Lyrebird Hill Read Online Free

nineties, and wore a red dress embroidered with white daisies, complemented by a knitted bag and gorgeous black patent shoes. Her snowy hair was braided into bunches behind her ears, and pinned to the neckline of her dress was a tiny bouquet of native daisies – yellow-buttons, we’d called them as kids. As she moved closer to the painting, theoverhead lights gleamed off the antique silver locket she wore at her throat.
    She bent forward and squinted at the printed legend attached to the wall at the base of the canvas.
    ‘It’s called Inheritance . An intriguing name for a garden vista.’ She beamed, and her features shifted into a landscape of wonderful wrinkles. ‘I suppose the mystery is what makes it so enjoyable to ponder.’
    It was probably nostalgia brought on by seeing Mum’s paintings, but this woman seemed ever so vaguely familiar. I wanted to ask her name, but I held back. The gaps in my memory made chatting about the old days awkward; from the age of twelve I’d habitually avoided talking about the past, and old habits were hard to break.
    ‘I’m not a big fan of mysteries,’ I admitted. ‘I’m the type who lies awake all night worrying over them. I’m much more comfortable knowing the facts.’
    The woman looked at me, openly curious. ‘Then I feel for you, my dear. The way I see it, life is one big mystery. A person thinks they have it all figured out, that there’s nothing left to learn, and that’s usually the point when the next big question lands on their head like a bomb. You must spend many a sleepless night? I know I do,’ she added with a laugh.
    I couldn’t help smiling. ‘You’ve got me pegged. I’m a chronic insomniac.’
    We both chuckled, and a warm feeling came over me. I felt as if I’d known this woman for years. Her gaze seemed so open and friendly, so filled with approval. And her voice made me think of cosy things: buttered scones, bookshelves crammed with well-thumbed volumes, hot chocolate and laughter. The moment was so sweet that I lost my qualms and had to ask.
    ‘The artist is my mum. Are you a friend of hers?’
    The woman looked pleased. ‘Yes, dear. At least I was, many years ago. We were neighbours.’
    ‘I thought you looked familiar! You’re . . .’ There was an embarrassing silence as I groped around for the name I’d obviously forgotten.
    She smiled kindly. ‘You might remember me as Mrs Hillard. But please, call me Esther. I bought Lyrebird Hill from your mother, after . . . well, after you both moved back to town. It’s been a long time, Ruby. How old were you then – eleven, twelve?’
    ‘Thirteen.’
    ‘How’s life been treating you?’
    ‘Great!’ I said too hastily, then floundered. Now wasn’t the time to go into detail about how off-the-rails I’d been before I’d met Rob; how grief had driven a wedge between my mother and me; and how I still had the occasional nightmare about Jamie.
    ‘I’ve got a cottage over on the coast in Sawtell,’ I told her. ‘And I’ve—’ Met a really nice man , I’d been about to say, but again my words stalled. I recalled the bra at the bottom of my handbag, and decided the topic of work was the safer option. ‘I have a little bookshop twenty minutes’ from home in Coffs Harbour, the Busy Bookworm. Despite everyone going digital, it’s been doing really well. I sell rare and second-hand books, as well as all the latest releases.’
    Esther beamed. ‘I simply adore books. I’d love to see your shop – but I’m afraid my days of travelling to the coast are over. That sea air is a bit too humid for my old lungs.’ She patted her chest, and her bouquet released a sweet peppery scent.
    It made me think of grassy slopes, and river water gurgling over stones, and the sound of children laughing. An image flashed into my mind: a room full of cluttered bookshelves, in which a grandmotherly woman sat in a patch of sunlight, reading from the volume in her lap. I saw two children perched at her