A Home Like Ours Fiona Lowe (good novels to read .txt) 📖

sausages. We’d need halal meat to make kebabs and that would dent the profit margin.’

‘I believe you can buy halal beef sausages, but I’m not talking about a barbecue. I meant Hoopers has a huge garden section.’

‘We don’t have any money to buy anything, remember?’

Bob ignored her sarcasm. ‘But you’ve got a nice big fence and a reasonable amount of passing traffic. Go and talk to Jon Hooper about him donating some gardening gear in exchange for signage advertising the store.’

‘That’s actually a good idea.’

He grimaced. ‘I’ll take that as a thank you. And think big, Helen. Ask for a shed. It will save everyone a long walk.’

‘But that would separate the gardens and I don’t want that. It defeats the point of community.’ And it meant racists like Judith and Sharon would win.

‘Rome wasn’t built in a day,’ Bob said. ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey. There’s more than one way to—’

‘Righto, Bob. I get it.’

Her familiar irritation with him needled holes in her appreciation of his sponsorship idea. She was already going slowly with the housing project, jumping through one hoop at a time. Why did she have to apply the same approach to a garden when it was a simple and easy thing to achieve? Before these women had arrived in Australia, they’d been through hell. Like Bob said, the least they deserved was a garden.

‘It shouldn’t be this hard,’ she added. ‘And don’t even think about quoting Malcolm Fraser’s “Life wasn’t meant to be easy” at me.’

‘Actually, Fraser was paraphrasing George Bernard Shaw. He left out the most important part.’

‘Really? What was that?’

‘Life is not meant to be easy, my child; but take courage: it can be delightful.’

‘Pfft.’

‘You don’t agree?’

Helen laughed it off. No way was she debating that with Bob. It was bad enough she’d let herself be interested in the quote. She’d learned a long time ago that maintaining general disinterest in casual conversation was the best way to keep a safe distance from people. Especially men.

CHAPTER

8

‘Whoa! Slow down, Tara!’ Her personal trainer’s chest heaved and sweat ran along his temples.

Tara flicked her ponytail out of her eyes. ‘Why? Can’t you take it, Zac?’

He grinned at her, all raw sex appeal and outrageous confidence—the domain of the twenty-somethings. ‘You know I take whatever you give me.’

A raft of sensation skittered along her spine and her heart kicked up. It wasn’t a hundred per cent due to the kickboxing. ‘Is that right?’

‘Yeah.’ But his flirty look had faded. ‘But I don’t want you to hurt yourself.’

‘I’m fine. Just shut up and block.’

She didn’t want sympathy. She wanted teasing. Zac was both easy on the eyes and good company and she enjoyed their banter. Unlike Jon, he made her feel powerful and in control as well as incredibly sexy and desirable.

Not that she had any plans to act on the occasional zings of attraction that sparked between them. The idea of becoming the clichéd woman having a fling with her gym instructor made her shudder. It was bad enough her marriage was channelling Anna Karenina. Her sympathies lay with Anna, whose husband took her for granted.

Tara slammed the boxing gloves into the pads, savouring her power. Up until three years ago, sport for her had always been tennis. Then, at her mother’s suggestion, she’d added in Pilates. Early this year, she’d responded to a ‘free session’ offer from Zac who was new to town and promoting his business. Although she still enjoyed tennis and Pilates, neither matched the exhilarating buzz she got from her twice-weekly personal training sessions.

Tara wished her mother was still alive. Jane would have understood her addiction to the endorphin rush and the sense of well-being that always followed pushing herself to her limits. Jon didn’t get it. Since Clementine had started school, he’d been saying, ‘If you’re bored, increase your hours at the store.’ Recently, he’d added snippy comments about ‘ladies who lunch’. But Tara had no intention of dropping any of her exercise. Currently, it was one of a few things that gave her joy and took her away from the niggling and unsettling feelings about her life.

Today, she planned to exhaust herself so her brain would still and she’d be free of the taunting and circuitous thoughts that Jon was looking outside their marriage. Visualising Rhianna, she raised her legs, kicking high and hard into the pads.

Zac took whatever she threw at him with an appreciative smile that carved its way across his model good looks and designer stubble before settling in his dark and fathomless eyes. Eyes that had appeared two nights ago in Tara’s erotic dream.

Zac hadn’t questioned her request for extra sessions this week, but why would he when it meant more money. He didn’t need to know she suspected her husband and his lifelong friend of having an affair.

You don’t know that until you talk to Jon. But the idea of that conversation made her gag. It was easier concentrating on the burn in her muscles and pushing herself beyond sensible limits than tormenting herself as to why her husband no longer found her attractive.

Only when the soreness in her limbs transformed to a screaming agony that consumed her mind and stole her breath did she allow herself to give in. She sank to the floor and lay on her back, panting.

‘Drink this.’ Zac passed her an electrolyte drink.

‘Thanks.’ But she lacked the energy to lift her head.

‘Come on.’

‘Can’t.’

‘I’m serious, Tara.’ His hand slid under her head and lifted it as if she was an invalid. ‘Drink.’

‘God, you’re bossy.’ She sat up and his hand fell away—she hated that she missed it. But the reality was, if she excluded the hugs of the children and Jon’s perfunctory kisses, Zac’s occasional guiding touches during a session were her only intimate contact.

Talk. To. Jon.

‘If these extra sessions are ongoing, I’ll plan some different workouts for you.’ Zac’s gaze was fixed on her—intense and full of swirling sexuality. ‘You up for that?’

Despite her exhaustion, her body fluttered. ‘Up