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

stomach rumbled and she glanced around, seeking the source of the delicious tang. The stove top was empty as was the oven, then she noticed an unfamiliar slow cooker on the bench. Ian had been a great help with the kids, but he didn’t enjoy cooking so this was an incredible piece of thoughtfulness.

‘Hello, love.’ Ian stuck his head through the sliding doors that led to the deck. She could hear the children playing in the pool. ‘All good this end.’

‘And you’ve cooked dinner too.’ Full of gratitude, she kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you.’

He laughed. ‘You know I only barbecue so I can’t take credit for that.’

Tara’s anger at their friends dissipated on a wave of guilt—Rhianna or Kelly had finally come through for them. She remembered Lorraine’s suggestion: ‘Give them time, Tara. They’re in shock too.’ She’d been so tied up in her own grief, she’d expected too much of them too soon.

Tears of appreciation welled and she blinked them away. ‘Was it Kelly or Rhianna who dropped it off?’

‘Neither. Fiza brought it over.’

Every muscle tightened with a jerk. ‘What?’

Ian looked sheepish. ‘Yeah, about that. The kids have been playing together a bit after school. With everything that’s going on, love, they need a bit of fun. Flynn really wants to perfect his somersaults.’

‘So you gave in to pester power?’

‘I figured you wouldn’t mind. Not after the way Fiza and Amal helped Jon. I gotta tell you, they’re the politest kids I’ve ever met. To be honest, it’s easier all round when they’re here.’

Tara’s head spun. ‘How are the Atallah twins playing over here connected to Fiza bringing a casserole?’

‘When she picked up the kids the other day, she asked me how you were. I said you were running around like a chook with its head cut off trying to do everything.’

‘Ian!’ Tara hated that the statuesque woman with the critical demeanour knew she was struggling.

He clicked his tongue. ‘Well, it’s true, love. The only thing I feel bad about is that Fiza went to the trouble of cooking something no one’s going to eat. But I plugged it in to be polite.’

‘Grandpa!’

A ball flew past Ian’s ear and he turned his attention back to the children.

Go and look after your husband. Fiza’s terse words rang in Tara’s head despite the fact she hadn’t seen her since they’d both stood at the entrance of A&E on the afternoon of Jon’s accident. Now a tangled mix of emotions battered her. Why did it have to be Fiza who’d cooked her a casserole? Why couldn’t it be Kelly or Rhianna?

She reluctantly lifted the slow cooker’s lid. White beans lay nestled in a thick tomato-based sauce. Ian was right—the kids would likely turn up their noses and refuse to eat this. Jon, never a fan of vegetarian food, probably wouldn’t want it either. It would end up languishing in a plastic container at the back of the fridge, slowly going mouldy, and she’d throw it out in a week’s time. May as well dump it now.

The tomato sauce plopped slowly, taunting her with unwanted obligation.

‘Fine!’ She ripped off the end of the baguette and dragged it through the contents before putting it in her mouth.

At first, all she was aware of was the heat of the sauce, but then the subtle flavours emerged—lamb stock, tomatoes, herbs and pepper. Damn. Why did it have to taste so good?

A thank-you note and a small gift of appreciation. The many lessons about manners drilled into her by her mother were never far away. Normally, Tara didn’t need reminding of her social obligations in or outside of work. She’d been the driving force behind Employee of the Month at the store, acknowledging hard work, innovation and kindness. Once, she’d given Kelly a voucher to Bathroom Pizazz just for taking Clementine to the movies. Now, guilt chafed against her reluctance and her tardiness in thanking Fiza. She’d justified not doing it by hiding behind the excuse of a blur of appointments and trying to make sense of what Jon’s diagnosis really meant for them as a family.

And because the woman always left her feeling wrong-footed.

Is that because you are?

She transferred the contents of the slow cooker into one of her casserole dishes and washed the large ceramic bowl. Then she riffled through her stash of cards, finally settling on a Royal Flying Doctors charity one covered in a mass of callistemon. She scrawled a brief note, which when she re-read it sounded stilted and polite rather than heartfelt, but she shoved it in an envelope anyway. Then she wrapped a small tube of hand cream, stuck the card to it and headed to the door. Halfway across the room she hesitated, doubled back to the gift cupboard and picked up a music voucher.

Calling out to Ian, ‘Back soon,’ she walked the length of the drive and around to the front door of the orange eyesore. Except it wasn’t an eyesore any more. The grass was mown, the garden beds were weed-free and the porch was swept.

Sucking in a deep breath, she rang the bell.

Heavy footsteps sounded and then a very tall and very black young man answered the door.

Tara swallowed, battling every previous reaction she’d ever experienced when she’d seen groups of black teenagers in town. She tried hard not to stare, but the darkness of his skin was luminous and hypnotising. He looked down at her from his impressive height, his expression neutral and his eyes wary.

‘Amal?’ He gave a slight nod of his head. ‘Hi. I’m Tara. Tara Hooper. From next door.’ She licked her dry lips. ‘I believe I have to thank you for helping my husband when he fell.’ She pushed the voucher at him. ‘And for looking after Flynn and Clementine.’

He stared at the rectangular piece of plastic with its distinctive logo, turning it over slowly in his hands as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Then his face lit with a smile, his teeth a dazzle