised. And I'm sure you'll suffocate us with your insecurity. I can hear it now. What a lovely couple you make. Gabby, darling, did I make you this bitter? Best if we leave it there, Mom. I must get on the road. I'll call. A hug and a quick kiss on a tear streaked cheek. And like that, the baby girl she given birth to 24 years earlier stomped her stilettos over her granddad's hardwood floors for the last time. squeezed the final box into the car and drove to the other side of the country.

Gabby's laugh now echoed down the telephone, a joy palpable. Oh, mom, you should see Mick and the twins. He's all thumbs and totally no idea. Another giggle reminded Chelsea her daughter was not at all Ila. Like Dale, when their daughter laughed over her babies, she laughed love. Don't drop them, idiot. Give Lucy to me. Got to go. Mom, wait. Gabby, I want to tell you I'm at Sandbar Beach and in a tent. At least I was until Sorry, Mom. Mix dugling babies here. Just forward the mail. Okay, sure. Hug the twins for me and Dad when you next see him, Chelsea added, but she was talking into a void. Either the phone reception had cut them off or Gabby had hung up, keen to get back to her full and purposeful life with her babies and with her husband with zillion tattoos. had Chelsea judged a book by its cover when first meeting Mick. Pressing the iPhone's power button, hoping a reboot might reconnect her to the mobile network at least. She sighed as messages from Travis and Tyler popped onto the screen. The twins were thinking of her. The texts both ending with the words, "Love you to the horizon, Mom." XX.

Kelsey brushed the tears from wet cheeks and smiled to the memory of her father saying the same. To the horizon with dad, 1979. I'll love you to the horizon and back, misfix, dad says, pointing out to see. Is that like forever, Dad? He smiles, but his eyes stay sad. Nothing is forever, Chelsea girl. Not the good things, and luckily not the bad. And the horizon isn't forever either, he adds. But it is a long way away, right? Dad squats so his eyes are level with mine. Like in life, it depends how you look at things. The furthest point you can see from all the way down here where you are and while on the beach is the first part of the horizon. You'll see much more if you stood as tall as me or went higher still. Say to the top of Bunker Headland. You should do that, Misfit. Fix. Climb to the top of the headland, Dad. No, I mean, stand tall. Want for more. Go further and climb as high as you can in life. Even if it means bravely stepping beyond the horizon to find the more. The more of what? I'm confused. This time when he laughs, he tussles my hair, sending a spray of sand over my shoulders. You'll understand one day, Miss Fix. But when when you're ready to want the more, that's when the horizon and your life will make sense.

Chapter 7. Chelsea. As comfortable as the mattress felt when Chelsea stretched out in her track pants and t-shirt, she craved her abandoned blue pod. A reminder of the bed cover cubby a sad, frightened teenage Chelsea had found comfort in. A tent had not been on her shopping list that day. Her trip to the adventure store was to buy a replacement silk mantle for the old kerosene lantern she'd rescued from under the house when dumping Fred's smelly old bed in the curbside collection pile. Initially thinking the lamp would add a rustic touch to a patio, she'd cleaned the glass of daddy longleg spiders, cobwebs, and dust, and added a new mantle for the lamp to the shopping list. Dale would be less keen on the retro restoration, even suggesting her clinging to bygone days was no way to move forward. "Face the past," he'd likely say when she showed him. "Please don't live in it." A wave of sadness washed over Chelsea. She'd left the original Scott family camping light, complete with new mantle, taking pride of place on the plastic hook at the center of the cozy camping pod domed roof. The urge to race back and rescue the lamp came at the same time as a crackling sound from her phone. She sat up too quickly and her head clipped the overhead cupboard. Ouch.

Are you off that bed yet? As promised, her husband was calling back. When Dale said he was going to do something, he did. From telling Chelsea Scott in detention class that he'd marry her to warning his wife of nearly 28 years he was serious about a fresh start in a new house. Get up. Go for a run. D suggested. He says it clears your head. My head's not my problem, she said, rubbing the sore spot. Besides, you're 3 hours behind. It's later over here in pouring rain. Remember that you're doing your bed cover cave thing. I am not, she sighed immediately, regretting the sppy tone. She wasn't weak or needy or an insecure stay-at-home mom like the ones her tennis group gossiped about.

How do we get here, Dale? I miss us. Me, too. His reply sounded sincere and a little sad. I get that I'm obsessive and difficult to live with, but you're not obsessive, he interrupted. And living with you is not the issue. It's not even about me hating the house. I love the old place for the start it gave us and that our children paddled down its hallways as toddlers and as teenagers they hid in its small spaces to smoke juries in secret. Remember how as adults they'd stagger drunk down the same hallway and fallen into their beds? But hun, are you aware when Gabby talks to her twins about growing up in Sydney, she refers to the place as granddad's house? No, she was not. Chelsea knew only that she treasured a house nobody wanted to live in.

Hun, things might make more sense if we were splitting up over a person. Splitting up. Adele used that phrase before. The Perth second position was temporary, or so she'd thought. How could their marriage, an enduring one, be ending? What I mean is, he continued, if this discontent was over another guy, I'd have hope. I could change my ways or I tried harder to win you back. Maybe I've neglected that part of us and let other stuff like work take priority. But Chelse, this is all over a stupid house. A stupid house that's been good to us and continues to grow in value. She railed. Keeping it in the family makes sense. Yeah. Well, I guess I should be grateful we were teenage sweethearts and I was your first and only. Meaning what exactly, Dale? Face it, hun. Back then, had there been another guy on the scene and you had to pick one of us, he and I would still be waiting for you to make a decision. That is not in the least bit funny. I'm not trying to be funny, he said. Decision-m is not your strong point. You're the only person I've met who failed a multiplechoice test because you refused to choose. I'm surprised you got your I do out when the minister asked. Chelsea bristled. More exaggeration, but point made. Sorry, bad joke, he said, adding. I didn't ring to make points. I rang to tell you I'm worried and I want us back. You do? There was that needy whimper again. Of course, yes, but ah the butt. she braced. Not even ever going to make me stand still when I need to be moving forward with my life. Seriously, Dale? Elsie despised the term moving forward as much as the word journey. You sound like my mother. Getting on with her life had meant abandoning her daughters. I'm not your mother or your father, Dell insisted, his words metered, considered. And taking a break is not walking away. I'm simply asking you to let go of the past to walk with me. The two of us can do anything. Go anywhere. Tempted to tell Dale, her dad, who once spoken those same words, she refrained. Nothing good came from such comparisons. For the first time since our wedding, hun, we no longer need to consider what's best for the children. Yes, she said, and from that day forward, you were fine deciding for us both. You loved being the man of the house. You found my faults endearing, and my needing you wasn't a source of frustration. Then what happened? We grew up, Charles. I guess we did, Dale. After more silence and a mutual miss you, the phone soggy circuitry or poor [music] reception ended the call, sparking distress inside Chelsea as she realized the real reason for not selling. Chelsea wasn't merely afraid. She was terrified of discovering a change of house won't fix her relationship with Dale and she will have lost her husband and her beloved family home.

Chapter 8. Dale. Dale checked his watch. Time to head home. He huffed. Home. At 46 years of age, Dale Halt, successful in business, devoted husband, and loving father of three, was in his heart as homeless as the day he was born. And the lifeless Scarbor Beach apartment was no more home than William Scott's so-called beach shack west of Penri. Dale eyed the desk piled high with folders. A 15-minute meeting had result in 15 hours worth of paperwork and five new clients. All vulnerable children needing his 100% focus. If only he could stop thinking about his wife. How do we get here? Chelsea had asked on the phone. They had been crazy in love on their wedding day. The memory of his wife shedding suedes of white chiffon from shapely curves could still make Dale's breath catch. The pair had rushed into a relationship, mostly because his career aspirations had meant high school studies took priority over pretty girls, and the shy new girl had been a stubborn nut to crack. So, he'd waited, hoping Chelsea would realize she liked him as much as he liked her. After school came life lessons, like learning how to be careful in the backseat of a car, although not careful enough, as evidenced by the baby bump hidden under Chelsea's puffy wedding dress that magical day. So glad I married you, Mr. Halt, his wife of 3 hours peeled away white panty hose, and 10 times glad the night is over. Sorry about my family. It can be so painful. I saw no one but you. He moved behind to breathe in her bare shoulder skin, locking the smell into his memory and knowing from this day forward if he ever got lost, the scent of her would lead him home, to their home, one he couldn't wait to create. Dale only had to work and save hard, and together they'd hunt out the perfect place. Not that perfect was a prerequisite. Anywhere was better than Auntie Rita's second bedroom/swing room. For the newlyweds were about to make love at low volume. While grateful for Rita's generosity and the Sydney property's prime position putting the beach at the back door, Dell would easily give his beloved surfing away to carry his bride over the threshold of their first home. What fun they'd have testing instore mattress displays and lugging their new bed home over the roof racks, laughing over flat pack instructions and too many leftover parts. They'd cross their fingers and christen the bed, then cuddle while planning the photo gallery for the wall opposite. Dale wanted lots and lots of family pictures randomly hung on lots and lots of hooks. Sticky tape and thumbtacks could do the trick because for the first time in his life, he could use them liberally without getting a kick in the butt from a fedup foster parent. One day you'll have it all, Dell told himself while staring at his brand new and adorable wife in the frilly white knickers and the bra he'd not seen before. As weddings go, the night had been a simple affair. Chelsea invited people from the hairdressing salon where she worked, and Dale asked a few BS mates he hung out with at the beach. Rather than buy gifts, guest split the Chinese banquet bill between them, while Auntie Rita insisted on paying for the separate function room. Can you believe how excited Auntie Rita was giving me away? Chelsea chrodled. Tonight was perfect, Mr. Halt. And the night is far from over, Mrs. Halt. Pressing his body into her back, he reached for the barely there baby bump. We are all just beginning. You've never looked more beautiful. And while you looked quite the spunk in your tuxedo, I'm loving the understated underpants look you've got going on. She twisted an arm behind her, hooked a finger in the waistband of his Bonds undies, and let the elastic snap back on bony hips. Are you aware your nickname on campus is Dale the Halt Hunk? He stopped nibbling her earlobe. And you know this, how? I have ears, she giggled. And they're ticklish, so quit it. And I have eyes, Mrs. Halt. As his groin grounded against her buttocks, Chelsea moaned and angled her face back to accommodate his lips. "What made you fall in love with me?" she asked. The question stopped Dale midkiss. Not the words themselves, but the way she spoke them, as though she didn't quite believe he was in love. resting his chin on her shoulder, arms cradling his soon to be firstborn, Dell observed their reflections in Rita's antique dress and mirror, a need for affection and willingness to love and endeared Chelsea to him, mostly because Dale craved someone to love back. They fit together perfectly. On our first date to McDonald's, I discovered we wanted the same things. I recall you were determined to be the best homemaker in the world. Oh, don't tell me I used the word home maker. Dale held in his laugh, mindful of Rita's proximity. Music to my ears. I couldn't wait to have a home of my own finally. And you couldn't wait to be a mother. H sorry about my rush on that score. She entwined her fingers with his where they pressed on her belly. Do you suppose people noticed? Who cares? Come to bed. He tugged her arm. I want to show you I am not at all sorry about the rush or about getting into detention all those times. Do you remember your first day? I do. Twisting back and forth in his office chair, Dale Halt, advocate for children and young people, recalled the moment the classroom door opened and all eyes shifted to the prettiest girl. Although tall, her hair bleached almost white and her limbs suntanned and kind of glistening. Chelsea Scott's shoulders seemed weighed down by sadness, her eyes downcast, too. The bag, Mr. Halt, Miss Pigeon, his teacher, had decrieded while directing Chelsea to the spare seat next to Dale. Cheeks burning from the snorting and snickering of his classmates, who knew Cub's arrow had hit his hard dead center. Dale looked everywhere but at the girl slipping silently behind the adjacent desk. Later, the school gravine alerted him to the unhappy circumstances behind Chelsea's relocation from the boonies. Painfully familiar with being shunted from place to place, Dale knew about starting over and fitting in, but he knew little about Sydney's outer suburbs. Only one placement saw him moved away from the coast. For five frustrating months, he'd hitched or busted back to Narabine, where the regular surfers knew him and let him borrow their boards when taking a break. Young Dale might have been passive, indifferent, and numb, but repeated unsuccessful foster home placements soon fueled his aspirations and determination. The only thing Dale Holt was more passionate about than surfing was getting a job to improve the lives of kids in care. His more immediate challenge, though, was making the new girl laugh, because for sure, it would sound as beautiful as she looked. The pair kept each other laughing until the last day of school when Dale got a place at university while Chelsea, who'd struggled to concentrate, settled for a hairdressing internship. When fatherhood demanded Dale reshuffle his goals, taking travel off the agenda, Chelsea suggested they could save money by living in the vacant Scott family home. He agreed. As it was owned by family members, the house offer came with a sound financial arrangement, requiring a nominal rent if they improved the property. Not a hard task given the place had sat neglected for several years. While the temporary move out west meant no more beach, Dale's days of sponging off mates and sofa surfing in living rooms, smelling of stale beer, and god knows what else were over. Dale Halt, the kid no one had wanted, would be the best dad, even if it meant changing universities, finding another part-time job, and learning to be a handyman around the quirky old joint that was a long way from the home of his dreams.

Chapter nine. Chelsea Dale's comment about her sandbar return being pointless strengthened Chelsea's resolve to rid herself of the relationship sabotaging self-reroach. Admittedly, the DIY exposure therapy concept was far-fetched. But being here and focusing on her phobia couldn't hurt. And she was delaying the packing task waiting for her at home. Not to mention unpacking boxes and deciding what to do with the myriad memories. Some cartons had been under the house for decades, put there by a tantrum throwing Wendy, who in the months following her father's memorial service, changed a lot. Offers of emotional and hands-on support from concerned neighbors and friends have been plentiful. But with her mother adamant nothing was to be tidied, vacuumed, mocked, cleaned, or chucked out. Most of dad's everyday effects had stayed where he left them, as if he was expected home any minute. But all that changed seemingly overnight when Wendy's mood shifted from sad acceptance to raging resentment. Auntie Rita tried explaining the seven stages of grief to Chelsea and Ila, but nothing could explain or justify the tantrum Wendy tossed, discarding both the precious and everyday reminders of her husband. Some things went into boxes, others into garbage bags destined for the curbside rubbish collection. That same night, having squeezed into an old dress, fed her hair, and applied way too much makeup, their mother left Ila in charge of Chelsea. But with their one night out turning into a 48-hour absence, the sisters had time to coers Leila's latest boyfriend to fight cobwebs and drag a cho block garbage bags and boxes to the furthest reaches under the house where their mother would never venture. The bags and boxes were still under there, all of them, untouched for decades, prompting Chelsea to sit up on the bed, tossed for a pen, and start a to-do list on the back of a shopping docket. Some tasks she could cross off while at Sambbar, like texting Ila to ask for help with the sorting. With luck, her sister would be in the country soonish and in an affable frame of mind. Although one never knew with Ila, according to their dad, controlling his capricious and impassioned eldest daughter was a lot like tying down a beach umbrella on a windy day. "You never know how tight to hold on or if she'll take off without warning," he told Chelsea. How right he'd been.

Chapter 10. Ila. Ila whispered a string of exploitives when forced to sidestep two snickering women whose abandoned baggage blocked all three hand basins. Was she too old for long haul flights or too grumpy? In the good old days, she would have shrugged off inconveniences like being bumped off the Sydney leg to accommodate a full fair passenger and hit the club lounge to wait out delays with a drink. They were the days she would use pills to pepper up and the oblivion of opioids. Nowadays, thanks to the dashing Dr. Trent Dashwood, drink, stickler, and stick in the mud. Ila relied on no such panaceas. As the warm water washed away her irritability, Ila studied her Queen Quagenarian face in the soap spotted mirror. Where was the rebellious young woman who would have burst into public toilets, giggling and being a nuisance? The face staring back at her was so altered. No pimples, no piercings, no heavily madeup lashes, no eyeliner to end up as dark circles under dull eyes following a drug-filled bender. How wretched she must have looked when delivered to the rehab facility for the first time. Though no one had cared to know or inquire, that day 29 years ago had been Leila's 21st. Hip hip hooray, she muttered into the mirror, letting the years roll back until she was that tough young girl being herded into a sparsely furnished room by Nurse Ratchard's wicked sister. Sessions with Trent, 1986. Seated at the opposite end of the oblong table is back to a wall of dark glass is a shrink trying to hide his nerves. Ila might suggest the bow tie and blazer is a neon sign to his newness in the job, but speaking is not Ila's strategy today. Silence has been her safety net since her 18th birthday. Silence works. They are alone now with only the clunk of a noisy war clock ticking over. Why blue, Ila? He asks, pointing to his own eyelashes. Dark and luxuriously long, they require no enhancing. Well, Doc, maybe because I'm blue. She folds her arms, pushing up the push-up bra, then slumps further into the molded plastic chair, the stackable type found in hotel beer gardens. If only she was in one and downing a few drinks at a bar rather than self-consciously picking out a caked mascara and answering inane questions. You feel sad, Ila? She scoffs. What I feel, Doc, is pissed off. Maybe that bloody pissed off to find myself in your modern-day cuckoo's nest. What makes you describe the facility in such terms? Because while checking me in, creepy nurse Ratchet's twin sister raided my handbag and stole everything except my blue freaking mascara. I get that scissors and nail files are a potential problem for some, but who the freak self harm with a coal stick and lip gloss. Ila kicks out a foot, connecting with the table leg bolted to the floor. She doesn't stop at one kick or at the one little toe silently screaming in pain. Do you mean to hurt yourself? The care and concern in his question seems so genuine it catches Ila off guard. But rather than answer, she asks, "I suppose my mother insisted on rehab." Silly Wendy. Why is your mother silly? How long have you got, Doc? For one, if she's serious about me keeping my mouth shut, she should butt out and let me kill myself. Not too many souls to tell my secret to where I'm going. With no reaction from Doc Dashing, not even an admiratory brow arch, Ila wonders if she's misjudged his rookie status. She might have to restrategize, try harder. For several years, she'd let Doc Dashing tried to save her while she tried to die every way she knew how. Then came the big day. Time to say goodbye to Dr. Trent Dashwood and to rehab. As the man's lips had curved into a self-congratulatory grin, Ila guessed he was feeling pretty good about bringing Blue Girl back from the brink. Job done, Doc. Pop that cork and make a toast. Only don't give any booze to the patient. Despite Doc Dashing's persistence and months of praiseworthy psychobabble, Ila returned to rehab numerous times, always keen to reassure Trent her relapse was not his failure. The blame was all I because of who she was, what she was, and the secret she could never tell. The cruel family skeleton that made her wish do gooders had let her die each time she tried. Like any recovering addict, Leila remained a work in progress today, which meant until she passed by the various airport eeries with their 24/7 alcohol service, she kept her head bowed, eyes focused on the mobile phone in her hands, and drew strength from one of Doc Dashing's copious dictats. Yes, he was still in her life, still caring, still dashing, but she'd friend zoned him years ago to avoid falling into the man. Fred Dashwood could do far better than Ila, who according to Wendy Scott was best in short doses. For that reason, and with the arrivals board lighting up with flight cancellations and delays due to the East Coast deluge, Leila's text to Anise Gabby stated, "A quick catchup only, sweetie." Whether the overnight delay was fate or good fortune hardly mattered. Ila Scott didn't believe in either. She did though enjoy seeing her niece. The occasional catch up yet another secret Ila kept from her sister. The phone pinged with a reply from Gabby. Hey Auntie Ila, did you know dad's living in Scarbor? If you like, I can see if he's free. Oh, and mom's gone totally gargo and gone camping. You'll never guess where. Can't wait to see you. A text message in Singapore from Wendy let Ila know about Chelsea being a sandbar. But Dale living in Perth. What the? A stroll through the airport quickened. She had to see Gabby and find out what her adorable brother-in-law was doing here when Chelsea was going to need him after Ila detonated her bombshell. Chelsea sure won't look to her secret keeping sister for love and support. A rush of doubt and dread stopped Ila partway along the concourse. Laying overhead on the television screen was silent news footage going cyclone ravaged Queensland communities. At the bottom of the screen, the moving news ticker displayed. Former tropical cyclone mini hits southern Queensland. Severe east coast low expected to bring damaging winds and heavy rain overnight to parts of northern New South Wales. Holiday makers warned to seek shelter. Wired drenched and wind whipped reporter in the street, microphone clenched in one hand, risked flying debris to deliver the latest news to camera, Ila didn't understand. Did he also have a death wish? What she did know was tomorrow's flight back east would likely be an eventful one. Nothing new for a seasoned globe trotder, she mused. Ila knew what to expect. She could see it unfolding on approach to Sydney. When the captain's customary announcement cut in overhead, alerting passengers to rougher than usual landing, a willy-nilly of anxious exclamations will whip around the cabin. At that point, Ila would consider an announcement of her own to calm and reassure her fellow travelers. "No need to panic," she'd tell them. "You'll be fine. Nothing will happen to a plane while I'm on board. No one will die. Leila Scott has never been that lucky.

Chapter 11. Ila. Right now, with her sister in the last place on earth Ila wanted to think about, let alone be, she needed a dose of Trent Dashwood's tranquilizing voice. Despite the man's continued habit of asking him more questions than he answered, he could disarm Ila of dangerous thoughts and deeds. usually. Although, no reply text or email from her mother added to Ila's angst. With hindsight, the rushed message alerting Wendy to her plans may have been unwise. Her sister's return to Sandbar camping caper could end up uneventful, a sympathy stunt of some kind and a part of her ritual to remember the man Ila tried hard to forget. But what if it wasn't? What if? The thought of Chelsea being in that place drove Ila's determination and fueled her anger. What struck the match was how the man had used his youngest daughter all those years ago, doing the most unthinkable and evil thing a father could do to a child, to his own daughter. How had Ila thought keeping quiet was best for everyone? It clearly wasn't for her sister, whose marriage was falling apart because of what he did to her all those years ago. Early in Ila's rehab, Fred had suggested Chelsea's obsessive behavior was a coping mechanism. It explained how details from the past, especially distressing ones, don't grow as people grow. Some fade while others become reimagined moments with the victim fabricating facts to fill memory blanks or to paint rosy pictures of something ugly. These people aren't deceiving themselves, he'd said. They're surviving. Ila had understood. She'd cope by walking away from her family. Turning her back on Wendy had been easy enough, but leaving Chelsea behind had broken Ila's heart. Cutting ties had become necessary and safer than being truthful and crying it out together. According to Wendy, the only way to not ruin all their lives was for her and Ila to forget and never again discuss the letter or its contents. On the rare occasions Wendy would request a catchup, Ila's calendar entry read, "Ceasefire coffee with a notation denoting adversaries meeting in no man's land." No longer acting like mother and daughter, the pair became co-conspirators fighting different battles, but stopping briefly to exchange trivialities over untouched coffees and following the golden rule of keeping your enemies close. Such strategies were an imperative when sharing a destructive family secret. Little did Wendy know, however, the eldest daughter had amassed innumerable secrets over the years. One had involved a bath with razor blades and booze. Another was a petty party with pills followed by a late night dip in the ocean. Ila hadn't counted on more dogooders dragging her out of the sea or on Doc Dashing attending her hospital room. Then again, she hadn't counted on seeing through her 25th birthday. Sessions with Trent, 1990. Ila is late for her appointment. How late? She's not sure because a week ago, desperate for a fix, she gave her watch to a dealer. A new tattoo, Ila. Doc queries the minute both she and her shoulder bag land on the sofa opposite his wing back chair. Hey. Hey, doc. Eyes up. Your job is examining my brain, not my boobs. But thanks. The bra's also new. I could thank the lazy assistant in the lingerie store who basically ignored me. Big mistake. Huge. Seen the movie, Doc? What movie? Pretty Woman. Classic Happily Ever After. Splurged on a ticket for my birthday. Oh, and this. Ila adjusts her black singlet to reveal more of the tattooed snake biting into an apple. Happy birthday to me. I'm alive and 25. She sings. Like it. Interesting design, Doc replies. You chose the biblical symbolism for a reason. Temptation, of course. A voice pers. Has something tempted you recently, Doc? What tempts you, Ila? You do? Her answer is the type she's trained him to expect. And Ila doesn't like to disappoint. I'm tempted now, she adds, knowing he'll scold her. Anytime he does, Ila is pleased. Doc Dashing's gentle berating and you cross the line expression and satisfy her craving for a fatherly reprimand. But with Trent now extra cross, it's up to her to get her doc patient relationship back on track. Sharing something personal usually does the trick. Don't get your knickers in a knot, Doc. Saying I'm tempted refers to my urge to reveal the truth, to finally confess all. She has his attention. You can't tell anyone what I say in our meetings, right? That's a rule, isn't it? Doc nods. No cameras or recording sessions if that's worrying you. Remember, we agreed on the level and the limits of confidentiality and our professional relationship. But if you feel the need to review the contract or the boundaries we set, or if you would prefer another counselor, a female maybe, Ila bolts upright. Hell no. She feels bad now, and that's not good. Feeling bad often ends in a self harm episode. Look, Doc, it's not that I can't tell you. I just haven't yet. I've told no one. You've told no one. He sounds unusually impatient and skeptical, as if she toyed with him too many times. The truth, Ila announces. I've never told you the whole truth or Chelsea, or even when I had the chance after finding out, I couldn't. My sister was young, and Wendy said they'd take her away. Ila stops to suck the blood spot from the thumb cuticle she's picked raw. Are you ready to tell me now? Doc asks. Maybe it's only fair, Ila muses, especially since she's opened the can a smidge and the worms are restless. Using a trickle technique, telling him a little bit at a time to gauge his reaction and test the confidentiality clause is unnecessary. She trusts Trent. It's herself she can't trust. Sorry, Doc, she says, shaking her head. Maybe in another 5, 10, 50 years from now, I'll be ready to bear my soul. The one I sold to my mother. Won't you at least think about your sister? If you can't tell me, then tell her. No. If I was going to tell, it should have been years ago. There's no point upsetting Chelsea's life. She's happy and with a wonderful husband and a young family to love and grow. That's all I've ever wanted for her. and the truth will simply shatter her world for a second time. I've broken my sister's heart once already. Never again.

Chapter 12. Chelsea. Day two of seven. Something about the beach is not right. Where are the usual sounds? The coin goals. The thunderous ocean pounding the shore. Excited squeals as children frolic. Instead, there are no waves, no foam, no rivullets carving wet trails in the sand. Someone has pulled the ocean's plug and drained the beach bone dry. Even the fish left a flounder on the exposed seabed seem surprised. Their mouths a gape, eyes clueless and fixed with confusion. Moments before, Chelsea was running across the rocky platform. Barnacles and shells ripping her shoeless feet roar. Now she's prone on blood stained sand. A girl's expanding, desperate for water, and a thrashing mermaid tail tangled in seaweed. Daddy, she cries out. Where are you? Over here, misfits. Save me. I'm drowning in this place. But I don't have legs, Daddy. I can't go anywhere. I'm stuck. You don't have to stay stuck. He tells her. You can do anything and go anywhere. Chelsea girl, remember that and head for the horizon. They are her father's last words, waking Chelsea each time to her own screams. The plug. The plug. Help me find the plug. Help me. Ouch. Rubbing the spot where her head hid the overhanging cupboard. She cut some more and the knuckle scrub sleep from her eyes only to find tears welling. A stupid, stupid trip idea. How many bloody signs do you need? After a shower and something to eat, she would pack her bags, rescue a tent and Tilly lantern, and head home, stopping at the local shelter to rescue a dog or two. But she thought while staring out the window, not before doing the one thing she'd come here to do. After all, the track to the beach she'd walked hundreds of times over six annual trips to Sandbar was less than 50 paces away. While the last family holiday remains a blur, recalling the first camping trip was easy because it was special. That was the year they'd gotten early Christmas presents. Chelsea had unwrapped a mermaid beach towel, and the entire family got new swimming toss because, according to their mom, they often spoke about their family in third person. The Scots might holiday like trashy trailer folk, but they will not look like a pack of misfits. As Wendy would regularly refer to her husband as a misfit, young Chelsea considered the term an endearing one. Like when dad called mom a fishwife and Chelsea his misfix. Chelsea never did discover the origin of her nickname. But maybe Miss Fix, it means you can fix your fears. There is nothing out there that can hurt you. Having slipped into gym pants and a sweat top, she left her feet bare, keen to rediscover the comforting sand between her toes sensation she'd loved as a girl. But as Chelsea neared the start of the beach track with its archway of gnarly bushes, she faulted. Observing from a safe distance, an echo of an earlier time prompted the happy memory of a bikini clad Ila racing ahead and calling over her shoulder, "Come on, Chelsea. Last one in is a rotten egg." Sadly, Ila wasn't in Sandbar. Chelsea was facing the theophobia monster alone. But when three deep breaths failed to move Chelsea towards the beach, she turned away from the path. She needed more time to slow her hammering heart. To distract herself, she examined the curious array of camping configurations, including the happy hippie van dwarfed by an adjacent motor home. What if the luxuriously appointed rigs complete with coffee machines, wine fridges, hot showers, and flushing toilets have been an option for the Scott family rather than the musty mild dewy hot box, the double bunks at one end, and a dinette that converted into a double bed each night? My mom have shown more enthusiasm at holiday time. Might have lived long and happy lives together, living the dream like the two caravanas currently looking up from the paper map stretched across their laps. The pair waved at Chelsea. Returning the smile was not difficult. Chelsea saw a dad in them. His own map of Australia permanently glued to the garage wall with as many cobwebs covering the continent as his dotted lines denoting the dream trip he never made. One day, he'd said, "When you kids are doing your own thing, I'll talk mom into doing the big lap of Oz real slow." "Not in this life," Mad replied. A sudden gust sent both Chelsea's hat and the sad recollection flying. As the hat blew with abandoned towards the bush track, almost mocking Chelsea by forcing her to follow. Two medium-sized black dogs with two sets of teeth competing for the same stick burst into the clearing. Close behind were two blowsy boys with fishing rods and buckets. As the pair blustered along the sandy patchwork of coastal grass and weeds, jostling each other, one picked up the hat and raced towards Chelsea. Thank you, she told the boy, whose willowy frame and suntan face was the excuse she needed to return to the caravan and try a reply text to her own boys. Closing the door on Siesta, who was contemplating breakfast options, cereal without milk, followed by coffee without milk, or leftover crackers and red wine, when a female voice sounded over a ratat. Yoohoo! Anyone in there? Fashioning her hair into a haphazard bun at the back of her head, Chelsea opened the door to a woman wearing a multicolored outfit and turban, her wispy white hair wafting like an abandoned cobweb left to blow in the breeze. Good morning. There was no keeping the question out of Chelsea's salutation. The visitor looked like a cross between a geriatric unicorn and a walking rainbow. Every morning I wake up to is a good one. As the woman raised the foil covered plate, a cf turn, an intricate chorus of earthy colors in perfect harmony, billowed against the seab breeze. Teddy mentioned he had a lady in siesta who needed a proper feed. Chelsea's eyes widened. Is that so? And I have fresh plets. Plets for breakfast? As Australian as meat pies and lamingtons? If it helps, think of them as pint-sized pancakes. The visitor hoisted herself into the caravan with surprising agility, forcing Chelsea to get out of the way and quickly. "Okay, well, I'd offer you a hot drink, but with no milk, I we take our English breakfast black," the woman said with a nod towards the colorful kitchen canisters. "We pausing briefly to scan the area outside." Chelsea shut the door before any flies found their way inside. When she turned around, a visitor had peeled the tinfoil lid away to expose the doughy stack. I'm Elme. What's your name, dear? You do remind me of someone. The woman cocked her head to one side, eyes narrowing. It'll come to me or Connie will recall. She'll be along with jam. Plets aren't plets without her homemade jam and tea. The woman's painted on eyebrows arched towards the caniders. Oh, tea. Yes. After a shake of the kettle to check the water level before igniting the gas jet, Chelsea dived a hand into the canister with the big tea on the front. Tea bags English breakfast. Oh well. Lovely to meet you, Elme. I'm Chelsea. Messy night. A visitor said you were snug as a bug in here. Siesta is a lovely restoration. Don't you think? A good old V count circa 1960. built to last like me. My sister Connie would agree, further suggesting we can all do with a patch up and a recotating. Elm's two thin lines of garish orange lipstick curled into a crooked grin. Should we wait for Connie? Chelsea asked, taking three hanging mugs from the hooks above the sink. "Oh, no, Tia. She's the difficult, unpredictable one in the family." "Do you have a sister?" Chelsea paused. "A yes would have very little truth to it. Except for the difficult and unpredictable bit. But before Chelsea could utter her answer, Elma yelled. "Oh, almost forgot." She loosened the drawstring on the Hessian tote slung over one shoulder. "Not having jam is my excuse for lots of butter. Tada!" The tub of spreadable margarine hit the table with a thud. "All one needs is a knife." The way she reached a hand into a nearby cutlery drawer suggested Chelsea wasn't the first holiday maker. two, in Tad's words, need a proper feat. Next, a heart attack-sized dollop of yellow margarine hit the doughy delight with a plop. The knife barely flattening the greasy lump before Elme shoved her plet laden palm in Chelsea's direction. Eat, dear, before they go cold. Thanks. Chelsea took the pre-offered pikelet, carefully nibbling the unbuttered edges. What brings you to Sandbar, dear? My dad. The words were out before she could stop them. He loved camping. We had a Vicown caravan called Vinnie. Only the dinette folded down into a double mattress, and there were two single beds at the back. This one, too, until Teddy got his hands on her. A lovely restoration. Elmy looked up from her half-buted second helping. Dad is no longer with you, dear. Sad business, losing those we love. The sparkle in her eyes doled. Perhaps the woman spoke of her own sorrow. A sad widow filling lonely days by welcoming strangers with plets. At least she has a sister. None of us stay forever, dear. But those of us left behind keep their stories alive. My mother told me her story on walls. Today I wear those stories on my CF tans. As Eli ran her hand over the material's intricate indigenous design, incorporating undulating lines, dots, and silhouetted shapes. Elsie slipped into the dinette for a closer look. How lovely. While the striking suede the fabric was beautiful in both sentiment and in design, more intriguing was why Chelsea found this older woman's presence unsettling. Elme fixed her gaze. I see you carry your memories in a different way, dear. Grief weighs you down. Your father. Um, yes, but we lost dad a long time ago. Chelsea never used the words dead or dying when speaking about her father. She never stood over his coffin or set flowers at his gravestone. Instead, a framed photograph and a floral wreath on a table in a surf club hall one Sunday had allowed hope to settle in her young heart. Hope that William Scott was not gone forever. The ocean had not swallowed him up, and one day from her seat on the front porch, she would see her dad get off the bus and stride down the street, arms wide and ready to receive. For that reason, whenever her mother had called Chelsea inside to set for dinner, she always put his placement and beer glass at the head of the table. Then, each Christmas, she bought an Nestle golden rough chocolate and sneaked it into a stocking. She'd encouraged her own children to keep the family's festive traditions alive. And for a time, they had until Chelsea's promise to never forget drove her family away. First Wendy and Ila, then Gabby, now Dale. Elme reached across the table, covering Chelsea's clasped fingers like cupping a crystal ball. The woman tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and hummed Yogan like. I see black. I sense your sorrow. I do, and I know you, my dear. I believe we've met before. A long, long time ago. Her eyelids slammed wide open, a little spookily in Chelsea's opinion. Possibly in another life. Unsettled by the psychic undertones, Chelsea slid out from the table and stood. I am sad,

Elme. Sad about abandoning my new tent midstorm last night. The gentleman was lovely for allowing me to stay in here, but I should get organized. Teddy is a doll, isn't he?

As she eased her aging body out of the seat, Chelsea tried ignoring the lump of yellow accumulating at one corner of Elm's lips. Then, like a frog catching a fly, the woman snared the buttery blob with one flick of her tongue.

I hope the storm hasn't frightened you away and you'll stay on and enjoy a sandbar. The weather will decide for me. I'll check the forecast and hope for sunshine.

"We make our own sunshine, dear," Elme chirped. That sounds like something my dad would say. He used to capture the sun's rays in his magic jars. He even wore a tiny glass vial version on a leather choker. Claimed it was like keeping the beach with him all day. Elme hooted with delight.

"Imagining a beach when you don't have one. Marvelous. I must tell Connie."

As for the weather, I'm sure Teddy won't mind you keeping on in Siesta. I can ask for you.

"No need. Thanks."

Chelsea was curious about a man who would call himself Tatty and even more curious about the mysterious missing sister Connie as the greasy coating in her mouth had Chelsea wishing there'd been jam.

"Actually, Eli, when you arrived, I was about to check my campsite. And I've kept you." The woman fussed with the calf tan that had slipped over one cadaavver's shoulder turned crisp from decades of too much outdoors.

"You do what you need to, dear. I only popped in to say hello. I knew you'd be lovely. All the ladies who stay in Tatty's van generally are."

"Oh, so it's like that, is it? Teddy Tightfly is a ladies man. Thanks for the pilots, Elme, and for the heads up."

A part of Chelsea panicked when she saw the crushed blue cocoon covered in tree branches. The rest of her pondered if the tent had made a popping noise, like when washed up blue bottles on the beach burst underfoot. Thank goodness she left nothing behind of any value. An inflatable air mattress that refused to stay inflated. Soden shoes and the torch. A gift with purchase promotion attached to the silk mantels for her. Oh no, my poor lamp.

Asking someone to find the buried treasure crossed her mind. Maybe the two burly BS in safety vests attacking limbs with hacksaws and tree loopers. Or the man stacking the chopped wood into a box trailer hitched to the toe ball of a dirty ute nearby. but keeping a safe distance from the activity as if he knew to stay away. A young boy mimicked the chainsaw action. While to his left, a couple of backpackers outside their handpainted higher van huddled behind a single mobile phone screen. Chelsea's squish tent would no doubt feature in their Facebook feed. Behind her, a cacophony of cocky caravaners shared their storm survivor stories from locations far more exotic than Sandbar Beach. Even locals ventured out of their shanty village for a look with their busy back and forth and the way they bumped into each other briefly reminding Chelsea of an ant trail.

Wondering what to do next, she automatically reached for the phone in her jeans pocket, but hesitated. Not only was she disincclined to fall back on Dell for comfort, but Chelsea also imagined his response when she told him her only hurt was realizing she'd lost a precious William Scott keepsake. Calling Vicki was an option. While a terrible listener, giving advice was her forte. Chelsea would not have survived months alone in the house if not for her friend suggesting the occasional boozy night in front of the television and always Vic's favorite Mloud's daughter's DVD collection. Watching her friend sobb uncontrollably was entertainment in itself. But Chelsea's real fascination with the show was more about episode after episode of gutsy, good-looking young females amid a man drought. Each woman completely capable and infuriatingly independent.

"Damn them, and damn this phone," she grumbled, slapping the discomodious device against her palm. "With the chainsaw entertainment over, the backpackers bored, and the gray nomads already shanghai hanger offers for 3:00 yappy hour this afternoon, Chelsea's thoughts turned to her car, crammed with more clothes than food. tin stores, dehydrated noodle and pasta packets, tea, coffee, wine, and Pringles would not go far. She'd only pack enough for a couple of days because, according to the campground's website, the Wori Eco Community Co-op stocked stonefired sourdough, general produce, homegrown food stuffs, locally made crafts, and fishing and camping essentials. Listed as within walking distance, Chelsea pictured a tiny shop from her youth. The one that had the audacity to sell paddle pops and bait from the same refrigerator, apparently just to annoy fish loathing Ila.

"Lucky I came along last night when I did, eh?" A worker wearing a Bibong branded peak hat pulled low to shade everything but his mouth had sidled up to Chelsea with his unshaven face and graying rat's tail of hair. A heart-wrenching reminder of the holiday version of her dad.

Chelsea said nothing for a moment.

"Last night is why I'm constantly on site and on hand," the man continued. "Better that I stay alert until the danger has passed. You never know who will need rescuing." Although bearing little resemblance to last night's waterlogged rescuer, Chelsea assumed he was Tatty. About to ask, his earsplitting whistle startled her two steps back.

"Oi, Kai, home time, kiddo." The young sound effects masters stare through thick spectacles held in place by a band of wide elastic that carved a deep creasse through his afroofuz. Then swish swish swish. His imaginary sword sliced through the carefully raed debris, showering the geriatric German Shepherd dog, standing unsteadily on sagging hips, tail wagging, his eagerness for the leave pile clear.

"Leave!" Teddy growled while dusting his hands on the backside of the heavyduty work trousers. "I see you're dying to dive in, buddy, but I'm dying to get into my boardies and get some serious surf time."

"Surf, surf, surf," the boy mimicked.

"Tomorrow, kiddo, if mom says so." The boy looked as crushed as Chelsea's tent until his pretend enemy put him on guard again. Swish, swish, swish.

"Kids, Daddy said. It's Chelsea, right? Nice name. Don't hear her much. Has she said her name last night?" He may have found her details on the park register. Understandable, given he'd handed his rental van over to a stranger in a storm.

"Yes, Tatty."

"My dad chose my name," she told him, "as well as being an old English expression meaning safe landing place or harbor. Chelsea means seapport. So," she shrugged, grinned. "After last night, I can lay claimed to be my own port in a storm."

The man's gaze stopped on her dying smile. "Did you call me Tatty?"

"Oh no," she groaned inwardly. "I um"

"So you're not Tatty."

"To Eli, I am." His lips slipped into a smirk. "She's the only one who gets away with calling me that."

"I see. And the rest of the world calls you."

"The unabbreviated version is tadpole. Has been since I was 10. Same age as young Kai here."

"I see." Chelsea wondered how being referred to as frog lava could be preferable to tatty.

"So that's tadpole as in wrigglers."

"Yeah, on account of how I grew up in the water. The day I wriggled into my first wets suit, my scuba mates reckoned I looked like a tadpole. The name stuck." The man wasn't young, but he had a typically manly physique. The top end all muscle with broad shoulders that tapered into a low waistline and hips.

"If you prefer," he said, breaking her train of thought. "Mom named me Thaddius. Not that she christened me. When Dorites never bothered with formalities, we all got born and married with little fanfare until the world and the authorities got nosy. About 20 years back, they forced the national census on us. They tried." Tad winked. "Someone Darites will never trust the government and for good reason. Anyway, enough political talk. All good and siesta."

"Yes, Tadpole," Elsie replied. "Thank you so much for last night and for rescuing my tent this morning."

He grimaced and glanced over his shoulder. "Not sure about the rescue bit. Recovery only. The tent and contents are basically well buggered. Making this the shortest camping trip ever." Chelsea sideighed.

"Stay on and siesta. Elme mentioned you were deciding what to do next. H for a woman of her vintage." Elmeishaw was swift of foot and of tongue.

"So you live here full time?" She asked, noticing the slight facial tick that occasionally turned one corner of Tadpole's mouth up.

"I was born here, so it'll always be home. Not quite how I saw myself living out my days, but close enough and rewarding in a weird way. Selling all I owned to downsize was the most liberating experience of my life."

"You sold everything?"

He nodded. "Gave away most of it. It was a time when life got pretty crazy, so I disconnected from all the material things and tried the whole eat, pray, love pilgrimage thingo. needed to find my happy. Any possessions that didn't fit or have a purpose went to charity stores. Won a few hearts in the op shop, I can tell you."

"And did you find your happy?" Tap's grin suggested. He noticed the eagerness in her inquiry. Though say clarity comes when you least expect it. There was one point when I knew."

"Knew what?" Chelsea asked, genuinely curious.

The man raised two fists, fashioning his fingers and downturned thumbs into a heart shape before holding his hands against his chest. And with a solemn expression, he said, "I complete me."

Chelsea barked a laugh only to have her cheeks warm when Tadpole remained straight face. "I'm serious," he said. "Knowing others is wisdom. Knowing yourself is enlightenment." A direct quote from Lasu. I bought the fridge magnet in a Hong Kong duty-free shop, he added with a wink.

"Oh, uh, I'm not sure I've heard of him," Chelsea admitted.

"Fascinating guy. I researched him, figured I might enjoy the teachings of a bloke whose mysteriousness is only matched by his philosophies. All was good until I read his mother supposedly carried him in the womb for 8 years. Some claim he was as much as 80, after which she gave birth to him through her left flank. Why are you laughing?" Tad asked through his cheeky gotcha grin. "Look it up for yourself on that mobile phone you have a fascination for. Hate the things myself. Then again, I heard they have apps that are useful for checking weather and storm warnings."

"I'll keep that in mind." Chelsea giggled. Yes, giggled. A moment of happy. Not only unexpected, but courtesy of an amusing and intriguing stranger. While no Tom Cruz and considerably older than Chelsea, the man seemed well interesting. If she looked beyond the work trousers slung low on bony hips and the torn t-shirt exposing neck tattoos. Enough about his looks. She silently chastised. Tatty aka Tadpole seemed perfectly nice and his equally charming old Viccount caravan for rent was a gentler reminder of happier days.

"So, do you want to grab Siesta before anyone else does?" He spoke as if people lined up for the opportunity. "A last minute cancellation makes this your lucky day." He returned his attention to the wheelbarrow overflowing with leaves. "A quick decision is a good decision, so they say. 50 a night is fine, as is online bank transfer."

When she didn't say no, he hoisted the handles of the wheelbarrow. "I'll drop over with the account details and if you need to, you can access my hotspot whenever you're ready."

"Ah, your hotspot, Tedpole."

"Mobile reception can be erratic, but I have a business to run," he said, missing or ignoring her unstoppable smirk. "Down that end of the park, I use a booster to strengthen my dongle." Every double antandra uttered by this utterly amusing man poked another hole in the pressure pack Chelsea had carried around since Dale left for Perth. Dale, who needs to move forward with or without his wife. Dale, your husband.

"My phone isn't fairing well after last night's big wet," Chelsea said, flipping the black and screen to show Tadpole. "Reception could be stronger on the hill. Might help. And the cop has all kinds of stuff you need to stock up. Turn right outside our gates and you're on your way. About 2 km in almost a straight line. Hilly, which makes it feel further."

"Thanks for the tip." She patted the pocket in her shorts for her asthma inhaler. The little blue puffer a constant companion.

"If you want to go now, my little warrior man can lead the way," Tad said he got going. Boy. I slapped a tadpole as thigh moved both boy and dog. "School's in soon and mom hates a lolly gagger. Meanwhile, me and Lucky will fit in the well-earned surf."

"Surf. Surf. Surf," Kai chanted, spraying spittle over Tadpole's t-shirt.

"Thanks, buddy. On second thoughts, Chelsea, I'm dressed for kid stains. Leave this little guy to me. I don't need to swim after that shower."

"Oh, please don't worry. I raised three children of my own. Plus, I work with special kids part-time at the local school back home."

"I'm surprised Wari has a school."

"Homeschooling, Dad clarified. Mom's a top teacher, a Kai. Or is dad top of the pops this week."

"Dad, dad, dad," Kai chanted. Tad laughed and high-fived his son.

"Boy power. Boy power," Kai mimicked.

"That's right, kiddo. Oh, we better keep our little secret and not tell mom she's runner up in the homeschooling stakes. Off you go, little mate. Chelsea, you find Talia at the co-op."

"You have a lovely name, Kai," Chelsea said, hoping to engage with the boy and stop him from wandering too far ahead. He stopped swishing the stick to look back at her.

"Kai means sea."

"How wonderful! My name means se port," she said, catching up. "That must make us instant friends." I appeared to contemplate the information before continuing to the exagate and onto the gravel road. Content with his own company, Chelsea wondered what the world looked like through his special lens. This area sure was a picturesque part of the world to those without painful memories to shroud the prettiness. Chelsea's recollections of the old campground were of a bushy space bounded by thick forest and popular among fishermen and itinerants whose tents comprising metal poles and guy ropes pegged to the ground sat within painted demarcation lines denoting their temporary peace of paradise. While the buzz of conversations about big catches, the click of ring pool beer cans, and the fizzle of fish frying in pans have been the soundtrack of a Scott family holiday, Wendy's big proviso, and the only thing her parents ever agreed on had been pulling both girls from school before the end of term to avoid the craziness of the Christmas crush. What fun times they'd shared before grief unglued them. Wendy found comfort in the Kulibar wine cask. Ila changed from a protective big sister to a nashing, not to be trusted 18-year-old, and Chelsea carried her guilt in silence. Still, Chapter 13.

Chelsea balancing on a stepladder, adding a pottery bird feeder to the shop's array of dangling arts and crafts, was a slim tan woman dressed in a flowing peasant style skirt with a tie-dye top. nodded at her blinged belly button.

"Hey there, kiddo," she called while climbing down the ladder, her voice as melodic as the bamboo windchime collection. "What have we found today?" she asked as Kai thrust a bunch of worse forear wild flowers and weeds towards his mother. "Gosh, they are almost as beautiful as you, my darling boy." She kissed his head before glancing at Chelsea, curiosity and concern etched into her expression. "And you've collected a new friend along the way. Hi, Talia. I'm Chelsea. She thumped awkwardly in the direction they'd come from. I'm staying at the park. Thaddius wanted a quick surf, so Kai and I walked here together."

Another smile lit Talia's face. "Thaddius? I uh mean Tadpole. Yes, I realize that. It's just hearing his real name surprises me. After all these years, Tadpole surprises me. If you've met him, you'll understand. and he's a one-of-a-kind kind of guy." The brownskinned woman, her wild black curls partially strangled into submission, held her son's arms from around her waist, inspecting his palms.

"Kai, kiddo, save some hugs for when dad gets back. Go clean your hands. Workbooks are on the table." A tap on his back propelled Kai off the porch and along a well trodden path, passing a rustling petrol Bowser that had seen better days and a paintless public phone box without a phone. As he turned towards the adjacent cottage, the boy hurdled the low fence made from nautical rope slung between wooden posts. One post was home to a not so subtle notice, private residence. He disappeared, followed up by the thicket of green ferns, bird of paradise plants, and sprawling frangapani trees devoid of color. Instead, its fragrant flowers formed a striking carpet of white, pink, and yellow.

"Such a shame," Talia said, mirroring Chelsea's thoughts. "Last night's winds played havoc with the plants and my dream catcher display. Won't be a sec." She was back on the ladder and passing a feathery creation to Chelsea. "Would you mind holding this one?" Rather than the usual macra hoop and lace work center, Talia's dream catches featured intricate egg-shaped designs carved out of a chalky white material. Cuttlefish bone perhaps. Chelsea was about to ask when Talia announced, "All done. Thanks. Your timing was perfect."

"The dream catches are lovely, unique, like the woman herself," Chelsea concluded. Up close, Talia was even more beautiful. Her features as finely chiseled as the dream catcher carvings. "That said, she was possibly older than Tadpole. How much older?" Chelsea couldn't be sure. Islander women seem blessed with ages complexions and timeless beauty. Not that such differences mattered these days, she reminded herself. Love is love, despite age disparity, gender sameness, or the number of tattoos and earrings a son-in-law can fit on his body.

"Way of here, you'd cop the wind from every direction," Chelsea said, taking in the bird'seyed view of the dreaded sandbar beach, bounded by extensive forestry to the north. From a distance, the compact cresant shape of the sand bookended by headland seemed hardly menacing. Walking its length should be easy enough.

"I never tire of the view," Talia said. "The sea goes on and on and on. There's no end to the ocean." Chelsea pared her dad before peeling her gaze away.

"You're isolated up here, though. Don't you miss having people around?"

Talia laughed. "There'll be no shortage come the holidays. I suggest you enjoy the long in the leadup to the school break. I do." She said, "Don't get me wrong. We welcome the tourists. We need them. But when it is just us again, the way it was when I met the man of my dreams, right here on this very veranda many moons ago, well, what can I say?" She sighed. "Those were the days. Two peas in a pod we were until baby P made three." What were the odds? Chelsea wondered. What forces allowed two perfectly matched people to find each other in a tiny place like Sandbar Beach? Were Talia and Tadpole another case of shared consonants like Wendy used to say about her and William? Were initials the problem with Chelsea's marriage and not her sentimentality and stubbornness over the house? How different might life be for Chelsea had she married a Chuck, a Chad, or a Chandler? Instead, a D popped into her life. D for Dale. Dependable, doting, diplomatic, dedicated, and Darcyish.

"You're looking flushed after you walk up hill. Come inside, Talia beckoned. We have fresh lemonade." Chelsea had noticed the same four words on a timber framed chalkboard by the door. "You make your own. My mom used to say, 'When life gives you lemons.'" And with a bait and hardware store not every woman's go-to when holidaying, mom made complimentary lemonade to lure the ladies inside for some lively conversation. I've kept the tradition going and added local produce, groceries, and crafts to the offering. Come on, take a seat. I'll get us that lemonade."

The shop's interior was surprisingly big with three rows of shelving to the right extending deep into the store. At the far end sat refrigerated display cases with posters advertising paddle pops and other frozen treats. The nautical decor included a wall of old fishing hooks with nets draped to disguise peeling paint on the ceiling. Colored moing floats hung like giant bless and there were jars of sea glass driftwood ornaments and carved signs. There was even a vintage cork handline collection in a giantized glass ball. Gosh, how many fishing lines had Chelsea untangled in her youth? But the trip down memory lane darkened when taking in the series of framed photos. A pictorial of Sandbar Beach through the ages. Although faded, the images brought a familiar tightness to Chelsea's chest.

"The walk uphill takes it out of me, too," Talia announced as Chelsea pocketed the asthma inhaler. "Something cool to drink while you sit will set you right here."

"Thanks." Chelsea gladly took the profit plastic tumbler before lowering herself into a canvas deck chair. One of three seats circling a small table holding a flower-filled vase and an open magazine.

"Excuse the kai crystal. Talia said non-breakable plastic is necessary with my son. Speaking of which," the woman stood head tilted to listen. "Can you hear anything?" But before Chelsea could other a syllable, Talia was flinging the Nemo pattern curtain fabric side to reveal a dark hallway. "Won't be a sec."

The lemonade Chelsea decided after a second sip would taste good in a tin cup. Like the recognizable rainbow colored tumblers neatly stacked in a brown vinyl carry case and on display in the cabinet featuring other retro reminders of an earlier time. Whatever happened to the Scott family set? Chelsea's cup of choice had been red. Ila's orange, dad's blue, while mom refused to drink anything from metal, much less wine. Then again, her mother disliked anything that didn't match or impress the neighbors. The beach house might have been dad's castle, but the colorcoordinated contents were all about Wendy keeping up with the Joneses. And oh, how the woman would arc up every time dad dragged the crappiest caravan in the street out of the shed. When it was time to head off, he dragged Wendy into the car, figuratively, of course. William Scott was the gentlest and kindest man who surrendered to his wife's many demands all year in return for two measly weeks of camping at Sandbar. "You don't get quality these days, Wendy," he'd say every time she demanded a modern caravan. "And I'm happy to prove my point anytime. I can fold down the dinette and we'll test ride the suspension." Mom would bark her disapproval before laughing and smacking his wewood hands. But with William a fit man and tall, he won every mock battle, easily maneuvering his wiggling, giggling, and griping wife into the van. Ila and Chelsea would watch, squealing with delight at their parents' antics, and soon all four Scots would be in a tangle of tickles and chuckles on the van's double bed.

"Happy thoughts?" Talia asked, settling into the chair opposite.

"Nostalgic?" Chelsea qualified.

"Find your noise source. I did." Crossing her legs, Talia bundled the excess fabric of her peasant skirt over her knees. "Do you have children?"

"Gabby, the oldest, and twin boys." Chelsea's cheeks warmed. "Twin boys. Makes them sound like babies when, in fact, both are serving overseas. I'm proud, but I miss them." Talia's perennial smile faltered. "My Kai will never leave me. He'll need his dad even more. They're so alike. What a babies both."

"I've always said I willed the two of them straight from the ocean." She laughed at Chelsea's obvious bewilderment. "It's a bedtime story. I tell Kai how I asked the ocean spirits and the stars for a family and how he and dad crawled out of the sea and sacrificed their fins for feet to find me. The Little Mermaid story, but with a gender twist," Talia explained needlessly. "It's good for growing boys to imagine women as decisive and strong. With Wendari not booming with role models, I tell Kai he could be whatever he wants, wear whatever he wants, and be whatever comes naturally. I wouldn't have it any other way. Sadly, however, what he'll never do is see much of the world, and so we travel in books."

"Have you traveled?" Chelsea asked.

"Enough to know where I wanted to end up," Alia replied. "After boarding school, I went to London and toured Europe. But this is my place." The women topped up both glasses with lemonade. "Mom and dad lobbed here when there was no official town status. No one diary and the shop rundown as it was. Serviced a mostly itinerant population, providing petrol, an unofficial post box and basic items. They left dad's home in Victoria High Country, planning a slow trip along the east coast to Queensland. He was taking mom back to see her people until a detour brought them here. They stopped for petrol and saw the business and house were for sale. Mom happily stayed. To her, home was wherever dad put down roots. I arrived on the scene and the Wendari community was officially established a few years later. The place boomed. Business grew and life was good until mom fell ill while I was in London. They found an itinerant jack of all trades in need of work who looked after the place until I could get home. Dad continued to care for mom while I worked the business. And that jack of all trades ended up the man of my dreams. Kai surprising us late in life. So here I am with a bait shop, a child, and a husband. Add to that a father I am desperate to hold on to as long as I can. And that's my life in a sea shell. But enough about me. What's your story?"

Chelsea sipped her drink, uneasy about sharing her past with a stranger. Then, like a fish in her hand that refused to stay caught, the words kind of wriggled free. "I lost my dad when I was 12. Mom's basically been awol ever since. And my sister, four years older, was close. I miss her. As for dad, I've never stopped missing him. probably because I never truly grieved his loss."

"May I ask why not?" Chelsea looked into Talia's gentle and inquiring eyes.

"Because I've never let him go." The woman nodded. "Losing any loved one is hard. Sons and fathers bond, but there's no connection quite like that between a father and daughter. He reached for Chelsea's hand. It is said a father is a son's first hero, but a daughter's first love."

"Oh gosh, now I've upset you."

Chelsea shook her head. "No, no, it's not you. This solo trip is harder than I'd imagined. But Dad loved sandbar, and I I should just let you work. Not [snorts] sure my conversation style is the lively type your mom enjoyed, nor worthy of lemonade."

"Stay." Alia tugged two paper napkins free from under a heavy hand painted sinker, passing them to Chelsea. "Even though my father is still with us, I understand your loss. Dad loves life, his fishing, his grandson, and this shop. But we're losing him slowly to dementia. A disease at its most cruel when you witness a smart man struggling through his confusion. But what can a girl do?" Talia brightened. "The men in my life keep me on my toes and young."

Chelsea sniffed and pinched the napkin to her nose, feeling calmer. "And here I am, blubbering over losing my father when I was 12. I didn't stop to think. Not about what I was saying and not about this pointless pilgrimage of mine. I do like that Tadpole found his happy, as he calls it. Not sure I will."

"No journey is trivial, Chelsea. Mom raised me to not think about the past or the future because we can't control either. Inhabit the now and let your heart guide you. She'd say she followed her heart. But she never got to go home. Chelsea said she did in her own time in a way. But she's also still here with me in one form or another. A plant, a bird, a butterfly, our loved ones embrace exists in those elements surrounding us." Talia's voice softened. "I wonder if last night's windstorm was mom's reminder that our spirit form continues to flow around us, through us, and out of us, even after our physical form has passed through death." Talia squeezed Chelsea's hands and hers. "If this is the place you feel your strongest connection to a loved one you miss, coming back makes perfect sense. Whether you're here to hold on or let go, you're looking for a sign to guide you, live in the now because the past can't hurt you and your future is already determined. Free your heart of the negative, Chelsea. Open yourself up to the universe and you'll draw good things to you."

Chelsea sniffed into the napkin. "Like you drew your husband and child over the sand."

"Exactly. And if you understand that, you're halfway there."

"Thank you, Talia. I needed a pep talk as much as I needed the lemonade."

"I'm delighted you stopped by. Anything you need in the way of supplies? You are staying?"

"Yes, I'll grab a few things and let you get back to Kai." As she stood, Chelsea spired the $5 cotton carry all on a hook by the cash register. Taking one, she tooured each aisle and chatted.

"Tadpole says you homeschool."

"My days happen around my family and around my customers who mostly lob for bait early or last minute. What a woman can only chat about bait and the weather so many times without a little girl talk in between. I wonder though," Talia sung out to Chelsea who stopped to examine the bulk canisters of dry goods requiring customers supply their own reusable glass jars. Honey, psyllium husk powder, oats and other beans, seeds and grains. "Would we have met during your holidays at Sandbar, Chelsea?"

"My sister, maybe," she replied. "She had a sweet tooth. I was rarely out of the water. Besides, before leaving the house, mom would pack the caravan with every conceivable kitchen appliance and food stuff. She didn't think much of camping or trust food stores beyond the city limits. As for bait," Chelsea paused by a small chest freezer displaying the tweed bait to cow. "Dad preferred finding pippy shells at low tide or he'd nip beachworms as they poke their heads out. Other times we used green weed. The conj's dad love a good conjoy fight." Pinching back the son urged to cry. Chelsea headed to the counter telling Talia.

"Your son would be a formidable opponent when armed with a sea squirt. I've witnessed his imaginary swordsmanship."

"Oh, but the smell," Talia quipped. "Give me a prawn any day."

"I agree." Chelsea's chuckle pushed the sad memories away. Selecting a keyring torch from a point of sale display, she placed it alongside a tube of sunblock, a packet of powdered milk sachets, a loaf of locally made bread, a tub of butter, and more snacks. With a lantern lost to last night's storm, and a mobile phone light unreliable, the torch was a necessity. The pack of snacks, too. My preference was prawning at night. With all four of us working the nets as dad dangled the tilly lantern.

"You enjoy fishing, Talia." The woman followed Chelsea's gaze to the floor by the door curtain where a lime green box sat.

"That old thing? Dad's tackle. Bless him. You'll find every conceivable hook, lure, and knot in there. We use this box during the holiday season. Tad and I hold beginner fishing classes with the kids because, of course, our world needs more men with fishing addictions, right?" The woman grinned. "Seriously, not only is the program good for business, throwing out a line at sunrise or sunset is great for mental health at any age. You're welcome to borrow our equipment, we sell bait." Talia handed Chelsea her change. "If my dad was here, he'd say, 'There's a fine line between fishing and standing on the shore like an idiot, Chelsea girl.' Well, my dad," Talia added, "would tell you I talk too much to be any good. He's the dedicated fisher person in our family. He was," she added the afterthought. "This place spoiled us with seafood daily. But that was before. Lucky for the fish in these parts, my nature loving husband is more the kiss and release type. With him, it's less about the catch and more about standing on the beach and being at one with the elements. Fortuitously, I find the untangling of line therapeutic. as is our chat. Chelsea, Talia added, "I've so enjoyed meeting you."

"Thank you, Talia. I'm feeling more settled about being here, but suffering from too little sleep overnight and too much tree this morning."

Talia's face wrinkled. "You'll have to explain too much tree."

"A limb came down in the storm, crushed my tent. I wasn't inside, thank goodness. Your lovely husband stopped on his way to the beach earlier to help clear the mess."

"He did." Talia sound surprised or a little suspicious. Awkward. "And will you be staying long, Chelsea?"

"I had no plans other than the week in a tent."

The woman sighed. "Oh, no plans. Sounds heavenly. I thought you didn't believe in plans."

"No, I shared my mother's beliefs with you," Talia said cheekily. "Between the family and the shop, I can only dream of nothing to do. Wait, can you hear that?" Chelsea listened. "No, nothing."

"Me either." Talia craned her neck to spy through a gap in the curtaining. "And that is a problem when you have an old dad with selective hearing. One I can't trust to pick up on the cues of a silent child. Two sex. Let me check on the pair. Hey, you two. What's going on out there?" As the door curtain dropped back into place and Talia's voice and footsteps faded, Chelsea imagined a life with both father and husband living together. Dale would suggest that's exactly what he contends with daily because according to him, William Scott is everywhere in their house and the reason for every argument in recent years. Chelsea conceded she had overloaded shelves and walls with Scott family memorabilia, but it wasn't, as Dale inferred, because William Scott was more important. Memories of her dad littered her mind and the house because he wasn't around. Dale was there every day or he was before Perth. How had they let their relationship deteriorate to this point? Slinging the strap of her carry all over her shoulder, Chelsea thought back to Talia's comment about sacrifices. Had Chelsea expected Dale to bend to her needs to crawl over sand and forgo Finn's forfeit to live in Chelsea's world and not as the hero but playing a bit part in her version of happily ever after and in her family house duty calls Chelsea said a flustered looking Talia "I'm sorry we'll catch up again."

Chapter 14

Dale

Perth

"Morning, Dale." Sheila Matthews leaned over the partition, separating their two workstations. Lender legs squeezed into fluractive wear, a white towel draped around her neck's liquid sweat. She beamed, nodding at the photo of Gabby and the twins he'd unconsciously picked up while musing over the past. Sheila was bubbly and bright, but the type of workmate whose smile flashed a warning. Even her voice held effervescent qualities.

"I think those super adorable twins are going to take after their adorable granddad."

"Lovely of you to say," Dale said, keeping the requisite reply suitably robotic. On day one of his secondment, when introduced to his team, he'd identified Sheila as the most capable or the one requiring the most caution.

"One good thing about Perth is seeing my daughter playing mother. Makes me feel old, though."

"Only one? Surely you can think of more good things about being here. And by the way, you look fabulous. But you worked too hard. I didn't think anyone else here was mad enough to start their day this early. Did you sleep here last night? Bed at home not comfortable?" She asked, a singong voice ending in a suggestive high note.

"Bed's fine, Sheila." The only thing wrong with the one in his apartment was too much space, but he didn't share such detail. Equal in ambition, the parrot headed off professionally straight away. Intellectually, Sheila Matthews was Dale's perfect match, and he appreciated and benefited from the female perspective she brought to his case discussions. "If Dale impressed the boss," Sheila was the reason.

"Do you often run to work?" he asked her.

"Best part of the day, and no one else uses the staff showers. I'm headed there now to wash off this sweat, but only after I've shed this impossible to peel away active wear. Oh, and don't forget Jack's farewell at the pub tonight. You will be there, Dale. You know what they say about all work and no play."

"I'll be there. I like Jack. Thanks for the reminder, Sheila."

Chapter 15

Chelsea

When a gust of hot wand wind whipped gravel dust up the hill, Chelsea turned away to shield her face. With one hand, she secured her hat. and the other were her purchases with the hemp and organic cotton tote growing heavy along with her mood. Talking with Talia had come easily, but she'd walked away envious of the woman. A loving family, a simple existence, happy peas in a pod, dealing with life's ups and downs together. While not venturing beyond the shop's curtains and into the residence, Chelsea couldn't imagine the many modcons Wendy had regularly demanded, only to walk away from it all and leave deep cupboards crammed with stuff, some still in the original boxes, the idolized 70s fondue set, and distinctive Corningware casserole dish collection, the must-have mixer and teenthear containers designed to outlive Armageddon. With no shortage of space, unused items found their way to the back of the cupboards, which was fine. Chelsea had no problem hanging on to things, except your daughter and your husband. There, everything stayed, surviving two kitchen spruce ups. Dale had enjoyed turning the Scots circa 1950s shack into a home for their family. Asidious in his preparation of the high ceilings, ornate cornises, and picture rails, he'd almost finished one coat of watermelon pink in the baby's room, when Gabby decided not to wait for permission to be born. With a colicky baby, sleepless nights, and a long daily commute, Chelsea had suggested he put his tertiary studies before the renovations. Time flew, and after 2 years of living in a partially painted house, Dale arrived home from work with a surprise. A Peter Rabbit wallpaper border he'd found in a bargain bin.

"Cute, huh? I even like the name Peter for a boy."

"Great minds," she'd said while downing her cutlery to reach under the table for the matching stuffed rabbit toys. "I bought these two in town after my ultrasound today. Oh, and we'll need a second name to go with Peter." Midway to his mouth, his eyes already welling. Dale asked. "We're having twins, Mrs. Halt. Two boys as wonderful as you, Mr. to halt." But amid the mayhem of motherhood and following the twins first day at school, she and Dell experienced their first serious fight. The first of many to come and all about the house. Chelsea had mistakenly announced some news in the same fun way she announced the twins. Only this time, when Chelsea reached under the dining table, quick to reassure a panic-stricken Dale, this was not another baby. She produced a small gift box. "Tada!" she flipped the lid to display an ordinary brass key stamped with the word lockwood.

"You've changed the locks?" he asked. His cautious chuckle edged with worry.

"No, silly. The key is symbolic of how one door closes and another opens. Out with it, gels, he insisted. What is this?"

"Good news. I got mom and Ila to agree. Oh, and Sharon Hawthorne, the conveyance down the road, the one with the sign at the front, said it was a sound investment. She believes bringing a property as old as ours up to market standard would require costly renovations. Her advice, given the high growth area we find ourselves in, is to keep the property. And she should know. She and her husband have done well over the years." Chelsea's excitement faded. "Why are you staring, Dale?"

"Choles, I thought you were a lousy decision maker."

"I am lousy, but Sharon made me see sense. It's a win-win. The most practical way forward is to stay put and let our investment grow. This house is the key to our future security. And as of today, it's all ours. Tada!"

"This house isn't our investment," he snapped back. "It's meant to be a stepping stone while we save up."

"Yes, Dale. And we also agreed the nominal rent Mom and Ila set was financially beneficial. With you putting so much of your wages into our investment portfolio, and with it doing so well," Dale's thump on the table rattled the cutlery they'd abandoned on their plates.

"You sold shares to buy your family out."

"Of course not. The stiffness in her husband's shoulders fell away until I use my trust money, Dale. We no longer pay rent at all. The house is ours." The ticking grandfather clock in the next room grew supersonic as her husband sat mute and unblinking.

"What's the matter? I I don't understand, Dale. You've wanted to own a house. It makes sense to reap the rewards from the one you've put so much love into. Mom talked to Ila who agreed and to be honest the price was ridiculous as it should be after all our work. Mom hardly needs money and Ila's never wanted the place. As landowners in a fast developing west, the only way for us is up. Especially with the completed town bypass and say something, Dale." The only sound was his chair legs clawing the kitchen lenolium as he stood before storming from the room. Dale Kelsey followed him. First stop, the photo gallery where Hol and Scott family pictures hung on the wall in a happy shamble. Next, he paused at the sideboard, home to a decorative assortment of Williams magic jars, sealass and bowls, and carved cuttlebone figurines. Further along were more photos of Chelsea with her father on the beach around the campfire standing on the front porch and his usual it's all mine and I'm king of the castle stance. Finally Dale turned to face her expression a blend of disbelief and defeat.

"You could have used our joint savings, Chelsea. At least the place might be partially mine."

"Don't be silly, Dale. What's mine is yours. We have a house finally." He muttered something about a freaking shrine and snatched his car keys from the hall stand.

"Where are you going?" Chelsea called. A sonic boom would not have drowned out the angry retort.

"Anywhere but here."

A week later, after dismantling the so-called freaking shrine on the sideboard and decluttering the bookcase of William Scott knickknacks, life in the Hol household returned to a kind of normality. Little did Chelsea know the subject of selling would raise its hurtful head every few years. There was never a way to know how or when, but every discussion ended with Dale going for a long drive before coming back. Calm but quiet. Returning from one such cooling off episode. Dale had found Chelsea at the dining table, cursing the ceiling fan that had waited until summer to stop working.

"I've been thinking," he said as they tucked into their evening meal. "We can afford something nice now. Our forever home with air con or a sea breeze. Not close enough to see the waves. I'm understanding of your phobia, Charles, but the kids could bike it to the beach, and an on suite bathroom would be practical. It's been a long time since we showered together without a gate crushing kid. Imagine a new house with an entire bathroom to ourselves."

"You seriously want to talk about moving again, Dale? You want to go there tonight? Seriously?" Chelsea stiffened, prepared for the same argument. But Dale was unexpectedly koi.

"Ah, actually, I was suggesting a shower together might be fun, but we can argue instead while discussing our growing family." He let his cutlery drop on the plate. "With the amount of land under us and in a sellers market, we can use the house as equity and get something to tick all our boxes. Where did you put the business card for the last bloke? You said the guy had shifty eyes and you check out other real estate agents and make a list so I can make a decision."

"Oh, so you get to choose." Dale looked dumbruck. "Yeah, like I've regularly chosen ice cream flavors and what DVD to hire and everything else for as long as I can recall. Remember when we were on a date and you, Dale, are not ready to move. Not yet." She reached for the stem glass and threw back the last of the wine. "I've got a mother's network here and the twins have made friends. I have friends and a volunteer job I enjoy. And Gabby is at an age when, well, you know better than anyone a teenager needs stability. She's always been a handful."

"She's hardly a child," Dale mumbled, taking up arms and attacking a steak with renewed vigor.

From that point on, the beach shack became the elephant in the room and on their dinner table and in their bed. While the phrase, "Let's discuss the house," became code for, "Let's raise our voices, dig in our heels, and make each other miserable." Before she knew it, her children had grown up. Gabby was arguing back and accusing Chelsea of being obstructive and obsessive while the twins were being deployed overseas. Now, with Dale on the other side of the country and Fred gone, Chelsea was alone at Sandbar and at breaking point.

"Well done," he sulked. "You have an empty house and a bathroom to yourself. Yay." Bending to grab a long stick in the middle of the road, she battered a pebble, sending the stone high and long before it hit a tree truck with a dolph.

"How's that?" She heard her dad shout. "Cricket with dad. 1981."

"But dad, I complain, eager to lodge a leg before wicked appeal."

"No disputing the umpire, Chelsea girl. Change of batsman." Dad declares before calling across to Ila. "You're up." But when my sister won't budge from her prostrate position on the beach towel, Dad looks at his watch, then at me. "Never mind. We have an extra special lunch to eat. Then it'll be close to fish biting time, misfits. We head towards the caravan." Dad tossing the ball in one hand, his other arm draping heavy around my neck. "Do you reckon they'll miss us when we're not here? Huh?" I'm confused. So he nods at Ila. Then at mom, the pair already baked brown on their

Striped sun lounges. Check the forecast, William. Comes Mom's muffled dictat. Nash, you'll be right, Wendy. We've been bringing home the bacon for years in all kinds of weather. Me and Miss Fix are all-weather anglers. I'm about to dispute the notion of catching bacon when Mom lifts the sun hat from her face and tells Dad, "I don't care about you, William. I don't want Chelsea getting wet and catching a cold if you stay out late. You'll stay until the fish stop biting." I don't say so, but getting wet and cold is not the fun bit. At 12, I'm acquiring a taste for grown-up things like suntans and tea with milk and one sugar and taking to girly hair braids, lip gloss, and the frosty blue nail polish Ila painted on our nails last night. "You're not piking out, are you, Chelsea girl?" Dad says, "You can't today. I'll need my chief bait collector on hand. And don't forget all those rock pools." I'm torn. Go with Dad or stay with Mom. Once the clouds roll in proper and the weather is not good for sunbaking, Ila will set up the caravan as a pretend beauty salon and do facials. But it's Dad's promise of a sheltered spot and the perfect rock-hopping tide that wins out. Besides, chief bait collector sounds cool. I've never been one of those before. After lunch, ready to head off, Dad walks over and kisses Mom goodbye, hugging her long and tight. "Quit that. You're blocking my son," she snaps, adding a shoulder slap and a shove. "What on earth has gone to you this trip?" "I'm thanking you, my love. I appreciate you worrying about our girls," he says. "I don't say it enough. They're in good hands. You're a good mom." "Better than you are a fisherman," she retorts. Dad winks, steps away, grabs his gear. "Time to say goodbye. Give Mom a hug and let's go. Misfits, we won't be holding our breath for a fish dinner, will we, Ila?" "I'm not even sure why you're going today, William. This is an easterly wind blowing." "Don't you say if the winds in the east, they'll bite the least," as usual, Ila pipes up. Eddie Vaughn's mom says a fisherman is a jerk on one end of the line, waiting for a jerk on the other. "Eddie Vaughn's mom married a jerk," Dad says. "And you know, Wendy, it's also said a woman who never sees her husband fishing will never know what a patient man she married." "Don't need to see it. You tell me often enough." Mom rolls onto her tummy and opens her latest billionaire boyfriend book with the pink cover. "All I want to know is you'll catch dinner so we don't go hungry. I've got nothing out of the freezer for tonight." Dad's mood falls serious. "I made a promise when we married, Wendy, and I've never shirked my responsibilities as a father, a husband, or as a provider. No matter what happens, my family will never go hungry." Mom grunts and says, "I hope you have jackets in that backpack of yours. You'll be needing them." "I have all I need." Dad hoists the bulging backpack onto his shoulders. "And I have the best bait collector coming with me. Miss Fix and I are the hunters and gatherers, and we're survivors. Come on, Chelsea girl. It's time to find out what big and exciting things await us on the other side of those dunes."

Later that December day, 1981, a wave washed William Scott out to sea.

Chapter 16.

Ila.

It's not fair, Ila thought as a fresh-faced Trent Dashwood appeared in the Skype window on her laptop. Men weren't supposed to glow. Maybe the man's sunflower-covered shave coat contributed to his brightened look so early in the morning. Sunflowers, dark. Samantha's going-away gift. "Her going away," he added. "Yeah, well, what can I say? It was inevitable." Ila lifted her shoulders and let them drop. "No idea why you two married." He ignored her triteness. He always had. Wherever the professional, Trent's expertise was in keeping a conversation on track despite the ard and distractions Ila had attempted in the early days. "I needed someone to want me," he said. "Samantha did, for a few years at least. She asked after you when I dropped off Toby the other day." "That's nice." Ila downed the last of the fizzy drinks she'd helped herself to from the hotel's mini-bar, plonking the empty bottle on the bedside table. "She's nice, I guess, but blind Freddy and I could see you weren't right for each other." "Speaking of blind, Ila," he said, "I need my glasses and the big monitor to see you properly. Hold on while I shift into the office." Friend was on route before Ila could object or suggest blood was a better look after a long-haul flight. "Then we're going to stop talking about Samantha and start talking about why you're calling me at such an early hour." "Okay," he said, reclining into a black executive chair, hands cuffed behind his head. "Start by telling me from which far-away land you're calling. The background decor has me stumped. I see the bedhead is the timeless button-tufted type, and above is an elaborate frame holding a painting of vineyards, hills, and rows of cypress trees. The colors alone suggest luxury villa, Tuscany, Italy." In dramatic contrast to the doc's colorful description, Leila replied somewhat monochromatically, "Budget motel, Perth layover." "And the reason for your call? You look pensive." Ila leaned back against the studded velvetine headboard, raised her knees, and leaned the laptop against her thighs. "I'm wondering about the ramifications of telling you something I've kept to myself for three decades." "I see." Fren said his demeanor equal in both perceptiveness and compassion, "and the ramifications of not telling me are what?" The question almost drove Ila off the bed. If only she could be in the doc's office, snuggled into the latest of a lineage of swallow-me sofas. Ila had felt safe and protected there, alone in a hotel room. She remained exposed, scared, and distrusting of herself. "Is this the same long-held secret?" Trent asked. "Sure is," Ila mumbled while chewing on a fingernail. "Confessing is hard." "I always say secrets are easy to tell if the reason is strong enough. Start with one word," he suggested. "The rest may flow." "That's what I'm afraid of." Squinting at the framed certificate behind Trent's left shoulder, she asked, "Did I ever tell you about my accreditation? I was young when the University of Lies and Conmen awarded me an honorary master's degree in secret-keeping. Sure beats your counseling 101 qualification. Whatever the hell you shrinks need to screw with people's brains?" She flashed a smug look. "Is that what you think I did all those years? Screw with your brain?" "All your questions did. I would have preferred to screw you, but I well and truly screwed that up." "Sensing a theme, Doc?" Ila slid down the headboard, adjusting the laptop screen to suit. "Go ahead, hit me with the next question. Why, after all this time, does telling the truth bother you?" "Did I say it bothered me? It's my sister I worry about. And you're afraid the truth will hurt Chelsea?" Ila repositioned, rolling over into a kind of fetal curl, taking the laptop with her so she was staring at Trent's face as if he was right there beside her, his head sharing her pillow. "That's just it, Doc. I don't know what this will do to Chelsea, to what's left of our relationship. She was young when it all went down. Mom and I protected her. Well, I did. I'm unsure how much detail she remembers or if she would want the whole truth." "Speaking as a friend, Ila, and one who understands childhood trauma in a professional capacity, memory is malleable and easily contaminated by life experiences. The older we get, the more beliefs we bring to a memory, the more muddied our remembrances. As adults don't store memories in pristine form from childhood, we don't get the option. Come old age, to play everything back on a kind of personal recording device in our heads. What a child with limited life experience recalls of a single moment in time, traumatic or not, will likely distort as they grow. So, yes, you may find your sister's recollections different from yours. Likewise, your current emotional and physical state, especially after a long-haul flight, may influence the replaying of an event and in turn influence your actions. So, I'm asking why now, Ila. What's the rush?" "I wouldn't call 30 years rushing it, Doc. I was a teenager." She dragged the spare bed pillow into her body, cuddling it tight. "What I discovered about him when I was 18 haunts me." Friend leaned forward until Ila could make out the amberspects in his eyes. "I am listening," he said. "Trust me."

Over an hour later, Ila's stranglehold on the pillow eased and she sat on the bed. "And there you have it, Doc. The truth and the reason I was wild with rage for so long. Do I wish I'd never found Dad's letter? Hell yes. Some bloody birthday that was." "Fully prepared to call him out. Mom's threat stopped me. 'By all means, tell the world, Ila,' she'd said. 'And watch your mother go to jail and your sister go into the foster system.' When I screamed I didn't care and that I'd protect Chelsea always, she'd laughed. 'What makes you think you'll be together? Tattletales and troublesome teenagers aren't foster family favorites. No one will want you. No one.' So, Doc, I kept the secret. And guess what? I still ended up alone." "And you never said a word to anyone about what he did?" Turning her face towards the ceiling, she blinked hot tears back to where they'd been dormant all these years. Seconds later, cynical Ila reemerged, her heart as cold as her mother's words that day. "Mom told me he wasn't worth remembering. And she grabbed my shoulders, looked me in the eyes, and said, 'We weren't enough for your father. The sooner you get that through your thick skull and forget him, the better.'" Neither surprise nor shock revealed themselves on Trent's face as Ila rounded off her story with a good dose of sarcasm and swear words. "How's that for a family skeleton? So, you never asked your mother more about it? Did she know the full extent of his actions?" "Sure. I asked heaps over the years. Mom was super talkative after a few wines. Then she got sad, then angry. I discovered my parents' marriage was not typical. Their relationship hard to figure out. One day they'd be cuddling and kissing. The next day, Mom would lash out at Dad verbally and physically. I was too ignorant to recognize domestic abuse. William was a softy and he'd make out her anger was a pretense. He'd say stuff like, 'What off a wet suit?' But I know better now. Life was all about Mom and what she wanted. She was the violent one, controlling him, forcing his compliance. Dad conformed to keep the peace. He never raised a hand or a fist to anyone. A real shame, too." "Why a shame?" Trent asked. "Because an occasional smack when I mucked up might have let me see he cared about me." She gave a little snort. "Turns out William Scott heard us without lifting a hand. And all because marriage to Mom made him miserable. One way or another, he was getting out." "Thank you for trusting me, Ila. Understanding all you've endured makes you more impressive. You're a survivor." "Courtesy of two deadbeat parents," she mocked. "Wendy survived by adopting an 'every woman for herself' strategy while I dropped out of school to work at KFC, hoping I'd make manager. I aspired to greatness back then. Regrettably, my sister aspired to keep Dad's bloody memory alive by fixating on ways to remember him at Christmas and birthdays and every other bloody time. When I visited, the house was like a museum and she pulled out photo albums and then insisted we all played dumb board games." "And you dislike board games?" he queried. "I disliked how my sister's obsession cemented Wendy and me as co-conspirators and drinking buddies and relegated to the backyard. Removing ourselves was all we could do to cope during those occasions. One day, I decided to stop being curious about any Scott family member, living or dead. I walked away. I drank. I did drugs. And then the self-harm started. I got myself a VIP pass to your very first and very comfortable shrink's couch. Not sure why you got rid of the sunny yellow one. I liked it. It would go well with your sunflower shave coat." "You know, I've always cared for you, Ila, and more than was appropriate. As my first client, I've known you longer than any other woman, including my mother. Bless her. You matter to me, and I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you in whatever capacity you need." "Thanks." Ila didn't mention William Scott had sprouted similar sentiments before leading Chelsea away the day to commit her father's cruelest betrayal. "You're the best thing about my shitty life, Doc. You get what I mean by 'here for you'?" "Yeah, I do." With Leia, a troubled teen, and Trent, the other a nerdy new shrink, the parrot danced around the developing but inappropriate attraction for years. He was her perfect match. Easy to talk to, totally professional, and as her psychologist, ethically out of bounds until he wasn't. Now, his "here for you" meant when you're ready to accept love and accept the ring he'd bought well before Samantha came along with her matching university degree and designer high heels. "You get what I can't let myself do, Doc," Ila said. "Besides, no one in their right mind wants someone with my baggage hanging around 24/7. Good and short doses only will be my epitaph. I mean, look at you. You're Richard Gere and Pretty Woman. And I'm Kit De Luca, the druggie who will never amount to anything because only the pretty woman who gets her act together gets the guy. So, here we are, mates, talking as usual. We do it well, don't you think?" "Did you get any sleep on the plane?" Trent asked. "Oh, you know me. I'll sleep anywhere." She shot a wink his way, but Trent stayed stony-faced. "Why say things like that? You don't think I see the real you?" "How can you?" she wanted to ask him. "I don't know the real me or trust myself to have a real relationship. Sleeping with strangers and exotic destinations is far safer. Much easier to walk away from and no one gets hurt." Keen to change the subject, to put on a brave face, "I can share one thing the unscrupulous William Scott taught me, which might explain a lot. I've never forgotten his words. Having nowhere to go doesn't mean it's right to stay." Trent leaned closer as if trying to see through the computer screen and into her soul. "One day, Ila, you'll find you're somewhere and a reason to stay. Let's talk tomorrow." "Sorry, Doc. I won't be here tomorrow." When Trent's body visibly stiffened, forcing a squeak out of the office chair and putting his professional mask back into place, Ila understood. She'd said those words years before, as Dr. Trent Dashwood had attempted to schedule another appointment. Two days later, after the emergency department doctors had pumped Leila's stomach of pills and booze, Trent had sat by her hospital bed. She could still picture his pained expression, the one saying he'd failed her as a psychologist, as if he'd held her down, opened her mouth, and poured the bottle of benzodiazepines and codeine down her throat.

Sessions with Trent, 1991.

She knows he's close by and has been for a while because the pungent scent of sandalwood aftershave and hair product is a change from hospital disinfectant. "You didn't show up for your appointment, Ila. Want to talk about what you did?" "Maybe." "Were you aware of the baby before you took the pills?" "Maybe." "And how did you feel when the doctors told you what happened?" "Maybe." The art of avoiding and shutting down questions, especially those with painful answers, is part of her DNA. From whom she inherited such skill, Ila will probably never discover. All she knows at the moment is bringing her life into the world, a mistake and a bastard, only to hand the baby over and expect strangers to shower it with love is not happening to another child. "Is this to do with your mother?" the hot dog asks, smiling. She replies, "My mother is not my problem. She and I have loads in common, mostly secrets, which means we get on like a house on fire. Only in our case, it's more paper on fire." "Eight years ago, I was 18." The shrink, his head curious, "Do you want to explain, Ila?" "Maybe." Doc leans forward. "Try me." Closing her eyes again, she draws a deep breath. The slow, deliberate kind capable of clearing a path to the darkest corners of her memory. Pressing pause to the point of her 18th birthday, she sees Wendy passed out drunk and the Scott family secrets scattered around the base of the backyard incinerator. Scorch marks have left sentences cryptic. But what would become clear when Ila confronted her mother later in the day is how something as intangible as a shared secret can shift the power from parent to child. Ever since, fury has burned inside Ila and with hatred fueling the flames, a bigger explosion fears was inevitable. "Mom and I provoke each other," she tells the doc. "We've turned into a couple of bone-pointing shevils. We curse and cast unkind comments. Have done since." She stops, switching her recollection to silent mode. The adorable Doc Dashing does not need to hear everything, including details about how easily Wendy caves into her eldest daughter because she fears Ila will carry out her threat and make a written confession public knowledge. The woman claims she has the most to lose. On that score, Ila disagrees. "My parents robbed me of so much. My trust in people, my precious sister, my identity. When Wendy accused me of being evil like William, I made myself the epitome of evil, physically at least. She replaced every item of clothing in her wardrobe with dark colors, dyed her nondescript brown hair blue, black, and pierced her body. Whenever Wendy complained, Ila would laugh. 'I wasn't always a blue girl, Doc,' she says, raising the cannula-free hand to show off the navy blue nail polish. 'And I don't like how I look or what I've become. Don't like much about myself at all.'" "Then why such a drastic appearance?" the young therapist asked. "Goth facades work. They keep people at a distance. With some so uncomfortable I'm as good as invisible to them. Others treat me like I'm stupid or a waste of space. I don't care." Far from dumb, Ila had regularly ranked among the top 10% of students in her year until the secrets stole her concentration and addictions stole her youth. The first drug she experienced was not a drug, but control. Ila's constant threat to expose the truth soon turned her mother into her minion. When power no longer made Ila feel good, she switched to pills. And when expelled from school for breaking every rule in the book, she pushed every boundary to test her, her mother, and make her pay. That was until Wendy regained control by using and emotionally wounding her little sister. Ila had vowed to protect. "Tell me this," Doc asks, repositioning a box of tissues from the hospital tray table to her lap. "What makes you saddest when you think of your family?" Ila scoffs and claws the hospital sheet. The edge speckled blue with wet mascara stains. "You think these tears are over my family? Not likely, Doc. My stomach's hurting and I need the pain to go away. I need to go away before I do something to harm my mother. Like she hurt my sister. Mom reckons Dad destroyed our lives. But Wendy takes the cake." Ila yanks several tissues from the box to blow her nose, to breathe, to think. "Your mother physically hurts your sister. Does she hit her and break a nail?" Ila scoffs and shakes her head. "Mom's more into emotional blackmail. But because she can't control me, my little sister would cop the brunt. Like the morning Mom dragged Chelsea into the car and dumped her at the school swimming carnival. Water terrifies my sister, and Mom knows why. A bath, even a shallow one, could trigger a tantrum. I screamed and begged Mom to let Chelsea be, but she shoved her into the car anyway. Because I went to a friend's place to bunk for a week, I wasn't at home when Wendy returned that same day, packed a bag, and left a note saying she needed time alone. She was shacking up with a man who lives two suburbs away, but the woman didn't bother to collect my scared little sister from the swimming carnival. Auntie Rita did, taking Chelsea in, but the damage was done. Convinced her morning tantrum drove Mom over the edge and Chelsea had broken our family for a second time. She blamed herself." "You moved into readers with Chelsea?" "I wanted to, but no. With Chelsea aiming for uni, teaching as a dream job. She needed to focus. In case you haven't yet figured me out, Doc, I'm a dangerous distraction." "Why dangerous, Ila?" She shrugs her response, averting her gaze to the high ceiling with its stark fluorescent strip lighting. "Our father used to say, 'The fish that keeps its mouth shut is the fish that gets to swim another day.' By keeping the secret, I'm saving myself and protecting my sister. I'm way too loud, too opinionated, and too unpredictable to be around her." With Ila unable to trust herself and not slip up, the safest move was to cut all ties with Chelsea. Then Ila cut herself. If only cutting Wendy out of her life was as easily done. Instead, a despicable act, a secret, and a necessary pact bound the pair. "Lila, will you tell me your secret?" "Maybe," she says from the hospital bed, rescued and now in recovery. "One day, and just you never, Chelsea." Ila. Trent's voice made a look at the laptop monitor. "Where did you go just now?" "You don't want to know, Doc." "Without exception, I want to know what's going on in that head of yours." "Huh? And that right there is why I date guys who want me for anything but what's in my head." "I see. Eternally the tough girl. E." "You don't have to be emotionally hard to overcome some hard things in life, Ila. It's okay to lean on someone's love for strength. But understand it's your love of self, not their love of you, that makes you courageous. You are so much more than you think you are." "When are you going to believe neither your parents nor their actions to find the amazing woman looking into that webcam?" "When are you going to stop asking questions, Doc?" The man chuckles. "Once you realize you have all the answers. You've always known who you are inside and what you really want. I've simply been here waiting for you to figure that out." "You're right. She was no longer the terrified teenage girl or the highly strong secret keeper from her 20s. And this was exactly why she telephoned Trent. The man could still calm Looney the loose cannon. And I have. Thanks to Doc Dashing, she was stronger and brave. But did that make her ready? Was it right to tell Chelsea at all then leave her to deal with the truth alone? Someone would need to support her emotionally, someone Chelsea loved and trusted. That won't be you once the truth comes out. Her little sister's life was falling apart over a bloody house and a bloody-minded obsession with a man who had promised to care for his family, but instead broke them one by one. I guess there can be no more questions from you, Doc, because I have no more to confess. You've heard every disgraceful, depraved, desperate Scott family secret, and I'm free at last. But not without having paid the ultimate emotional price." "As if you haven't paid enough. Tell me, Ila, how are you feeling right now?" "Alive, thanks to you. Relieved, still angry." Her voice gave out, the fury turning to sarcasm. "Than shame. But as I have no more secrets, Doc, I guess we can finally stop meeting like this." "You're wrong, Ila," Trent said. "Now I know the truth. We can begin. I'd like to talk some more. My first appointment isn't until 9:30 this morning. Let me shower, dress, and grab a coffee. I'll phone you back and pay you out of hours rate." Although she laughed, it didn't sound genuine. "I'll be fine. I have every confidence. You are the strongest woman." Friend said, "You've survived on your own terms. And yes, you might have fallen a few times, but you got up and you grew stronger. People like you picked me up. Maybe so, but you control your life now. No one else. You'll do the right thing with the truth." "That first day, you stared through the thickest blue mascara. But I saw through the mask. I saw desperation. I saw you. Thank you for letting me share your journey. Because of you, I'm a better shrink." "Did you just say the word 'journey'?" Leila quipped. "That is so last decade, Doc. Time for me to go. I must see my niece and my brother-in-law before flying back east tomorrow and then driving north." "North, doc queried." "Where are you going?" "Nowhere," she said. "And I plan on hunting down nowhere man sitting in his precious nowhere land to tell him what he's been missing." "Do I need to worry?" Trent asked. "Certainly not about me," Ila remarked. "William Scott should worry. He might not be dead, but he's going to wish he was."

Chapter 17.

Chelsea.

Thinking back on that very ordinary day long ago, nothing had told Chelsea she would never again see her dad wearing his signature wraparound sunnies. The straw fishing hat he pushed down until his ears stuck out and the zinc cream smeared across his nose and cheekbones. "The stripes of a water warrior," he'd say while painting Chelsea's face. "More like water weakling," she mumbled into the caravan's mirror, squeezing a dollop of sunblock onto the pad of her index finger before spreading the zinc-based lotion over her nose and cheeks, war paint style. "Time to be brave, to suck up some courage, and to try out the so-called self-imposed phobia therapy. Let's see how far you get this time." "Nice look," Tad called as Chelsea locked Siesta's door and looped the key lanyard around her neck. "I'm channeling my childhood," she called back to the man lounging in his camp chair, dog by his side. "And I thought you were preparing for tonight's luau." "There's a luau?" She crossed the narrow roadway towards Tad. "As in grass skirts and hula dancing." "Nice moves," Tad said about a quick demonstration. "But we stick to the feasting bit without too much tradition and no dancing. Simply BYO your drink, plate, dessert bowl, and cutlery. $10 per head covers food and goes towards the communal kitty." "You have a communal kitty?" "Sure do. Proceeds from the market day every second weekend also go into it. Elme and Connie came up with the idea of combining artistic offerings with produce from those with land parcels large enough to grow vegetables, fruit, and herbs. These days, people come from across the district." Squatting to pat the dog, sitting quietly by his master's chair, Chelsea said, "I look forward to meeting Connie." Tad's expression clouded over. "Ah, you won't. She died." "Oh my goodness. No. When?" "Close to 30 years." "30?" Chelsea echoed. "But Elme said we were expecting jam." "Yeah, well Elm's sister story is long. If you're interested. In the meantime, you have a strand of hair stuck in your sunblock." As Tad reached out and ran her finger over Chelsea's cheek, she held her breath, waiting until he finished tucking the strand behind her ear. "Looks like you're set for the beach." "Oh, yes. It's been a while, but I figured slip, slop, slap was in order. But the beach can wait. I'm interested in hearing about Elme and her sister. Unless I'm disturbing your work," she added. "My office hours are strictly sandbar time. Pull up a pew." Tad offered a folded chair, but Chelsea took the opportunity for a little puppy therapy, sitting cross-legged on the ground with the dog. While she scratched Ly's ear, Tad explained how Australia's white assimilation policy had assumed children with mixed parentage and lighter skin color were more suited to a white society. "Ripping kids from their parents and homes was a national bloody disgrace. For the Wandari community of the day protected its own, as usual, with the girls evading detection by authorities for longer than others." "How did they?" Chelsea asked. "Not sure if you know this already, but Bunker Headland has a network of wartime observation points, gun emplacements, and old ammunition stores linked by underground passages." Oh, Chelsea knew. "All right. Mentioning the labyrinth of tunnels could have triggered a panic attack if not for Tabo's distracting story about two sisters torn apart. If you're interested, I'll dig out the dossier Prudence compiled to argue Dar's claim for a preservation order on the entire headland. In particular, the south-facing bunker where both girls hid from authorities. I keep all my mom's memorabilia in the office." He thumbed towards the caravan in his back. "The current day committee remains determined to safeguard the bunker. You got to see the mural to understand. It's quite the artistic fusion with both strong indigenous influences and references to the Italian way of life. So one of a kind that I remember jokingly comparing the bunker mural to Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel. Next thing Kol Prudence grabs a hold of the idea, calling it Sambbar Sistine and insisting Elme and Angelo's works share similar themes: temptation, creation, expulsion, and devastation. And does it? Well, it depicts a special love story between a young indigenous local and the Italian P she helped hide from the authorities. Elm's interpretation is very detailed if you know how to look. Even identifying the part in the visual storytelling where her mom conceived right there in the southern bunker one week before their relationship was discovered and the soldier arrested and interned. And you've seen this mural a long time ago." Tad turned towards the headland that loomed above everything else to the north of the campground. "This is the only view for me these days. But look closely and you'll see a dark hole 3/4 of the way up. That's the gunner's post. One of them where soldiers kept watch where the girl's head. See it?" "I I think so." "Spotting is not meant to be easy," Tad said. "There's a second lookout on the northern face of the cliff, but no one dares attempt that rabbit warren. Not until deemed safe by the defense services. I wish all prudence was here to put a rocket up those government bureaucrats. To date, all they've done is seal every tunnel access point and erect barbed wire fencing to annoy the locals once traversed the headland to reach the northern beach. That said, while the rest of us have lived vicariously for decades through Prudence's dossier and Elm's fabric designs, there was no keeping Elme out. You've seen her captains. Her mother's painted walls are the inspiration." "I've seen one," Chelsea recalled the Miss Merrick material. "So Elme has a way in. She's never admitted as much, and until engineers complete the long-awaited geotech reports, there's no official accessing the headland. Therefore, no getting to Heartbreak Beach and the adjacent wetlands and forest. Unless, as I said, you're Elme or a daredevil or Squid." "A squid?" "Squid's a nickname for Talia's old man. Slippery old bloke and good with his hands." Tad laughed. "Reckons rules are made to be broken. I have a feeling he found a way through the old tunnels a long time ago, but he keeps stuff close to his chest, including where the fish are biting. He'll disappear for hours and come home with a catch big enough to share." "And he hasn't told you how he gets through." "Like I said, not much use me knowing. Dad tapped on his stump. I'm also a lousy secret keeper. And they took Connie away because of her skin color," Chelsea asked, keen to get back to the sister's story. "The government yanked both girls from poor Mary. Elme had white skin, so a well-to-do family adopted her. They dumped Connie with children of the same color at a child labor farm where she worked in market gardens. Elme eventually found her way back here when she roamed the headland, revisiting the bunker and calling over the ocean to her sister." "Please," Chelsea implored. "Tell me they found each other." Tad nodded. "A few years before Conniey's stomach cancer diagnosis. Or old Elms. To this day, she struggles to deal with all she's lost." "I understand accepting loss is difficult, but surely encouraging her to move on is more." Chelsea stopped talking aloud to tell herself hot and kettle. "Like I said earlier, Chelsea, we live and let live around here. People find their way in their own time. And despite me going on and on bemoaning the past to strangers, the Wandara community is hardly a bunch of sad tragics. Most of us find our tribe, metaphorically speaking. Take mentalia, Tad said. She listens when I need to vent, and in return I bake for her." Chelsea smiled. "You bake?" "Oi, enough with the surprise face. I'm whipping up dessert for the monthly luau, which Talia and I coordinate. I promised trifle." "You make trifle?" "Well, it's Squid's spectacular trifle recipe. He is the true trifle master in these parts. Has been for decades. Batalia says he's in a flap over a phone call and a meeting in Ocean Sands tomorrow with an old friend. Must be someone special. Usually requires a seismic shift in the Earth's tectonic plates to budge him from his piece of paradise on the hill. So with Squid preoccupied, I'll be trifle king for a night. Come see for yourself. Not that you'll have much choice. We use the fire pit outside that camp kitchen." He pointed across the road from Siesta at the basic corrugated tin shelter covering a wood pile and huge dish-shaped fire pit. "Easy decision then," she said. "Count me in." "I'm glad. You don't want to be one of those campers who gets here and does little else but sit inside their caravan watching TV." "I might if your van had a TV," she said, grinning. "That's what I don't get," Dad shrugged. "Why bother coming if not to soak up all mother nature offers? Personally, I enjoy sunset walks. That's when the beach is at its best. There's something magical about the sea when the sun is setting." "But the sun sets in the west," Chelsea said matter-of-factly. "We're on the east coast, Tadpole. Surely sunrise over the ocean and wondering what the day ahead holds is better." "Prettier perhaps," Tad conceded. "But a sunset stroll allows me to reflect on all the things I've achieved in the day. Speaking of which, work awaits. Oh, and a word of warning about Space Invader tonight," he said. "That's what we call Ivan, who sets up the roasting spit. You'll figure out why." With a final dog pat, Chelsea stood. "And what does one wear to a luau?" "With your hip action, you'd rock a grass skirt, but I'd go with long pants and long sleeves. We breed a discerning mosquito at Sandbar, one that comes out at sunset and likes attractive women with sun-kissed hair and sexy eyes." She laughed when she probably shouldn't have, but what the heck? The man seemed harmless enough and amusingly unperturbed by his occasional faux pas. Dadpole was a much-needed distraction, his enthusiasm for life and sunsets encouraging, and his unapologetic preservation of family possessions a pleasant change for Chelsea.

Chapter 18.

Dale.

The sight of his daughter weaving around tables on the pub's alfresco dining deck surprised Dale straight in the chair. "Way to go, Dad. Gabby flashed her mother's smile. Never imagined I'd see you here on a Friday or any day. Good on you for getting out and about." "I could say the same to you. What brings you here, little mama?" "A well-deserved night of freedom with the girls while Mick plays dad with the twins. He locked me out of the house and said go, which is why I'm early, although I think I can see Trudy 1 ordering a drink." "Trudy 1?" Dale queried, squinting towards the bar and into the setting sun. "Yeah, I've talked about the two women at work, Trudy 1 and Trudy 2. One day there'll be my first official marriage celebrant gig." "Official?" Dale asked. "As in lawful union. Trudy 1, who works in Canberra, reckons same-sex marriages will get passed. It might be a couple of years, but by getting in first, I can build my brand and a point of difference. I'll be the go-to for gay marriages." "That's my clever girl. All very sound decisions, I'd say." "Thanks to you, Dad." Dale was curious. "Why me?" "Well, I didn't get my decision-making skills from Mom." "A Gabby, sweetheart. I wish you and your mom were." "Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Nice fedora," she said, changing the subject. "Another excellent choice of mine." Gabby transferred the hat to her own head and struck a pose. "What's the occasion, Dad? Meeting a friend?" "A colleague is leaving." "Really?" Gabby made a point of glancing at the table for two he'd chosen for no particular reason, except he wasn't really in a social mood. "I see. Well, meet away." She kissed him again and plonked the hat back on his head, laughing. "Bumping into my dad in a free manual pub. That is the craziest and the coolest thing ever. I love it." Then, as if sensing Dale's melancholy, she said, "I'm sorry about you and Mom, but so glad you came to Perth. I'm super excited about Sunday. The twins love their poppy. We can FaceTime Mom." "Maybe not. Mom's phone is playing up." "Oh, okay. Well, speaking of Sunday, bringing a colleague is fine with me. Oh, I see Trudy one waving. Must be our table. Better go, Dad. See you Sunday. Don't be late and don't stay alone." "Wait." He didn't want to make a fuss. The pub on a Friday was not the time or the place for what Gabby would call a D&M, but he worried about his daughter's relationship with her mother. Gabby was a loving wife and a great parent. She was a good daughter, too, but there had been clashes, hurtful ones, as well as those mother-daughter moments of frustration. "About your mom, Gabs." Her grin dropped away. "Sounds ominous." "She loves you," Dale said. "She wants to visit, but she's concerned about upsetting you more. Your mom worries. Her relationship with her own mother was is problematic." His daughter's Friday night and I'm free glimmer dulled as she dragged the spare seat beside him and plonked down hard. His moody and defiant little girl once more as she leaned back, arms folded, mouth puckered. He said, "She misses you, Dab. She wants the twins to know their grandmother." "I want the same, Dad," she admitted. "I miss her more than I thought I would, especially since the twins. I It just never felt like a priority to Mom. She never cared about what I did." The words shocked Dale straight. "Why would you think so?" "Because, Dad, I never got that vibe at home. Anytime I asked Mom what she thought or what I should do about anything, she deferred to you. 'Go ask your father,' she'd tell me. Remember when I couldn't decide between a Dolly Varden birthday cake and a pavlova for my 10th birthday?" "Mom made one of each." Dale couldn't help but be amused. "And this was a bad thing, sweetheart?" "Yes, if you recall, I ate too much and puked up cake all over my new dress and my best friend. The kids at school never let me forget. They called me Dolly Varden and Vomit Head. And the puking incident followed me right through to my end-of-high-school formal when they crowned me dateless Dolly Varden Vomit Head." Though said in jest, there was a genuine hurt in her eyes. Dale moved to cuddle his daughter, but she shrugged away. "Sweetheart, I had no idea. I never said anything. But it was around that same time I decided to never grow up to be like her. So agreeable and keen to please everyone. Only the strong make it today, Dad. Not the Matildas of the world." "Matilda Baker," she said, responding to his quizzical expression, "from school live down the street. Borrowing off the additional information achieved nothing. I'm sure I mentioned her, Dad. We kind of bonded because kids poked fun at her a lot, too. They were downright mean to Maddie, but acceptance was so important that she'd say sorry for any reason, just to go along with the crowd." "I'm not following you, Gabs," Dale said. "What's this got to do with your mom?" "Like Matilda, Mom never made waves. Even when Auntie Ila and Nana were being mean to her, she would apologize to them." Dell waved away his daughter's concerns. "Their family suffered a terrible tragedy." "Yes, and I believe Tyler and Travis and not me were the best thing for Mom." "How so, sweetheart?" Another shrug, a sad one. "Quinn's provided Mom with a legitimate reason to buy two of everything. No need to choose between the red and blue or the boat versus the race car cake. I get life hasn't been easy for Mom and she has issues. Which is why when people told me how much alike we were, I did everything to counter it." Gabby teared up. "Then when I found out I was having twins, I feared becoming her, or worse, a mother. I wanted to be like Auntie Leila. He's so in control and doesn't care about anything." "Hey. Hey, sweetheart. I so wish you'd mentioned this stuff before." Dale tugged paper napkins from the holder on the table and pushed them into his daughter's hands. "Mom's loved you forever. She loves her dead father more. You understand that much? You've talked to Mom how many times about selling up?" "Every time she falls to pieces over granddad's memory." "I love you, Dad, but I'm sorry." "Sorry for what?" Del caught another tear on his daughter's cheek. "Hey, come on. You're so important to me, loving me, guiding me. But..." "But what? What's this about?" "I I'm sorry. Mick is my family now. I love you, Dad. And as much as I want Mom around, I miss her. Even though she makes me crazy, I can't turn into her, and I won't make you the most important man in my life like she's done with her father. Does that make sense?" "More than you know." Dale shifted in his seat, turning to take Gabby's hands in his. "I wish we'd had this conversation earlier. Family is important, and so is finding the one person who will make you want to smile every day." Dale tried sounding upbeat. "That time you accused Mom of judging Mick, she admits to choosing the wrong words. And while I'm not defending her, I get where she was coming from. Her intentions were good. Growing up through tough times as kids made both Mom and me more determined that our children would avoid heartache. Call her, Gab. Share your life with her. I promise you'll be glad. Now you promise not to keep the stuff to yourself in the future." She nodded and the pair sat staring at the last of the sun. "Speaking of family, Auntie Ila and I met for coffee." "Oh." While not his favorite person, if faced with the choice between Chelsea's sister or her irresponsible mother, Dale would pick Ila. If only because the pair stood in solidarity, sharing a frustration over Chelsea's father fixation. "How is Ila?" "Weird," Gabby replied. "Not weird like when she visited the house. I mean weird as in all she wanted to talk about was Mom and you. I gave you your address and your new work number," she asked. "I hope that's okay. And I hope your colleague is fun company tonight. You deserve happy, Dad." "Hey." She wiggled closer. "Before the sun goes, let's do a selfie with you wearing your fedora. Your mom made sure I packed the hat." "I love it and her," he added. "But marriages hit potholes. And brick walls. You've wanted to get out of that house for as long as I can remember, Dad. So, you'll understand why I had to leave. Smile for the camera." Gabby positioned the mobile phone and squished up. Snap. "If not Mick's job, I would have found another reason to move away." Turning the camera on herself, Gabby inspected her makeup and fluffed her hair. "All relationships have used-by dates. Even Mick and I work hard to stay the course. You and Mom might have been good once, and of course you'd still have feelings, but when it's time to move on for you..." Another shrug. "I'm simply suggesting you keep your options open. A woman who gets you and shares your passions could walk through those doors over there. So, at least be open to the possibility, Dad. It's a Friday night, and you're too good a man to be on your own." "I'm in Perth for work, Gabs. It's giving Mom some space and time to miss me. I still love your mother and I love her, Dad. But when something's not good for you." Anyway, his daughter switched to Friday fun night mode, fussing with her hair and blotting both moist cheeks with the tips of her fingers. "Bet I look like crap." "You wear your resilience better than anyone, Gabby." A cheer erupting from the nearby table cut her hug short. "Ooh, time I got over to the party." Another quick peck and a wave, and his daughter dissolved into the alfresco bar crowd. With the music volume cranking up, Dale felt uncomfortable sitting within the kooey of his daughter's night of freedom. Also, Gabby's admission had disturbed him. He checked his watch, a gift from his wife to celebrate Dale moving from his finance administration job into field work as a children's guardian. While surprising his mates, Chelsea had supported the career move. She understood Dale in a way nobody else did, even suggesting if ever there was a calling for him, it was taking kids from broken homes and matching them with the right foster family. Dale Halt, the kid who came from nothing, knew every child deserved a chance to reach their potential and a safe and happy home life. Despite his wayward youth, or perhaps because of it, Dale identified opportunities. He'd come

A long way, achieved so much. Why then, he mused, did he often feel like a runner up to William Scott, and how had he fumbled so superbly with his own family? The adjoining alfresco area was getting louder, and amidst the tears was his daughter's laughter, so much like her mother's. Whatever their individual faults, together, Dale and Chelsea have produced amazing children. Gabby was confident, settled, and happy. While the twins were carving their own paths, Dale nurtured all three, spoiled them, prepared them as best he could, and let them fly. Now he was flying the coop, confused and unsure of his future for the first time since meeting Chelsea.

The sound of an acoustic guitar, followed by the jarring screech of speaker feedback, drew Dale's attention to the band setting up in a corner of the outdoor deck. To one side stood Gabby and her girlfriend. The pair's body language suggesting a DNM in progress, to use his daughter's turn of phrase. Deep and meaningful conversations were not something men did much or well. The bloke st mixed with back east would happily and regularly share a beer, a joke, and a locker room, but never their emotions. Men rarely admitted to feeling lonely and unwanted. Most seemed resigned to their lot in life. Tow the line, go with the flow. What will be will be. Not Dale. He had lost too many life chapters to the foster care system. Time to turn the pages, write new ones, live life.

To date, however, Dale's socializing had been mostly cups of tea with potential foster parents. Some couples he screened were young, childless for various reasons. Others, like Anna and Russell, in their 60s, showed no signs of wanting to stop fostering. The world needed more people like Anna and Russell. A couple with no concept of emptiness syndrome and no desire to experience it. Such caring people. They couldn't be more different from Dale's corporate cohort. Most of them parents who considered it socially acceptable to rejoice were no longer required to provide for the children. According to them, men did not suffer from emptiness nest syndrome. Women were the primary nurturers, tending the nest and struggling emotionally, once the chicks could fend for themselves. But as Dale discovered, dads also struggled with feelings of redundancy in their children's lives.

Even before his children became adults, Dale felt sidelined as a dad. When Gabby was about 12, Chelsea had suggested it was no longer appropriate for him to enter his daughter's bedroom or the bathroom without knocking. While she delivered the blow softly and he wasn't being asked to stop being a dad, Dale had experienced an instant disconnect. A pre-adolescent daughter meant things in the Halt household would be done differently, with Dale forced to adapt. And you did okay, Dale reminded himself, noticing how his daughter stood out from the crowd. Gabby was a capable young woman because he'd let her thrive in the same way his mate and mentor Bill Field had loosened the tether while still being there for him. God, he loved that man. Bill had shown young Dale the type of children's guardian he wanted to be when he grew up and became one.

Dale recalled their last catch-up. Bill had shown no signs of the cancer trying to impact his caseload. Instead, he was at his desk doing what he did best, finding kids their forever families. Behind him was the familiar wall poster and quote featuring an archer's bow, taut arrow at the ready. The words read, "Parents are the bows from which children as living arrows are sent forth. The stronger the bow, the further and straighter the arrow flies." There was no questioning Dale's and Chelsea's parenting. They'd kept all three kids on the straight and narrow. But with their fledglings flying into new phases, Chelsea and Dale had turned into two people sharing the same void. At least they were, before Dale walked away. Chelsea had likened his move to a midlife crisis. Was she right? Dale swigged the last of the lukewarm beer. Was Perth about his discontent with her, or a pathetic and slightly creepy attempt to emulate his children's freedom? Maybe carrying the weight of decision-making throughout their marriage had brought him across the country and deposited him in a one-bedroom studio that had no hope of ever feeling like a home. Gabby was spot on about one thing. Chelsea had deferred all decision-making to him, but it was wrong to assume it was indifference on her mother's part. What is it about the women in my life? They certainly knew him better than he knew himself.

If Dale was an expert in anything, it was identifying the early signs of childhood trauma and its effects later in life. He'd spotted the signs in Chelsea's behavior in class and in the attention-getting stunts that had landed her in detention. Why Dale only now realized he'd allowed his own traumatic childhood experiences to drive his need to find a place to belong, ultimately affecting his relationship. It was easy to blame a rough start to life. Do-gooders had all agreed baby Dale, the infant delivered 6 weeks premature by Caesarean from his deceased mother's womb, would need guarding and guidance. But post-hospital, there had been no protection afforded him until Bill came along on Dale's 15th birthday. As a boy, all Dale had wished for was to give love, receive love, and be valued. While each new foster placement had come with the promise of a family and a forever home rather than a place to belong with people who wanted him, Dale remained a visitor, an interloper, a presence but with no place at the table and no picture on the wall. Worse still, he'd been an inconvenience to most. His only value to the so-called kind carers was securing their regular government handouts. Then Chelsea stepped inside the classroom and changed his world. Like him, she had needed to give and to receive love. Dale was incredibly lucky to find someone to protect, to make all the decisions for, and to make a home and a family with. "So, what the hell are you doing here?" he muttered. "If this was a midlife crisis, no career change, snazzy car, or high-sea adventure would satisfy Dale. Much simpler." He wanted his wife to step with him into their next chapter because he didn't want to write it without her. He now worried that leaving her alone to miss him might backfire, as evidenced by her solo camping trip. Chelsea seemed not to need him like she used to. What's changed? Or had they, as a couple, not changed enough? And the moving house mandate did little else but slice into that frayed connection.

As Dale tried counting each occasion he'd phoned Chelsea because he missed the sound of his wife's laugh, he heard his daughters and saw her friends donning sparkly tiaras and huddling together selfie-style. He checked the time on his own phone. Did he call Chelsea and ask her outright? "Do you need me? Do you love me for me and not because I fill a void left behind by your father?" Thumb hovering over the call button, wondering if he should take his midlife crisis out for a test drive. He caught sight of two women walking through the doors to the deck. Sheila's eyes almost popped out of her head, and the pair peeled apart in a kind of well-coordinated maneuver. In jeans and a tight V-neck top, hair draped over her shoulder rather than pinched back in the usual ponytail. Sheila Matthews looked different, younger, too young. "Hello there, Dale." Lips puckered, she closed in on the cheek Gabby had kissed not 10 minutes ago. "We've booked a table for 12 inside, and I'll be needing a man's insight to settle an argument Tessa and I are having." "I uh... Sorry, Sheila." Dale shifted uneasily, knocking his fedora so it sat askew on his head. "I'm going home." "Oh well, can't blame a girl for trying." She reached up to straighten his hat. "Do I understand by home you mean to Scarra Beach tonight, or does your heart lie in Sydney?" She knew the score. Dale had made a point of playing with his wedding band when in meetings or repositioning Chelsea's photo every time Sheila placed her butt on his desk to chat. "Lucky, Sydney. I assume you know many people will be sad to see you go." "You are admired, Dale Halt," she added. "I'll go now and catch up with the others. See you at the office on Monday."

Chapter 19. Dale in the car and headed to Scarra Beach, Dale detoured to the local bottle shop to buy a six-pack of beer. Approaching the drive-through entrance, he slowed. Then, changing his mind, he sped straight ahead. Though he'd love another drink, he witnessed his sister-in-law's booze and drug dependency in action too many times early in his marriage. These days, Dale found other ways to feel good. It used to be spending time with his wife, sharing a meal or quiet time together once the kids were in bed. Often a board game came out of the cupboard. As a Scrabble opponent, his wife could be quite intimidating. In a game of chance, she could be as lucky as anyone else. In Monopoly, however, his gorgeous wife was useless, with her indecision over which property to buy or sell once endearing. Had Dale inadvertently enabled the behavior he now found so vexing as he steered the car through the Scarra streets. Dale recalled his daughter's reaction to the work-supplied Toyota Land Cruiser. "Oh, you've always wanted a touring car. We could fit out the back seat with twin baby seats and go driving once a month. I'll ride shotgun with you while Mick leads the way on his bike. It'll be fantastic." Dale had dreamed of crossing the Nullarbor and driving the isolated beaches of Australia. And while Mick was a top bloke, the love for his family humbling, Dale's preferred company was his wife's. Chelsea, however, was 4,000 km away. Pop-riveted to a house and petrified of the ocean. Parking his car in the apartment's designated space, Dale headed towards the ground floor pizza joint, enjoying good trade as usual. Preferring takeout, he headed to the counter. Preferring takeout, he headed to the counter until spotting a face in the crowd. The woman stood. "What the hell is she doing here?" "Hello, Dale. Figured I'd spot you if I waited long enough." "I'm happy you did. We need to talk."

Chapter 20. Chelsea. From Siesta's cozy dining nook, Chelsea watched a man tease out red-hot coals with a metal poker. His outfit, comprising cowboy hat, jeans with boots, and a striped shirt rolled to his elbows, reminded her that while this caravan park sat on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, a little west was the Great Dividing Range. The mountainous, mostly green belt, separating the coast from the country, was the gateway to prime New South Wales pastoral land, where quaint B&Bs, offering luxury Wendy Scott would love, punctuated the landscape. Not that Wendy was lacking luxury with husband number three having a proclivity for piano cruisers. Did the woman still nitpick over finding the odd fishbone? And did Leila, who as a teenager had deplored peeling stinky prawns, still refuse food that had breathed air before being served up on a plate? "Fish don't breathe air through their mouth, silly," Elsie had told her big sister one time. "They get oxygen from the water." "Right, Dad?" "Sure do. And the fish that keeps its mouth shut doesn't get caught." Dad added, "Lesson learned, my girls." While William Scott loved giving life lessons, Chelsea had learned plenty on her own. She'd read books and asked teachers, but some information found her coming in shouted whispers from her parents' bedroom while Ila sat alone in the lounge room, Countdown blaring through the TV speakers. "Bloody hell, Wendy. I'm not sure what you expect of me. A lesser man would walk away. But I promise to honor and obey. And I've never shirked my responsibilities. I love those girls. And if you love me, William, you'll stop being an embarrassment. Get rid of the pathetic ponytail and chuck out the ridiculous beach pants you wear absolutely everywhere. As for that outfit, you are not wearing the stupid magic jar choker to a wedding. Get rid of it. Or at least cover the thing with a tie. You're no longer a 16-year-old surfer boy." "I wear a tie 5 days a week, Wendy. Besides, there are no hard and fast rules these days. Look what Martha Tyke wore last year to her son's wedding." "You said everyone was talking about the inappropriateness of the cream-colored monstrosity." "Yes," Mom replied. "And no doubt we'll all be talking about a similarly shameful choice for daughter-in-law number two's wedding." "Exactly," Dad retorted, "which is why no one will pay me any attention. And about my hair. Stop that." Mom snapped. A slap and a giggle followed. "You know the effect on that Samson guy from the Bible when Delilah lopped off his locks." As Dad's big belly laugh softened, Chelsea pressed her ear hard to the wall. "You don't want me losing my va-va-voom like Samson, do you?" Another giggle, then silence till Dad's baritone singing voice reverberated off the walls. "Oh my, my Delilah." At that moment, Chelsea decided she would marry someone smart and funny, just like her dad.

"Come on over," Tad called from the fire pit as Chelsea exited the van and slipped on her thongs. Tote bag loaded with the required BYO items. She hung the key lanyard around her neck and tried inhaling some enthusiasm before heading across to join the gathering. "Everyone, this is Chelsea," Tadpole announced, pocketing the $10 note she proffered. "Welcome to Wandari's legendary luau. Can I interest you in a traditional welcome beer?" "Beer is a luau tradition?" Chelsea queried. "Do you also offer a traditional lay?" There was a beat of silence as Chelsea realized her mistake. Then someone behind sniggered. "Now there's an idea," Tad said with a wink. "Happy luau, everyone!" A fizzy chorus of cheers, laughter, and carbonation erupted as the crowd twisted beer bottle caps simultaneously, tossing them into the fire. Elms Tad waved the latest arrival over. "Jay," he said, quickly explaining the word belongs to the local Gumnagar people, the original custodians of the land on which they celebrated. Balless under the pink singlet and her legs lost in loose-fitting harem pants. Elme sported a crown of pink frangipani flowers pushed low on her forehead. "Aloha," she greeted Chelsea. "Our Elmy likes a good lay, don't you, Elms?" Tad chuckled. "Let me squish over so you can sit that skinny butt." "No thank you, cheeky boy. You're forgetting Connie and I help Talia." "Talia is running late," he said, adding in a low voice for Chelsea's benefit. "An emergency trip to the doctor with Kai after a mishap at home earlier today required a tetanus shot." "He sure keeps his doctor busy, but most adventurous boys do." "Not only boys," Chelsea said. "I was quite the tomboy and loved the outdoors. My sister, not so much. We were different." "Different how?" Tad asked. "Well, for one, she liked boys." Tad's obvious disappointment drove his usual grin down. "And you don't." "What I meant about Ila is she's older and boys soon superseded everything, including annoying little sisters." "Ah, puberty blues and priorities. I remember those carefree beach days," he said. "If you still enjoy outdoor adventures, about an hour's drive away into the mountains behind Wandari is a nice walking track, and I happen to be dropping materials to Ivan tomorrow. He's a welder, and we need a bigger fire pit. Happy to have you along for the ride. You can drop by the caravan around 10. I'll be in there finishing paperwork. Or if for some reason I'm not, use the two-way on the table in the annex to track me down. Way more range and more reliable than the mobile network. We can make a day of it if you like and have a pub lunch." "What about Talia and Kai?" she asked. "Talia? Well, she's busy with the shop, but..." he cocked his head to one side. "I can check with her about Kai. She appreciates some respite on a good day. The squid might hold the fort, but oh, speak of the devil." Wearing a different peasant-style skirt, sky blue and teamed with a flowing yellow shirt tied in a knot at her waist, Talia waved and headed Chelsea's way. Her other hand held hold of an energetic Kai. "Looks like the tetanus shot is forgotten. Is Mr. 'It wasn't me' still brooding?" Dad asked. "He's apologized a million times," Talia said. "Took his eyes off Kai at the wrong time. He seemed distracted of late, but you and I both know how he is when the fish are biting." Giving in to Kai's constant tugging, Talia let the boy go, yelling at him to slow down and telling Tad, "Keep watch while I do my catering bit." "Can I help?" Chelsea asked. "Yes, keep Tadpole away from the food until we're ready." She sent a wink his way and sashayed off. Tad was telling Chelsea about the tourist drive through the hinterland when Ivan announced they should grab a plate and get in before the bugs. Moving in an orderly clockwise fashion, diners snapped metal tongs at the mound of freshly sliced meat, squirted sauce bottles, and scooped spoonfuls of coleslaw and salad. After loading her plate, adding peeled prawns on the side, Chelsea perched on one end of a long log away from the fire. After 24 hours of the make-do rations she'd brought from home, eating soon superseded speaking, while Talia and Tadpole sharing the same log never seemed to run out of conversation and things to laugh about. What a difference. Dale and Chelsea seemed to have forgotten how to discuss anything other than the house and Chelsea's opposition to moving. With her stomach full and having twice escaped the man they called Space Invader, Chelsea was content being on the periphery of the party. She might have said good night an hour ago, except the campfire flames sparked memories of her dad one winter weekend while burning garden waste in the backyard incinerator. When embers had exploded into the night sky, raining down like burning confetti. Chelsea recalled holding the hose and being told by Dad to wet the cinders where they landed, but the specks of fire never did land. "The sparks all disappear in the air," she told him. "You're wrong," he replied. "Red hot sparks turn black to trick us into thinking they're gone. Then we walk away and whoosh! Those dead embers take on a new life." "Not seeing something doesn't mean it's not there. Lesson learned, Chelsea girl." A small explosion in the luau's fire ignited a medley of swear words from those gathered nearby, with cinders dancing skyward in a whirl before disappearing into the blackness. Even Tadpole jumped in fright while Talia buried herself against him, a giggly scream lost in the man's bulky chest. Josie stood. She had to get away fast from the fire, from the idea of disappearing embers, and from happy families. "Thanks again for inviting me." "Going already?" Talia sounded genuinely disappointed. "Sorry if Tadpole and I have been ignoring you. We're just..." "Oh, no. Don't apologize," Chelsea gushed. "I think maybe the fire's glare and smoke is too much. Nothing a couple won't fix. Nice to see you again, Talia. Kai is a lovely boy. Good night."

Chapter 21. Ila, what's going on?" Her brother-in-law asked. "What are you doing here? First, a visit to Gabby, now me. I'm used to quick catch-ups with my niece, but when she told me you were in town, I wanted to speak in person before heading east tomorrow and seeing Chelsea." "Chelsea's not at home. Your sister is camping at Sandbar." "Yes, and that's partly why you and I need to talk." Her brother-in-law shoved the travel bag across the seat opposite before sliding into the booth. "About what?" "The truth," she replied. "And I'll need you to get your backside into gear and get home to your wife because when I'm done telling her, Chelsea will require support from someone she trusts and loves. That person is unlikely to be me ever again. So, Dale, I'm hoping you'll be there." "You've got to give me more, Ila." "More time and more detail. Getting away from work won't be easy with so many custody cases pending. But with a compelling argument, my boss might be agreeable to a short break." "No, you can't tell him anything. You can't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you. My line of work demands confidentiality. So whatever this is about, rest assured, you're not hearing me, Dale. This isn't life-changing. And believe it or not, your life, your marriage is my motivation. But I owe it to Chelsea to tell her first." "Okay, Ila, now you're freaking me out. You've got to tell me what this is about or..." he said, taking the phone out from his pocket. "I'm dialing my wife and asking her." "Fine." Aware there was no turning back, she reached over and gently forced his hand with the phone back to the table. "Make it takeout for two, and I'll tell you what I'm going to tell Chelsea."

Chapter 22. Chelsea. Having washed away the malodor of the night's fire with a tea bag brewing, Chelsea picked up the little conch shell from the bedside shelf and stroked the glossy surface before pressing the opening against her ear. Hearing the sound a shell makes, she wondered how it was possible for something so small to capture and store the sea sounds for decades, while she struggled to recall the details of one day. Stranger still was how the white noise of the shell's inner sea calmed rather than stirred her ocean phobia. "Maybe," the shell was whispering. "You've got this. The monster is not real. Time to get your butt to the beach pronto." "Definitely tomorrow," she said aloud, as if locking in the commitment. "And early, before Beachcomber said about scouring the shoreline." Fewer people on the beach would mean fewer spectators should she experience a meltdown like that time at Bondi. Taking her tea outside to sit in the dark, only the light from inside the van shining behind her, Chelsea plopped into one of two folding camp chairs. Her thoughts rewinding to the day she and Dale thought cramming three impatient youngsters in the sedan's squishy back seat and driving 2 hours to Bondi Beach on a Sunday was a good idea. Six laps of the parking area later, Dale had somehow squeezed the station wagon into the smallest of spaces before unloading the kids in every conceivable flotation device. Their excitement palpable, the trio had followed their father like obedient ducklings across the dunes, unaware Chelsea remained rooted by the car, her panic paralyzing. Major meltdown imminent. A fuss ensued as people pointed and her pleading and distressed children danced on hot tar. Then, after an ambulance ride and 3 hours waiting in emergency, it was back to the western suburbs with bickering children in the back seat and the setting sun branding their eyeballs. "Sorry," Talia said when Chelsea startled. "I didn't want to interrupt, but you left before dessert and well, Tadpole insisted you try his trifle." She presented the paper bowl laden with sponge and cream and fruit. "Being here with only your memories for company can't be easy. You want some?" "Yes, to trifle and company." Elsie smiled. "If I'm not keeping you from the party." "You're not." Talia settled into the second camp chair beside Chelsea. "We've reached that time of night when the crowd splits up into like-minded groups. Escaping the cleanup makes a pleasant change." "Ah, men gathering around the fire and women doing dishes." Talia laughed. "Not quite. Misogyny or any discrimination demands a public flogging in these parts. Prudence Paul wrote it into the first official Wandari handbook. I'm joking, of course. We have rules. Any official community needs guidelines. And while far from the perfect bunch, we manage most everything on a handshake." "What exactly is an official community?" Joel asked. "In Prudence Paul's day, the term used was 'intentional community,' which to some out there translated to a pot-smoking commune intent on claiming government handouts. Far from it. We remain good, self-sustaining citizens who contribute to society like anyone else, but with an emphasis on communing with nature." "I've never heard of one." "Communities don't advertise," Talia said. "There are similar places throughout New South Wales and around the country, all intent on reducing their carbon footprint and preserving precious habitats. The only time Wandari brought attention to themselves was when fighting to retain the beach north of Bunker Headland as pristine coastal landscape. It's an example of how the area was before our political leaders allowed coastline overdevelopment. The Darites were environmentally responsible long before most people had heard the term sustainable living. The old vans you see skirting the campground's southern end are hangovers from an era when family groups time-shared. Some still do. The Wandari eco-community for the original parcel holders is a gated section and further along the gravel access road." "Parcels?" Chelsea asked. "Community land gifts from nature and from those who inhabited the country before us. These days, Wandari parcels come with a hefty price tag, and the older section still has original dwellings, shacks mostly. The newer developments incorporate solar energy, which powers the caravan park and water treatment plant. How some folks live off the grid must be seen. Conservation castles," Talia chuckled. "Ask Tadpole for a tour. It's a quiet time until next week when school is out, and not all members reside here permanently." "Why not?" "The treaties of life mostly," Talia explained. "Family responsibilities, no reliable internet for remote learning and work, while those who inherited parcels from family members are simply reluctant. They either don't think they want this life or aren't ready to leave the rat race behind. Some singles have shacked up together and sold their spare parcel. One couple, both FIFO workers, rarely cross paths with each other. Wouldn't suit me, but everyone's idea of marriage is different. To each their own remains Wandari's philosophy, even though the place has changed a lot, the village is 90% self-sufficient. There is a dam for our agriculture, rainwater tanks for drinking. Plus, we recycle responsibly in our purpose-built sorting shed. We have all sorts of professional people and intellectuals, but no class system. We're also very family-oriented when it comes to passing on knowledge and ownership. Everyone contributes equally, except the elderly or infirm." Talia's voice softened. "Sadly, the one thing we haven't been able to do is maintain facilities to allow our elders to spend their final season in their homes. As a founding member, my old dad would prefer to live his days here, but medical needs make it tricky. We're desperate to rectify this, but such projects take time. Our newsletter keeps members informed of evolving agreements, topics of debate, and all hatches, matches, and dispatches, while the luau and Elme take care of gossip. Be warned, the woman doesn't miss a trick. I dread the day we need to make alternate living arrangements for her. Meanwhile," Talia perked up. "I love being on the hill. Kai is free to make as much noise as he likes, and the beach is closer than it looks for those in the know. Perfect for a keen surfer and fisherman. And I have those." Talia said, "The best beaches in the world are at our doorstep. Nowhere better to raise a family. Nowhere. Nowhere." "Chelsea echoed through a sigh. "Yes, our family loved this place." "You didn't mention a husband when we chatted yesterday, Chelsea, but I noticed the tan mark on your ring finger. You and your hubby never holidayed here with your own kids." "No." Elsie fingered the pale spot devoid of the gold bands. She tucked both rings safely into the coin section of her wallet, fearing the soft metal would lose its shape as she hammered pegs. "When did you marry, Talia?" "We didn't. Not legally. Our beach ceremony was without a whiff of tradition. My father, bless him, walked me across the sand, then left us to speak our vows in private. He believed I was making a mistake," she explained. "Had Mom been alive, she would have made him see things differently. She would have been wonderful with Kai, too." Chelsea huffed. "My mother's idea of being a grandmother is to send exorbitant amounts of cash in a card each birthday." Talia's hand was small and warm when she rested on Chelsea's forearm. "How sad to miss out on what's most important. Having a grandchild to spoil has been fabulous for Dad. Before the dementia, he enjoyed watching Kai become one with Wandari. You and Kai and Tadpole need to treasure every moment." Talia, the woman's questioning expression swiftly turned to amusement. "Tadpole? Not likely. And he's not Kai's father either. Speaking of my son, he's been running around the house all afternoon chanting 'Chelsea, Chelsea.' Funny how he's connected with you. Ordinarily, Kai is like his dad. A man who tolerates social interaction to a point, reckoning he gets enough at the shop. Every now and then he stays long enough to wash down a meal with a beer and to find out where the fish will be biting in the morning. Fish or no fish, the beach is his happy place." "Mine too, once," Chelsea could have said, but she'd clapped shut enough about her life to this woman and feared more embarrassing gaffes. "Thanks for checking on me, Talia, and thank Tadpole for the invitation and the trifle. It's the best." "About Tad," Talia said, standing. "While quite the catch, I wish any woman luck trying to land him. Not that he's a player," she added. "Although he was in his youth, inevitable with a mom who swanned around like the queen of Wandari. Girls who came for holidays all vied for his attention. When they said goodbye, however, they left Tad brokenhearted. Oh. Oh, there I go oversharing again. The man needs to tell his own stories. Speaking of Tadpole, he and Kai will be up to no good with the leftovers. See you around." As Talia wandered back towards the fire, Chelsea couldn't help thinking there was a message in the late-night chat regarding Tadpole. But was the woman warning off a stranger or protecting the longtime friend who'd suffered too many broken hearts? It didn't matter. Chelsea wasn't looking for love. She'd already found her soulmate, even if he was trying out a new life on the other side of the country. Washing down her trifle with warm tea, Chelsea snuggled deeper into the comfortable camp chair and looked into a moon 10 times more brilliant than the one she'd stared at through blurry eyes the night Dale told her what she already knew. "We no longer want the same things, Charles. Our priorities are different," he told her. "Maybe we were too young or we married too soon. It's natural we might grow apart." Sitting forward in separate armchairs in the lounge room, the pair fell silent, mirroring each other, heads bowed, forearms resting on thighs, hands fisted and locked between knees. "I still love you, Dale. And leaving for Perth doesn't mean I've stopped loving you, Charles, or that I won't miss you. The thing is, I want to be in love with the person I'm married to. I'm not sure we're there anymore." "I don't understand," she said, sounding as hurt as she felt. "Is this some sort of midlife crisis? Are you missing that light-headed, tummy-tingling teenage crush sensation?" "Aren't you?" His words slapped Chelsea speechless. "Damn it, that came out wrong. Look, I'm happy to grow old, and yes, I miss the tummy-tingling bits. You can't crucify a person for that. But more than anything, I'm terrified we rushed into marrying and the kids are the glue." His head drooped lower still. "Now they're grown. We need to figure out what makes us happy and if we're meant to be together." "I see. And the way to do that is by leaving. It's been you and me since high school, Charles. I'm not sure who I am on my own. Maybe Perth is about testing the waters to see if I can live without you." Chelsea stiffened. "And I'm assuming there will be plenty of fish to test over in those Perth waters." "Don't read more into this time away, hun. I honestly don't know anything other than, 'I'm incredibly unhappy. My life has grown to a halt.'" "Incredibly unhappy," Chelsea guzzled the tea dregs. For weeks, his words had plagued her right up until the night before Dale was due to fly to Perth. Both had slept badly, and their routine morning cuddles slipping clumsily into what Chelsea would only call sad sex. 2 hours later, she'd watched her husband walk out of their house. 2 weeks after that, she packed away her little pity party, convinced Vicki she would not turn to booze or turn into Wendy, and returned to her long-standing classroom teacher support position, which she enjoyed for the rules and routines required when mentoring kids with cognitive disabilities. Where were the rules for dysfunctional marriages? Was there one set for her and a different set for Dale, who got to dangle his line in those WA waters and wait for nibbles? Was Chelsea also supposed to wait? Not that it had occurred to her to do anything else. He'd said not to read too much into his relocation and insisted most couples had their moments while some needed to modify their lives and work through issues. Friends had used all the above and more in the past to describe their marriage woes. But the night Chelsea broke down in the middle of her book club discussion, a novel about infidelity, Vicki had dragged her away for coffee, filled her with positive thoughts, and suggested she enjoy her freedom by hitting the club/pub scene to listen to a band. Twice. Chelsea went along with Vicki before discovering there was little enjoyment seeing mature women dressing and acting like teenagers on a dance floor or worse, drinking in dingy dungeons, singing "I Will Survive" and lamenting their losses while posting sappy sayings on social media and waiting for true love to send them a friend request. "I honestly can't be bothered," she told Vicki over the phone one Friday afternoon. Standing at the end of her bed, her mother-of-three clothes strewn in uncoordinated combinations. She'd added, "I only own two bras, one white and one skin tone, and neither of fancy straps meant for public display with off-the-shoulder tops. Thanks for the 'no' to tonight and every night." Chelsea had her true love. No skimpy sequin tops or tight skirts required. What those few nights out pretending to be single had done was let Chelsea see living without Dale was not an option. Now she needed to tell him. But with her phone on charge and Siesta, as Tadpole had suggested, to help dry the innards out, she didn't know the time, only that it was 3 hours earlier in Western Australia and a Friday night, which put Dale in prime water-testing time or at home feeling miserable and missing his wife. "Good night, Chelsea." Tadpole called as he passed by Siesta. "Don't forget our date tomorrow. Weather should be good for the drive up and back." "Actually, Tadpole," he stood, ready to head inside. A windshift was making the pounding ocean sound too close. "I'll take a rain check on that drive." "In that case, I'll tell Ivan he's got me for the day. He wants a hand with the welding. Good night. Sleep tight." After igniting a gas jet to boil the kettle for more tea, Chelsea settled at the dinette and reached for the phone, praying for a connection. It had to work. Dale had to hear every word loud and clear. As the screen illuminated, her attention shifted from the three bars of reception to the 33 Facebook notifications. 33. Launching the app, the first post in the news feed was Gabby's selfie-style picture with Dale in his fedora. The remaining photos of blurry-eyed young women, some sporting brighter Frankenstein getups, were typical of a drunken hen's night. So why was Dale amongst the pictures? Scrolling back over the images of pretty women with exaggerated poses, pouty lips, and red eyes, Chelsea zoomed to see beyond her daughter's close-up. A man was seated at a table for two and in the company of a woman. The hat was familiar, not so the female. Dale, was her husband dating, sharing a meal in a mental pub, or wearing a fedora she'd packed for him? How dare he? Had she not declined Vicki's barley suggestion, she could be doing her own bump and grind in a club nightclub and with a bevy of new bras to show off. Instead, she was at Sandbar campgrounds on a Friday night, fending off the space invader and avoiding the flirtations of a married man who, as it turned out, was not married, is rather lovely, and wants to spend the day with her tomorrow. "It's one day. Where's the harm in that?"

Chapter 23. Chelsea. Day three of seven. There's no mistaking the roar of a wave swelling in height and strength. Then there's a moment of silence before the monster breaks and spews seafoam into the air. Chelsea holds on as the caravan lifts, rising higher and higher until it teeters on the wave's crest. Suddenly, the dumper breaks and down, down, down goes Siesta, tumbling over and over, filling fast. Chelsea must escape the water. But how when in place of the caravan's panes of hard plastic are porthole-style windows with rubber plugs wedged tight. She screams, "Help me. I'm drowning." "The plug, Chelsea!" Tadpole yells. "Pull the plug or your family will drown with you." "My family?" She turns to find Dale, Gabby, the twins, Ila, Wendy, and Dad. Oh, Dad, help me pick the right plug. We're drowning in this place." Her father laughs. "You can't drown in a caravan, Chelsea girl. Let your fear set you free. Become one with the sea. Be a mermaid." "But I'm not a mermaid. I have no tail." "Ila. Ila, help me. Cut your hair, Ila. I need my tail. Help me." "No way," Ila says. "What good is sacrificing my hair for a tail when you're scared of the ocean?" "Please, Ila." "I'll try hard not to be." Ila. But her sister is gone. Dale is walking away with the children. And everyone else has deserted her. Chelsea is alone and she's drowning. Screaming and gasping for air. The sheets tangled tight around her legs. The knocking on the window above her head startled Chelsea upright. "You okay in there?" "Hang on," she said, jumping up and straining her t-shirt and shorts before opening the door to find a one-legged Thaddius teetering on two crutches and wearing nothing but striped pajama shorts. He must have noticed Chelsea eyeballing his bare chest because when her eyes met his, Tad grinned. "Sorry, didn't have time to change. Your calls for help woke me. Good or bad?" he asked. "Your dream, I mean." "Um, bad and weird. Thanks for checking on me," she said, grateful the man-sized cardigan she'd packed purposefully was within her grasp. Dad was not leaving. Flipping her arms into the roomy sleeves, she wrapped the garment tight and folded both arms across her braless boobs. "I think I fell asleep listening to the ocean. And unlike most people, pounding waves don't lull me to sleep. I should have factored that into my camping plans." The man's curious expression demanded she clarify, but not while half awake, half dressed, and mortified about admitting to nightmares at her age. "Sounds crazy, Tad, but I can't explain." "You probably can," he countered. "We can clear up most things when we have a good listener. I happen to be very good, but only when coffee is involved." "Your screams did wake me. Something about pulling a plug. Best come in." Chelsea stepped back from the door. "I'll make us both a drink and tell you the part you played in my dream." "You're dreaming about me? Nice," he said, discarding the walking sticks outside. He part-hopped, part-pulled himself into the van before swinging his body onto the dinette seat. "Fire up the kettle, then fire away." "How's that for weird?" Chelsea finished, having disclosed all she was prepared to, no matter how easy Tad had made the telling. "You are a good listener." "Then you won't mind a question," he said, doing that signature scratch-head-and-confusion thing. "Why come to Sandbar if you have a fear of the ocean?" Chelsea stopped hand-batting the empty mug back and forth on the table, but didn't look up. "You might say it's a form of self-imposed exposure therapy. Confronting the source of an anxiety over and over can reprogram the brain." Tad sat back, bemused. "And how's that therapy working out for you so far?" "Not well, given I'm yet to step a foot beyond the campground. I planned on a walk to the beach today early while the ocean is calm. The nightmare was probably me getting worked up." "Can't comment on the dream analysis," Tad said. "But I can't find fault in your decision to hit the beach early. Nice way to clear the head. And a bit of Zen state of mind will shake off that nightmare." He slid out the dinette to stand. The man's agility was amazing. "I'll let you get to it. Lucky and I are heading off for the day." At the door, he let out a short, ear-piercing whistle before negotiating the single step to grab his walking aids and paused to whisper praise to his dog. "Good boy. I hope you enjoy the beach, Chelsea." "I'll try," she muttered as both man and his best friend walked away. Two churned up to eat breakfast. She dressed in black gym pants and a t-shirt, hoping short sleeves would cover enough. Unlike midsummer at home, when the sun warmed, coastal breezes chilled the air. With her dad's old cardigan, for comfort rather than warmth, she stepped into the early morning air. She paused on the small step and stalled by tying and retying her shoelaces. Then she searched the car and caravan for a puffer, finding one in her handbag as usual. Finally, Chelsea took a deep breath and headed purposefully towards the beach track, or mentally poking around that special part of her memory for a suitable William Scott affirmation to provide courage. Affirmations with Dad, 1978. "What's an affirmation?" I ask, standing on the shoreline. "Well," Dad starts. "Affirmations involve words or phrases that you repeat, either aloud or to yourself, to help make negative thoughts vanish." "You mean like when a magician says 'abracadabra' and things disappear?" Dad huffs a laugh. "Affirmations are special, but they're not magic, and by themselves, they can't change anything to work. An affirmation needs you and what's inside. In here and here and here," with each "here," his finger poked to my ribs, forcing a squeal. "Alone, affirmations won't achieve much at all." "Then why do I need one?" "Because they make us focus. What's a focus, Dad?" "I'll explain this way." He squats, taps my nose, and pulls me close. I'm leaning against his knee when the receding water sucks my feet down, burying them deeper into the soggy sand. "Remember when you left your magnifying glass too long in the sun and it put a burn mark in your sister's journal? The one Ila got last birthday?" "I didn't mean to," I mumbled through pouted lips. "And I wasn't reading. Blame the bug. I've been in the backyard following a ladybug's expedition over my sister's abandoned beach towel when the tiny red-winged insect crawled along the pages of the book and stopped. It climbed up all by itself, Dad." "Yes. Then your mother called you for cordial and the magnifying glass stayed on your sister's book, right?" He waits for my nod. "You see, Chelsea, the object alone, your magnifying glass, contained no special magic and no heat until it concentrated all the sunlight on one spot. That focus made the glass powerful enough to change into something else." "I still don't get it," I say. "Change into what? It's a dumb toy." "I agree. Your magnifying glass has no special properties until we let it rain in the sun's energy. On its own, an affirmation is simply powerless. Mere words strung together. The power," he says, "comes from the conviction we bring to our affirmation. The stuff inside us. Our energy we chant creates change. So, think of an affirmation as a magnifying glass for your conscience." "I don't know what my conscience is either or where to find it. But if Dad says I have one, then I must. He never lies. Can you teach me an affirmation, Dad?" "Okay, but you'll need to concentrate." Shifting my body so he can stand, he says. "Close your eyes and imagine mermaids." I snigger. "That's too easy." "Shh," he insists. "Put all your energy into those mermaid images. Picture them. They're happy and frolicking. Mermaids are not afraid, Chelsea. Be a mermaid, my darling girl. Repeat after me. Let your fear set you free. Become one with the sea."

Chapter 24. Chelsea. Was the bush track taking longer to traverse because Chelsea was older, or because she wasn't racing Ila to the dunes? Rather than two girls leaving a father in their wake, Chelsea took measured steps, mindful of the breeding holes dug into the sandy terrain by the gregarious and industrious rainbow-colored bee-eaters. While powerless to stop sand sneaking into her shoes, Chelsea could avoid the sharp foliage of the pandanus and the protruding branches of the coastal banksia and shady she-oak trees. All the while she chanted in her head, "Let your fear set you free. Become one with the sea." Periodically picking up and pocketing bits of plastic along with other sad signs of a selfish society had been a useful distraction until at the base of the dunes a full-on panic attack triggered the familiar tightness in her airways and numbness in both legs forced her to drop into a squat. At the same time, two young boys dragging brightly colored boogie boards burst out of the bushes. Their father offered Chelsea an apologetic shrug as he hurried towards the designated beach access point designed to funnel foot traffic and reduce dune degradation. When the mother appeared and hesitated, concern clear in her expression, Chelsea forced herself to stand and unfell her fist to show a discarded bottle cap. She smiled reassuringly at the woman, dropped the litter in her pocket, and followed the family up the dunes. Using the rope handrail, she trod one wooden plank after the other until reaching a weathered viewing platform, its gray ballustraded bench seating polka-dotted with bird poo. Chelsea didn't care. Sitting was entirely necessary as all the breath in her lungs whooshed out in a short exclamation of both relief and surprise. Surprised because she'd made it this far on her own and because the seascape, muted by thick sea mist, was more surreal than scary and totally unexpected. The beach

Bore evidence of a war overnight. The clash of an ocean too quick to retreat, its casualties already decaying in the summer sun. While telling herself the discarded seaweed harbored no threat, that nothing was hiding under the ugly clumps, postponing her beach therapy for another day made sense. Even though Chelsea was the closest she'd been to facing her fear, tomorrow's conditions would likely be more favorable. At the very least, an overnight high tide might reclaim its dead, sweeping the battlefield clean.

Oh, for goodness sake, Chelsea. Just make a damn decision and do it. Hugging her dad's chocolate brown cardigan as tight as possible, and with her father's affirmation in her ear, she began the sandy descent down from the lookout. "Let your fear set you free. Become one with the sea." She dared not leave the hard, dry sand. Not even after spotting a victim of the retreating tide, an abandoned jellyfish with its bulbous, boneless, brainless body mostly made up of water left behind to dry up.

As a child, Chelsea would have rescued the creature no matter what her dad said about it being a waste of time. "Jellyfish are plankton," he once told both daughters, busily rolling the mass using their thongs as hand tongs. "There is no saving them now, even if you make the water."

"How do you know?" Ila asked.

"For a start, jellyfish don't have a heart, and most plankton can't breathe away from the ocean. They take in oxygen from sea water through their skin. And like any living thing, when kept from the one thing they need to survive, they shrivel up and die. Some ocean species will deliberately surrender themselves to the elements once they've served their purpose. People are no different if kept from the one thing we need to survive. The secret, my girls, is knowing when to give up."

Tugging the cardigan tight, Chelsea looked out to see. "Did you give up, Dad?" As the myasma of decaying sea life, wet weed, and salt spray settled around her, so did a profound melancholy at the sight of a lone fisherman on the shoreline. Though a long way up the beach, something about him, the way he stood at a deep green gully, perfect for Bream, prompted a memory of her father and another warning, "Never sneak up behind a fisherman."

Finding strange comfort in imagining the man on the beach was her dad, Chelsea made her way along the hard sand, wondering why she should recall such useless life lessons in detail, while memories of the man responsible for teaching her were fading. Neither short nor tall, his angler stoop was of a much older man. Or did it only look that way because his back was to her, his peak cap pulled low enough to meet the upturn collar on his allweather jacket. Closing in, content to watch, maintain the illusion for a little longer.

More fatherly advice came to Chelsea. "Fatty folks are never welcome, Miss Fix," Dad told her. "Especially the ones who ask too many questions, like getting any bites. If the fish are biting, no fisherman in his right mind will answer in the affirmative."

"So fisherman fib?" Chelsea had asked.

"It's not fibbing. Life comes with choices and with rules that we choose to observe or ignore."

"You mean like school rules for not speaking during a test?"

He nodded. "And rules like honoring and obeying and not tricking a man into marriage after another bloke's mistake." He beamed at her scrunched face. "There's also a rule that says fishermen never divulge secret fishing spots or their bait of choice."

"Why not?" She'd asked.

"You wouldn't tell your friends where to find the best rock pools and seashells, right?"

"No way." And no way could Chelsea walk up by this fisherman today without a hello. "How's it going?" She yelled into the strengthening onshore wind. "Catching any?"

The fisherman twisted his body as far as the restrictive all-weather jacket allowed before promptly turning back to the sea. "Sorry," she said, stepping over a heap of brown weed. "My dad did teach me to never be a chatty Cathy around fisherman, but seeing you here reminds me of him. He knew everything about fishing, and if you don't mind me saying, this tide is not ideal. With his wind all over the place, he'd tell you only crazy men and crabs enjoy such conditions."

Without a word, the man reeled in his line, picked up his gear, and hurried back up the beach. As Chelsea watched him in his bright green tackle box melt into the mist, a terrible thought hit her. "Was he Talia's demented old dad? And you've called him crazy for fishing in these conditions." "I'm sorry!" she shouted in the hope the wind carried her apology, because no way would she follow.

As it was, Chelsea was too close to the headland that had once dominated her bad dreams. In her young mind, the massive rock and shrubbery had been a gargantuan tower, intimidating her and dwarquing everything within Kooi. The reality three decades on, might be more weatherbeaten bluff, only about eight stories high, but the defiant mass still dominated the skyline, stoically fending off the barriage of waves that constantly clawed its foundations. Suddenly wanting to hate the cliff for its resilience, especially given the fragile foundations of her own life, a confusing mix of emotions, more fury than fear, coursed through Chelsea.

Turning back to the ocean, she pulled her legs to her chest and stretched the cardigan around both knees. Today, the sea surface was calm, as if the waves couldn't be bothered. Perhaps the relentless pounding and constant in and out exhausted them, too. The notion prompted Chelsea to think about the eb and flow of people she has loved. For the first 12 years, William Scott had been a constant and inspiring influence. With his guidance, had he not been taken away, what might Chelsea's life be like today, and might the Scott family be living happily ever after? As for a mother, in name only, Chelsea wanted to care, but Wendy never made it easy, nor did I. Thank goodness devoted, dependable Dale came along when he did, filling the void left by an indifferent mother and sister. The youthful version of Love with Dale had been the all-consuming kind, with their shared passion for parenting making them utterly and equally obsessive, in a good way. Without a doubt, Dale's constant can do attitude had helped Chelsea through those early days of motherhood, and they've been so happy until the house came the source of irritation for the pair. Like the eb and flow of the tides, every time one of them pushed, the other drew away.

"Maybe if you'd been more careful and waited to start a family."

"Hey, Dad," he said softly, staring up the clouds, scutting across the sky. "You remember asking you about baby fish?"

"I asked if fish got married before having babies, and you said, 'Some do, Chelsea girl. Others get themselves well and truly hooked and yanked out of their watery world with no hope of surviving in a place they weren't made for. Then fish are dumb, Dad. Why else would they not swim far, far away from the shore and hide in the ocean where they can't be hooked? The lucky ones do swim away, Chelsea. Only the silly ones stick around. Snagged good and proper by a fish wife.'"

"You once called mom a fish wife."

"'From the mouth of babes,' he laughed. 'You don't miss much, do you, Miss Fix? I'll have to remember that. And yes, your mom hooked me. And she didn't throw you back.'"

"Nope, she sure didn't. And you promised to honor and obey."

">> Yes, much to my detriment." Whatever detriment meant, Chelsea didn't know back then. "And you and mom made little fishies, right?"

"We did. A very sweet misfix fish. and a little leafish," she'd prompted. Rather than a verbal reply that day, Josie recalled her dad's expression had morphed into one of those far, far away ones when he'd gazed at the horizon for ages, saying nothing.

"Oh, Dad," she whispered while staring at the same horizon three decades later, and unperturbed by the wet soaking through her gym pants or the salty tears seeping between pouting lips. Growing in number to surround her, a flock of seagulls gathered, taking restbite on the ground, their bodies turned into the wind. "Wasting your time with me? Feeding birds is taboo," she said when one broke formation to ruffle its feathers and core. "Dad told me wildlife must forage and that includes you over there with the one leg. And you," she told the brown feathered baby with pleading eyes. "Humans have programmed you to expect a handout. But there's an entire ocean of food out there. Go forage. Be a bird." Though her shouts failed to shoe the small strategist now triggering her mothering instincts.

The shrill ring of her phone moved the flock and her flurry of feathers and squawking. "Hallelujah," she said, answering quickly.

"You can say that again. It was Vicki. I've been worried sick. You never called back. Timmy, stop biting your brother."

"Sorry, my phone's been working as intermittently as the mobile reception." Chelsea was getting to her feet and brushing sand from her bottom. When Vicki asked, "What about TV reception? Why? What's happened?"

"Cyclone Mini. Flash flooding, gale force winds, and massive tides. Timmy, leave him alone. When I couldn't raise you on the phone, hun, I figured the storm had washed you away or hairy legs had murdered you while you slept."

Relief swept through Chelsea. "Oh, the storm. Yes, I slept very little that night, Vic, but you can quit the dramatics. And yes, I should have messaged. Thanks for caring, but I'm fine." As a flash of reflected sunlight caught her eye, Chelsea spotted the source partly buried near a clump of seaweed, shaking the glass jar free of sand into the cardigan pocket it went along with the plastic waist she collected earlier and interestingly Vic hairy legs turned out to be rather lovely was one wild night ah so hairy legs is why you're lacking sleep you go girlh that's not what I meant and it's not what this trip is about."

"Why not?" said. "You reckon Dale's attending choir practice in the west all this time?" Contemplated telling her friend about the photo on Gabby's Facebook post until Vicki spoke again. "Why can't a woman have a holiday fling? Society accepts a man suffering through a midlife crisis will dangle his line."

"I'm not here for a fling, Vic." Chelsea stopped onto a tatty brochure, wind whipped briefly into full flight and tumbling over the sand right towards her. "I was miserable earlier, but I have wonderful memories of Sandbar. Today, I made the beach. I'm here now and on a mission to rid the sea of plastics one piece at a time along with anything else that should not be here."

Taking the jar from her pocket, turning it over in her hand, a thought evolved. "Don't worry about me. I'm better than expected and I'll be home soon with the little magic potion, especially for you."

Vicki groaned. "If that's another name for heavy harvested hemp or magic mushroom, I don't want to know."

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The tides that lie 1

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