Return To Jacaranda Avenue

By Kerrie Paterson

A pastry chef returns to her roots and discovers that the flavour of first love improves with age.

Twenty–five years ago, Polly and Matt were in love–but their relationship came to a traumatic end following the death of her best friend.

Now Polly Chappell has moved back to her home town to open a patisserie and care for her elderly parents, and the last person she wants to see is Matt Enright. Until she actually sees him, that is…

Their attraction turns out to be stronger than ever, but both have their reasons to resist rekindling their romance–until someone attempts to run Polly out of town with escalating threats and vandalism, and Matt's protective instincts surface.

Will the secret she keeps bring them together–or get them killed?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: May 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781760370381

Kerrie Paterson

Kerrie Paterson writes contemporary women's fiction and small town romance-stories about women in their 40s and above who have reached a crossroads in their life. She loves to write about women's relationships with their friends and family, as well as their romances. When she's not writing, she's a Scout leader, crew for a local drama theatre, taxi driver for her teenage son and keeper of the family knowledge (aka 'Mum, have you seen my camera / phone / cable etc?'). In her spare time (ha!), she's a yoga student, keen photographer and avid reader. Kerrie lives in the Hunter Valley, Australia.

Book preview

Chapter 1

As soon as Polly had seen the shop in Jacaranda Avenue, she’d known it was the place for her.

The main street was a mixture of shops—the butcher, chemist, small supermarket, takeaway shop, café—and old-style houses, many from the late 1800s, their yards tidy and inviting. The former café, with its sandstone step worn in the middle from generations of feet, the polished wooden floors that harked back to the small New South Wales town’s timber cutting heritage, and the full-length windows along both sides of the corner building, would be the perfect place to showcase her pastry creations. When she’d stepped inside with the real estate agent, the space had felt warm and inviting, despite its emptiness.

Now, on a sunny Monday morning in early May, six short, hectic months later, Polly turned the sign on the door to Open and prepared to welcome her first customers to Polly’s Patisserie.

Hoping she didn’t appear as tired and haggard as she felt, she smoothed down the crisp white apron she wore over black trousers and a white blouse, and dredged up her brightest smile to cover her nerves. This had to be a success. Up to her ears in debt, she couldn’t afford for the patisserie not to be. Opening the timber-framed glass door, she smiled politely as a small group of customers entered the store. ‘Good morning.’

An elderly couple shuffled up to the wooden display cases, peering short-sightedly at the shelves filled with colourful fruit tarts, éclairs oozing with cream and old favourites like plump jam and cream filled lamingtons, glistening caramel tarts and succulent sugar-sprinkled apple slices.

Polly moved behind the glass-top display counter and waited expectantly next to the cash register. ‘Can I help anyone?’

A grey-haired tradie stepped forward, the name of a local plumbing company embroidered on his luminous yellow hi-visibility safety shirt, and stared at her closely. ‘Two pies and sauce, thanks, love.’

She turned to the warming oven to pull out the freshly-made beef pies.

‘Hey, aren’t you Reg Farmer’s little girl? You’re the spitting image.’

It had been a long time since she’d been called anyone’s little girl. She braced herself for what else he might say.

‘Yes, that’s me … Polly. I’ve moved back home from Sydney to give Mum and Dad a hand.’

‘Thought it was. Polly, that’s right.’ He grinned at her, then his brow furrowed. ‘You left after …’ His face turning a ruddy colour, he stopped and stared at his feet as if looking for a way out of the hole he was digging for himself. He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, tell your dad Barry Reynolds said g’day.’

Polly slid the bag across the counter and took his money, her cheeks flaming. ‘I will. Thanks.’

Less than ten minutes since she’d opened for business and already she’d been recognised.

Along with her role in the accident.

The neighbourhood of Langbrooke was a mix of older folk who had grown up locally and those new to the area, mostly tree changers from Sydney, attracted by the federation style houses and charms of the tree-lined suburb. Separated from the main town of Belton by a wide river, and connected by a single-lane car bridge, the suburb had developed its own special community.

At the moment Polly felt like both a local and an outsider. She never thought she’d find herself back here after she’d fled the close-knit hamlet, an outcast after the drowning. She’d hoped enough time had passed for people to forget the reason she’d left, but that obviously wasn’t the case. Unfortunately the tragedy was something she had to live with every day, and being back in Langbrooke brought the memories closer to the surface.

The day she’d lost her best friend played back in her mind as Polly mechanically served several other customers. The elderly couple finally reached an agreement as to what treat to buy and left, clutching two fruit tarts in the white paper bakery bags stamped with her logo in purple ink.

The bell over the door tinkled and Polly glanced up from brushing a few stray crumbs from the counter into her cupped hand. Her welcoming smile froze, her heart skipped a beat.

Or ten.

‘Matt …’

Twenty-five years since she’d seen him but unmistakably Matt. Her best friend’s brother. Her first love. The one who hadn’t stuck around when the going got tough …

‘Polly.’ He gestured back outside, confusion in his eyes, face pale beneath his tan. ‘I saw the sign and you sprang to mind. To be honest I didn’t actually expect it to be you. Not back here …’ His voice trailed off awkwardly.

‘What did you expect? That I’d never set foot here again? This is my home too, remember.’ Yet he couldn’t know how much it cost her emotionally to be back here. Here where her life had been torn apart. Here, to the one place she thought she’d never return.

Hands on hips, she looked him square in his face for the first time in more than two decades.

He was the last person she wanted to see.

And also the person she’d subconsciously searched for since arriving back in town.

Casually yet tidily dressed in jeans and a navy button up shirt, his black curly hair was shot with grey, lending him a sophistication he’d never had as a twenty-year-old. Lean-faced, grooves either side of his mouth indicated a man who still laughed easily. His chin was covered with dark stubble, accentuating the sharp lines of his face. Her fingertips tingled with the memory of caressing his five o’clock shadow, the stubble prickling her skin.

Annoyed at her thoughts, she crossed her arms tightly over her chest and stared into his bottomless blue eyes.

‘I know it’s your home.’ She strained to hear his words over the rush of her breathing, his soft voice much deeper than the twenty-year-old memory stored in her mind.

Guilt. Attraction. Sadness. All tied together so tightly she didn’t know which emotion was uppermost.

She retreated to her business woman persona, and turned away to randomly rearrange pies in the warming oven. Anything to keep her hands busy and stop her mind from dredging up old memories. ‘What can I get you?’

After several long minutes of silence, while the atmosphere became so thick Polly could scream, he finally spoke. ‘I’m heading over to visit Mum. She doesn’t eat properly now, after Dad died a few years ago. I’ll take one of those iced tea cakes, thanks.’

Heart heavy, eyes burning with unshed tears, she turned at his words. ‘I’m sorry about your dad. He was a good bloke.’ Not once had Matt’s father blamed her for the accident. Even at his daughter’s funeral he’d wrapped Polly in a hug as they both wept inconsolably.

Too many memories. That’s why she’d resisted coming back here for so long. Why her visits home with her daughter, Gemma, had been fleeting. But after her mother’s last fall, she’d finally bowed to the inevitable.

Sliding the tea cake from the shelf into a paper bag, she swallowed the ache in her throat. ‘And your mum? How is she?’

He shook his head and passed over a ten dollar note. ‘She doesn’t get out much. Her health isn’t the greatest these days. She won’t move out of her house though; they’ll carry her out of her home feet first. Hopefully not for a few years yet.’

Her fingers brushed his palm as she handed over his change. A tremor ran up her arm, a zap like static electricity on a windy day.

The gnawing in the pit of her stomach grew as the memory flooded back of Matt’s mother slapping her across the face and screaming obscenities at the funeral. Matt and his dad had tried to restrain her but her grief was too strong.

Polly had to ask. ‘And does she still hate me?’

He stared at her with sad eyes, opened his mouth several times to say something but no words emerged.

She’d take that as a yes.

Fortunately for her, a young mum with a toddler in a stroller pushed open the door. ‘Ginner-bread man, Mummy!’ As Polly greeted the taut and toned, immaculately dressed yummy mummy with a smile that threatened to crack her face, Matt slipped out the door.

The ghosts of her past had appeared sooner than expected. And she had no choice but to live with them if she was to make a go of the shop and remain in Langbrooke.

***

Matt wrenched open his car door and slid into the driver’s seat, laying his head back against the leather headrest. Irritably he noticed that in the few minutes he’d been gone, the Peugeot’s windscreen was covered with purple flowers from the jacaranda trees that gave the street its name. The trees normally didn’t flower until much later in the year, so just his luck to park under the one tree that was confused by the warmer weather they’d had recently.

Polly was back.

The jolt of attraction had struck as soon as he’d seen her. She was curvier than she’d been as an eighteen-year-old, but the curves suited her. Her jet-black hair no longer reached her waist, now brushing her shoulders. Her face showed a life experience wrinkle here and there, but it was her eyes that grabbed his attention. Those same moss-green eyes he’d stared into as a teenager as he vowed he’d love her forever.

And then the freak accident had torn them apart. He didn’t blame her for Bron’s death—he never had—not even before the enquiry had concluded the death was a tragic accident.

He gripped the steering wheel with a strength that threatened to leave finger marks embedded in the leather, his breathing harsh in the car’s quiet interior.

Gut wrenching guilt sliced through him and he bowed his head over the wheel.

Too shattered by his younger sister’s death to give as much comfort to Polly as he should have, he’d taken off when he should’ve stayed to protect her. Let their relationship fade. He hadn’t even given her the courtesy of properly breaking up. Just drifted away.

But for Christ’s sake, he’d only been twenty. Too young to cope with his own heartbreak, let alone Polly’s grief and his mother’s hysteria.

He stared unseeingly at the tree-lined street, heedless of the swoosh of traffic passing by.

How dare she come back? Now, when his life was finally back on an even keel after his divorce. How dare she look so much the same and remind him of how life could have been?

How dare she make him feel again?

He didn’t want to be reminded of everything he’d lost.

Through it all, his marriage, his divorce, subsequent relationships, he’d never stopped wondering about Polly. Not all the time. But hearing a phrase, the scent of vanilla, a song on the radio—something would remind him and he’d wonder how she was. Where was she? Was she happy?

Did she ever think of him?

Had she forgiven him for walking away when she’d needed him the most?

It was obviously true what they say about never forgetting your first love.

His mobile rang. He glanced at the caller ID and muttered under his breath. His mother. ‘Hi, Mum. I’m on my way. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.’

He rang off, and head whirling, stared into space. With his mother’s health so poor, how could he tell her Polly was back? Should he tell her? She still blamed Polly for the accident that had claimed her daughter’s life so long ago.

Matt started the car and pulled out onto the road. No, he wouldn’t tell Mum about Polly. Couldn’t tell her. Hopefully the two of them would never cross paths.

And he’d do his best to stay away from Polly as well.

***

Trading had been brisk the rest of the day, but Matt’s appearance and Barry’s comments had soured what should have been a joyful opening. Nevertheless, Polly fought hard not to let her parents guess the day had been anything other than a spectacular success.

They sat in the lounge room of the same house she’d grown up in, on the same second-hand, frayed brown velvet sofa her parents had acquired from a church fete and struggled home with it on the roof of the old Leyland P76. It was anyone’s guess how old it was. But its softness was a welcome relief after a day spent on her feet.

Gran’s three porcelain ducks still hung motionless on the far wall, but were now grimy and weary. The sideboard no longer had its high sheen, the scent of the lemon beeswax wood polish lingered only in her imagination. The skirting boards were dusty, her mother’s prized silver tray she’d won for best scones in the show, now tarnished and mottled. With failing health, and especially since the last fall which had permanently damaged her hip, her once house-proud mum no longer saw the dust or possibly no longer cared.

Everything was older, more worn.

Including Polly.

She sighed and added the chores to her long mental to-do list. Much of the last six months had been spent travelling up and down the freeway as she attempted to finish up her job, sell her house in Sydney and get the patisserie up and running. Dusting had been low on her priority list.

‘Put the kettle on, would you, Polly?’ Her dad smiled weakly at his own joke—the same joke she’d heard every day growing up once he’d nicknamed her Polly, from the Play School song she’d sung on cue as a three-year-old. She was so used to answering to Polly, it always startled her when officials and strangers referred to her as Pauline. Her heart twinged at how grey and drawn her dad looked now, stooped with age, no longer the strong, god-like figure from her memories.

No matter what happens, I’ve made the right decision. It’s my turn to take care of them.

‘Sure, Dad. You want a cuppa before tea too, Mum?’ Her mother nodded, more intent on the gardening program on television than on what happened in her own lounge room. ‘I brought home the leftover cakes. I’ll stick what you don’t eat in the freezer.’

Polly flicked the kettle on, then busied herself slicing up chicken thighs and vegetables for a stir-fry for their dinner. Neither of her parents seemed to have much of an appetite anymore, so she tried her best to make them quick, tasty meals they’d enjoy. She’d been a late, only child and now in their seventies, both were in frail health. Home help workers did what they could, but Polly hadn’t been able to put it off any longer. To stop her parents going into an aged care facility—which they adamantly opposed—it had been up to her to return home and care for them.

And to be honest, once her daughter had left home, she’d found it harder to adjust to being an empty-nester than she’d expected. All those years she’d craved solitude, then once she had it, she wanted her house filled with noise and people again.

As if on cue, her phone jangled, her daughter’s name flashing up on the screen. ‘Gemma!’

‘Hey, Mum. How did it go today? Did you make a fortune?’