Thornwood House Read Online Free

fill. On the surface, life went on as usual. We took Bronwyn to the beach, or for long country drives; we helped organise school concerts, attended ballet then netball like the doting parents we were . . . But privately, we were both wretched.
    We argued all the time. Money became an issue. We stopped making love. So when Tony started coming home later and later – and then not at all – I knew the end was near.
    How wrong I was. Unknown to me, the end had already been and gone.
    The phone shrilled on the kitchen bench, jolting me from my thoughts. I allowed it to ring, waiting for the answering machine to splutter awake. An entire evening of wallowing lay ahead and I intended to make the most of it. But then, at the last minute, I panicked and made a lunge for the handset.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘Ms Kepler, it’s Margot Fraser here, Tony’s lawyer. Sorry to call so late in the day, but there’s a pressing matter I need to discuss with you. Are you free tomorrow?’
    I stiffened. Tony’s lawyer? My mind began to scramble, stirring up a muddy froth of guilt and alarm. My long-dormantsurvival instinct bubbled forth. Say anything, it warned; blurt any excuse to buy more time.
    ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ I informed her lamely.
    ‘It’s regarding Tony’s will,’ the woman explained, ‘and rather urgent. I’ll be in the office tomorrow until four o’clock, but I can drop by your house if that’s more convenient?’
    Fear laced through my stomach and tied itself in a knot. The last thing I wanted was anyone on official business coming here. Crazily, I had the urge to tell her about the spare room – all the boxes of books I’d stored there, Bronwyn’s old bike and the piles of untouched sewing that had been gathering dust for years. Surely she wasn’t going to insist we vacate the house immediately?
    ‘Ms Kepler, are you there?’
    ‘Yes, tomorrow will be fine. I’ll pop into the office.’
    She gave me the address, then said, ‘Sometime after lunch, let’s say two o’clock? It won’t take long, but if you’ve got any questions it’ll give us time to be thorough.’
    ‘Great,’ I said hurriedly, ever the chicken-hearted. ‘See you then.’

    ‘Here’s one.’
    Saturday morning, the kitchen smelled of toast and fresh coffee. Rain bucketed down outside. The windows were fogged, cutting us off from the rest of the world. Usually I loved hearing rain hammer the roof and hiss along the guttering. Today the sound was unsettling, a reminder that the secure little world we’d created here was about to end.
    Bronwyn elbowed me, tapping her finger on the rental section of the newspaper she’d spread across the table in front of her. ‘What do you think?’
    I blinked at the sea of print. Sleep had foxed me again last night, luring me to the brink of much-needed unconsciousness,only to skitter away the moment I began to drift. I kept seeing Tony’s grave, surrounded by sodden flowers and fast filling with water . . . and I kept hearing Carol’s fretful words: ‘Why would he do that, Audrey. Why – ?’
    I took a gulp of coffee. ‘How much?’
    Bronwyn made an approving sound. ‘Three-ninety a week. Second bathroom. Looks nice.’
    The coffee burned my throat and I let out a weak little cough. A second bathroom was all very well, but three-ninety? Our rambling old house had its drawbacks, but it was rent-free. Tony had never paid child support; I’d refused him that satisfaction. Instead, I’d agreed to stay on at the old house after he moved in with Carol. In the five years that Bronwyn and I had lived here alone, I’d saved a substantial nest egg that would go towards buying a home of our own one day. All I needed was a few more years . . .
    ‘Is there anything cheaper?’
    ‘That’s about the cheapest, Mum. Unless we cram into a bedsit.’
    I rubbed my eyes, seeing my nest egg swiftly sucked into the vortex of someone else’s mortgage. ‘Maybe there’ll be something in tomorrow’s