Return to the Adelaide Hills Read online

  From the rugged beauty of the Adelaide Hills comes a story of loss, hope and new beginnings

  Claire McIntyre has it all: an adoring husband, a bubbly best friend, a chic town house and a high-flying corporate career in the city. But somehow she’s forgotten what really makes her happy.

  After receiving tragic news, closely followed by the loss of her job, Claire’s world is thrown into turmoil. Forced to reevaluate everything that matters to her, she soon finds herself back at the very place she’s been running from her whole life—the family property, where reputations are hard won and easily lost, and where fortune is as fickle as the weather.

  Here, in the rugged beauty of the Australian Adelaide Hills, Claire starts to rebuild her life with her friends, her father and his beloved racehorses—including a promising young horse called Paycheque. But just as she begins to find happiness, and perhaps even love, fate comes to call. Now Claire must decide whether to do the sensible thing, or risk it all on her newfound passion.

  FIONA

  MCCALLUM

  Return to the

  Adelaide Hills

  In memory of my father, Tony McCallum,

  to whom I owe my courage and tenacity.

  Dear Reader,

  Greetings from Adelaide, South Australia! I’m so excited to bring you my Australian bestseller, Return to the Adelaide Hills (originally titled Paycheque).

  I write heartwarming journey-of-self-discovery stories with a rural setting—sometimes with a romantic thread, sometimes without. My tales tie together my love of animals, my love of rural South Australia and my fascination with the journey people go on to find what really makes their heart sing and then follow their true passions to find happiness, even if it means taking risks and facing seemingly impossible obstacles. It’s a story line very close to my heart because it reflects my own life.

  I hope you’ll enjoy Claire’s journey, where she bonds with a quirky racehorse called Paycheque and starts to rebuild her life after a run of heartbreakingly bad luck. Perhaps she might even find true love again, too…

  With best wishes,

  Fiona McCallum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Claire woke with a jolt and noticed blue and red lights flickering behind the curtains. She checked the time and realised it was after one o’clock. Keith’s side of the bed was still empty.

  The doorbell chimed. Alarm gripped her as she dragged her pink towelling dressing gown over her pyjamas. She pounded down the hall, heart racing as scenarios filled her head. It had to be urgent to warrant flashing lights—a break-in, an accident, perhaps a missing child. The poor people; she’d help any way she could.

  Claire’s heart ached for those who had to deliver the bad news. Beginnings of conversations ran through her mind as she unlocked the main door.

  The female half of the uniformed couple spoke.

  ‘Claire Louise McIntyre?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Senior Constable Penny Irving. This is Constable Jason Braxton. Can we come in, please?’

  Claire swallowed and felt the blood drain from her face as she nodded, unlocked the screen door and stepped aside. She was dazed, rooted to the floor.

  The trio stood awkwardly in the passage, its checked black and white tiles suddenly harsh and busy. The young constable gently closed the heavy wooden door, sending a loud echo reverberating through the hall. Claire pulled the collar of her robe tighter. She knew she should ask what they wanted, why they were there, but also knew she didn’t want to know.

  The fog of Claire’s mind lifted a little as the policewoman suggested they sit. Her arm moved as if unconnected to her and she motioned towards the lounge. The trio walked single file with Claire in between. If they were trying to offer comfort, it wasn’t working. Instead, she felt like a criminal being prevented from escaping.

  Seated, the spacious lounge room felt a third the size. The policewoman sat next to her, gently wringing her hands in her lap. The male officer remained standing, slightly off to the side, shifting his weight.

  ‘Jason, perhaps you could make us some tea, with plenty of sugar,’ the policewoman whispered. Silently, the uniformed man moved away. Claire might have laughed if they weren’t here doing this in her house. Didn’t that only happen on The Bill?

  After a few moments the policewoman took a slightly deeper breath, looked up at Claire and said, ‘I’m afraid I have some terrible news. There’s been an accident—a car accident. I’m afraid there was nothing the paramedics could do. Keith...’

  Claire frowned, not comprehending when she heard his name. Unable to focus, she suddenly wished she was a child who could go to her room and let the adults deal with this. Whatever this was, it was bad.

  Her head was fuzzy again. She couldn’t grasp exactly what was happening. There had been an accident. Someone had run a red light. Well, it wouldn’t have been Keith, that’s for sure. He’s such a careful driver.

  ‘I’m really sorry. They did everything they could.’

  Claire nodded and looked up as a mug of steaming tea appeared in front of her. She accepted it with two shaking hands and drew it close to her chest. Her bottom lip quivered and tears began to spill down her cheeks.

  Looking down into the milky liquid, she realised that nothing would be the same again—her life had changed forever.

  One

  Claire rolled onto her stomach and peered at the clock radio on what had been Keith’s bedside table. She’d woken early, before dawn, and had managed to doze off again. Now she was surprised to find it was after ten. Anyway, it was Sunday: she’d laze about till lunchtime if she wanted.

  Even after four months she still found herself aching for Keith’s embrace, his sweet musky scent and...

  Snippets of dreams came back to her. In one they’d showered together and then made lo
ve in the lounge, on the plush rug in front of the gas log fire. It had been beautiful: him tender, giving; she responding, clinging to him.

  She’d woken hot and sweating, despite it being chilly outside, instantly feeling embarrassed at her arousal. But it hadn’t been Keith’s face at all, had it? No, the face had been blank. Who had it been? She shook her head, trying hard to remember. After a few moments she gave up.

  In another dream he’d been lying beside her saying he loved her, that it was okay to move on, that it wouldn’t mean she loved him any less. ‘I know you have needs,’ he’d said with a wink, before drifting from her slumbering memory.

  That had definitely been Keith. His face now came to her clearly: the slightly crooked, cheeky grin; the fringe he insisted on keeping too long to cover the scar above his left eye—apparently the result of a silly, drunken escapade at university. She’d never heard the full story—he’d always managed to sidestep her question with a well-timed hug. Now she’d never know. And she’d never have another of his comforting, bear-like hugs.

  A tear escaped and her throat caught on the forming lump. She’d give her life for just one more hug with Keith. Would she ever find anything so comfortable again? Did she even want to look?

  ‘Oh, Keith,’ she whispered. If only she’d shown him more affection and not taken their contentment so much for granted.

  Claire roughly wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, pushed aside her mop of unruly hair and sat up.

  * * *

  Claire had a quick shower and stood—towel wrapped around her—studying her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Did her hairstyle make her features appear hard? For years she’d been talking about getting her hair cut like Jennifer Aniston’s—chipped into so that it wasn’t so full down the back and sides—but had never been brave enough to go through with it. She’d always kept it plain, practical—straight across the bottom and in a ponytail to keep it away from her face. It was the way Keith had liked it. She’d never dyed it, either—always stuck with her natural medium brown shade. Bernadette and her hairdresser had both given up trying to talk her around years ago.

  Claire held her hair away from her face and turned left and right, examining the effect in the mirror. Did she dare? Keith was no longer there to complain. She let it down again. Bernie was right: short didn’t suit her. Anyway, she’d feel too self-conscious. But she could definitely do with less bulk around her face. She dragged her brush through her hair a couple of times and put it into a ponytail.

  She ran her electric toothbrush around her mouth while roaming the bedroom—pulling up the quilt and straightening the pillows. She had her underwear drawer open, about to pull out socks, knickers and bra, when her toothbrush buzzed, signalling her two minutes was up. She turned it off, stood it on the edge of the vanity beside Keith’s and rinsed her mouth. Then she added a thin layer of foundation to her face and neck with her fingers, swept the mascara brush once across each set of lashes, added two layers of deep rose-pink ‘Goddess’ lipstick, blotted with toilet paper and returned to the bedroom to get dressed.

  Claire McIntyre was conservative through and through. Her uniform rarely varied: navy or grey skirt suit cut just below the knee for work; jeans or tailored pants and shirt or knit for weekends. Evening wear was a lolly-pink wrap over a little black dress—if size twelve was still considered little. It ended four inches above the knee and showed just the right amount of décolletage to straddle the fine line between tarty and prudish. Despite the current trend for bare, bottle-tanned legs and towering stilettos, Claire insisted on sheer, smoky-coloured pantyhose and sensible plain black shoes with ample room for her toes.

  Even her career was conservative. Yes, she’d had different roles, but she’d been with the same company for twelve years when the done thing was to move on every few. But she was happy enough; why go through the stress of looking for something else, just so your CV would show you were progressive? Anyway, there were leave entitlements to think of. Claire wasn’t exactly thrilled with her job but enjoyed the security of a regular paycheque.

  She’d joined the national advertising firm Rockford and Associates as a marketing graduate. Hard work and long hours had seen her move into a senior role in account management. Three years ago she’d been promoted to Client Relationship Manager for one of the firm’s largest clients, AHG Recruitment.

  Since losing Keith, she had been all the more grateful for the familiarity of her open-plan cubicle and routine tasks: a welcome—if mundane—source of stability in her life.

  But now Claire felt something within her stirring: a strange kind of yearning. But for what? It wasn’t Keith. It wasn’t a dull sad ache. This was different—more a restlessness.

  She focussed on her hair again. Knowing her luck, the Aniston look was now as fashionable as the mullet. Maybe her hairdresser had better ideas—could she offer free rein? Claire felt excited at the prospect, even a little empowered. Yes, she’d definitely phone for an appointment.

  Bernadette was right: if grief was like a brick wall, each step towards recovery was the removal of a brick, then a layer. Eventually she’d be able to step over the top and be free. Then she’d look back at the good times without tears and remember the not-so-good times with detachment. But it took time. The trick was to allow the bricks to come away when the mortar loosened—and not to stop their progress with a slap of concrete.

  Of course, she wouldn’t cut her hair without a second opinion from her best friend. She’d mention it when they next spoke.

  Claire and Bernie had known each other since Pony Club and primary school. They’d even studied the same course at university and then started their first jobs at the same company—but in different departments. Twelve months in, Bernadette had been fired for rejecting her boss’s advances with a swift slap across his face. Claire had considered protesting by leaving with her, but only for a second; she didn’t have the courage to quit without the security of another job to go to. Thankfully Bernie had understood.

  The episode had sent Claire into a spin of worrying about what her friend would do, but Bernadette had seen it as a sign she was ready to pursue her dream: opening a nursery specialising in old-fashioned plants, design and accessories. Apparently the Adelaide Hills area was full of people wanting old English-style gardens—God only knew why with the water restrictions.

  Regardless, and despite only being in her early twenties, Bernadette had built a successful business on box hedges, white gravel and distressed wrought-iron outdoor furniture.

  Claire regularly shook her head in wonder and sometimes felt a twinge—but of what she wasn’t sure. Not jealousy; she would never wish her friend anything but all the very best. Seeing Bernadette chasing her dream made her wonder about her own choices. Still, Claire was no different to about ninety-five percent of the population.

  Besides, there was no way she’d want to deal with the public every day. She’d spent a lot of time at the nursery, occasionally even manning the till. One virtue Claire McIntyre did not possess was patience, and tolerance with other people’s indecision was in pretty short supply as well. She would have strangled someone by now if she was Bernadette and couldn’t believe Bernie hadn’t.

  Bernadette had always been the quintessential redhead. Her uncontrollable curls stood out like a warning, something Claire realised—too late—on the day they met.

  It was their first Pony Club rally and they were both eleven. Bernie was on a small cranky grey pony, Claire on a larger bay. Claire had accidently got too close to Bernie’s pony and it had darted sideways in fright, almost causing Bernie to fall off. Bernie shouted so loudly that Claire’s mother heard the commotion. Grace McIntyre stormed across the arena to tell her daughter off. Mortified, Claire turned her tomato-red face—first to the instructor and then to Bernie—and said she was sorry.

  Bernie had smirked, tossing her head in th
e air before moving her pony away. Claire decided she didn’t like this Bernadette girl very much. But later, Bernie had come up to her at the tap while she was filling her water bucket and said it wasn’t fair how much Claire’s mother had overreacted. They’d been firm friends ever since.

  Bernie used to fly off the handle with the slightest provocation. Once she got started, she wouldn’t unclamp her teeth from an argument, even if she knew she was wrong. It was probably the reason she was still single and most definitely why corporate life hadn’t been for her. You just couldn’t scream at your boss that he was a dickhead one day and ask for a raise the next. And slapping him was a definite no-no.

  But she had mellowed since finding her ‘place in the cosmos’, as she called it. Now her fire was being fuelled with passion, and she was a lot calmer.

  Claire bit her bottom lip. No, when it came to Bernadette, if she was envious, it was of her state of mind. Bernie glowed with contentment and enthusiasm whenever she spoke—and not just about the business. Even late deliveries weren’t enough to unsettle her. She’d just shrug and say that they’d turn up when they were ready. According to Bernie, everything would work out in the end. And for her it usually did.

  For the thousandth time, Claire wondered at the reasoning behind Keith being taken from her, and then dismissed the thoughts as ridiculous. There was no reason. He’d had a tragic accident and she just had to get over it. And what about her father’s accident? Why had that happened?

  Whatever the reasons, nothing could alter the fact that she was having the worst year possible. Things always happened in threes: she and Bernadette had pointed out so many instances before. Since Keith’s death and Jack’s accident, it had become a taboo subject. Claire wondered what else she was to be faced with. The doctors had assured her Jack’s injuries weren’t life-threatening—he’d come out of his coma when he was ready. It was just a matter of time. But how much time? It had already been a month.

  Claire was relieved she hadn’t been the one to find Jack crumpled in a silent heap on the ground. Thank goodness neighbours Bill and Daphne Markson had thought to invite him over for an early dinner—luckier still they had thought to drop in on their way back from town instead of phoning. She knew she should spend more time with her father. She had visited a lot in the months after her mother’s death five years ago, but gradually the pace of work and social life in the city had engulfed her again. In the past year, she was lucky to see him every three weeks.