She bent tolight the kindling in the hearth. It would be comforting to have afire and maybe a glass of wine before dinner. As she watched theflames growing, snaking through the expertly stacked logs in thefireplace, a kaleidescope of memories flitted through her mind,some good, some sad, of her childhood in Australia. The firsteighteen years of her life had been idyllic, surrounded by love andsupport from her parents. She couldn’t remember a time when shehadn’t danced. From tottering in her first tiny ballet pumps atthree, then clicking her way across the floor in her bright red tapshoes at ten, when jazz and cabaret captured her imagination. Herlife had been full to the brim with rhythm and music, or so shethought. The move to Paris had been a bit of a shock a week afterher eighteen birthday. The first time living away from home was ina place larger than life and twice as hectic as anything she hadever experienced before. Hard to believe that was twelve yearsago.
Her gaze tookin the large photograph of her mother, Maggie, which stood on themantelpiece. It was taken before her mother’s diagnosis, and hadbecome her most treasured possession. The woman in this picture wasbeaming at the camera; still very attractive, belying her seventyyears. Her ash-blonde hair piled high upon her head, a hand raisedin salutation, so obviously full of life and enjoying a summer’sday on the beach close to their holiday home in Portsea. Her whitetrousers rolled up to the knees to accommodate a paddle in theshallow water. Over her white tank top she wore a pink linen shirt,and the tails flapped out behind her. Also a dancer in her youth,colour and movement had been her mother’s favourite catchphrase.She had met her husband Joseph when she had been a chorus girltouring the theatres in the British Isles. He had followed her fromtown to town until she finally relented and accepted his hand inmarriage. The move to Australia had come a few years later whenwork was hard to find, and they decided to emigrate as Ten PoundPoms.
She rubbed theache in her leg and sighed. After extensive rehabilitation to herseverely damaged leg, progress had been slow. Her visible woundshad healed considerably, but her mobility was limited. Theemotional wounds ran deeper and were not as easily fixed. She oftenrelied on a walking stick and had been forced to put dancing behindher. Friends and colleagues had advised her to investigateteaching. The loss was still too raw and, desperate to move on, shewould bow to her father’s wishes and return to Australia. Hisrecent ill health concerned her, enough to warrant this relocation.A change of scenery and a change of pace could be just what thedoctor ordered. At the back of her mind, though, she clung to thehope that, by some miracle, one day she would be able to danceagain.
Atthirty-eight, Todd Baker considered himself a fortunate man. Heowned a very profitable Melbourne real estate company and apartnership in a renovating business with his brother Patrick. Hehad a mortgage-free penthouse apartment in one ofthe most prestigiousDocklands complexes, and the wherewithal to lease a luxury carstraight off the line every two years. His walk-in wardrobe boasteda collection of meticulously cared-for Armani business suits, arainbow assortment of silk ties, and a diverse range of handmadeItalian leather shoes. The real estate business and making money onthe stock exchange were his passions. Expensive designer clothinghad become his weakness.
Committed tohis businesses, he had no plans for a significant other, investingmore time and energy than any married man could possibly manage.Nevertheless, women constantly requested him to accompany them toopening nights at the theatre, or be their “plus one” at celebrityor family functions. Perhaps they wanted to try and persuade himotherwise. Perhaps he was seen as a challenge to their ego. Nomatter the reason, he had no intention of veering off the path ofsingledom just yet.
Todd relaxed at hiskitchen table, cooling off after his gym workout. He pushed awaythe empty muesli bowl and picked up his coffee. Scanning the localpaper spread out on the table before him, an article and picture onthe third page caught his eye. The small paragraph reporting thereturn from Paris to Port Melbourne of local girl Chloe Armstrong,after the sudden death of her father Joseph, had him putting downhis morning macchiato and picking up his iPad. He had approachedJoe Armstrong last year with an offer of appraisal. He remembered alonely old man in a house far too big to look after alone. After abrief Google search, he found the image of a Californianbungalow-style house, set well back from the pavement, surroundedby an overgrown garden.
This veryattractive property across the road from the beach was one ofseveral he had earmarked on that stretch of road, for futurepurchase and demolition, since he opened his office in PortMelbourne. As he admired Chloe Armstrong’s image in the paper, asmall smile teased up the corners of his mouth. Well, Joe, you have a beautiful daughter. He relaxed back in his seat and flipped the magnetic coverover the screen of his iPad. It closed with a loudthwack. He needed toschedule a visit to Miss Armstrong to pay his respects.
He had a feeling theopportunity to knock down this old house—and build a high-riseluxury apartment complex on the block—had just fallen into hislap.
Todd whistleda happy tune as he entered his real estate business in Bay Street.He pushed open the office door with his foot, dropped his laptopbag on his chair and walked past the office manager’s desk, headingfor the kitchen. He carried an open box of glistening Frenchpastries and assorted fruit tarts, which he placed on the pristinecounter beside the coffee machine. He turned and noticed
