A Home Like Ours by Fiona Lowe (feel good books .txt) 📕

table. Checking she had everything, she warmed herself some bread and made herself a souvlaki. Then she sat, knowing it would encourage Roxy to leave her car and join her.

As she ate, she flipped through the Good Weekend. She had a stack of them in the car—a habit left over from when it had been her home. The magazine could be read, sat on as protection from a damp seat, used to start a fire, and spread out as an extra layer of insulation on cold nights. These days Helen thankfully only read it, although last week she’d scrunched a few pages around her soup pot to keep the contents warm on the way to the park.

She was fully absorbed in an article when she heard footsteps. She glanced up with a smile, expecting Roxy. Her face fell. ‘Bob? What are you doing here?’

Even to her own ears, it sounded rude and she wished he hadn’t caught her by surprise. Wished she could have been quicker to hide her disappointment that he wasn’t Roxy. Then again, social niceties had never been her strength.

Bob shrugged and tousled his dog’s ears. ‘Thought in this get-up it was pretty obvious.’

That’s when she noticed he was wearing a handknitted woollen beanie, rain jacket, fishing overalls and rubber boots. An old cane fishing basket hung from his shoulder and he was carrying a rod and a small esky.

‘Why are you fishing in this weather?’

‘The yellowbelly go crazy in the rain. Plus, I pretty much get the river to myself so it’s win-win as they say.’ He glanced at the table groaning with food. ‘Did the weather put off your friends?’

She ran with his assumption—it was less complicated. ‘They’re always a bit free and easy with time.’

‘Do you mind if I cook my fish on the barbie?’

It was a public barbecue so even though he’d asked, saying no wasn’t an option. But if Bob stayed and cooked, would Roxy remain in her car?

‘I’m happy to share,’ he added, obviously sensing her reticence.

‘It’s not so much that …’ How did Helen even start to explain without giving away Roxy’s situation and breaking her confidence? She couldn’t so she swallowed a sigh. ‘Fresh fish sounds delicious.’

‘Let’s hope. Some cooks say it’s better to put yellowbelly on ice for twenty-four hours, but back in the day people fished and ate the catch straight away. I reckon the key is filleting out the fat, using a splash of olive oil, some fresh black pepper and a lemon.’ Bob whipped out a parcel wrapped in aluminium foil.

Helen laughed. ‘Something you prepared earlier?’

‘The rangers get shirty if you fillet up here so I did it down at the river.’ He carefully placed the foil packet on the silver hotplate and checked his watch.

The border collie ambled over, gave Helen a smile and settled at her feet, his weight pressing against her shins. Helen felt her resistance to the animal weaken. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Daisy. You okay with her there? She’s getting on and always goes for the warmth.’

‘It’s a good trade of heat.’

‘Until she gets too heavy.’ He smiled. ‘Do you want me to do the farmers’ market again this week?’

After the debacle at the garden, Bob had ended up running the market stall on his own while she’d been putting out spot fires. ‘It’s not rocket science,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve got it sorted. You go and do your politicking.’ So she had, spending hours on the phone. She’d called as many of the community garden plot holders as she could, extolling the benefits of both the farmers’ market and the garden extension. But Judith had also been calling the members and about half of them sided with the president. The only bright spot was Tara Hooper’s offer of sponsorship.

Helen’s stomach suddenly lurched. In the busyness of the previous fortnight, had she actually thanked Bob for stepping in?

‘Thanks for helping out. I appreciate it.’

‘Too easy,’ he said. ‘Happy to do it again. I’ve got a bumper crop of spring onions and silverbeet I can add to the mix.’

‘That’s kind, but I haven’t had many offers from the members. Dot’s support didn’t transfer from in-principle to practical, although Terri Morton promised rhubarb. I suppose I could bundle up some asparagus and zucchini, but is it really worth the time?’

‘Big things have small beginnings. A man who moves a mountain begins by carrying away small stones.’

Helen tried not to roll her eyes at the quotes, thankful this time he’d stopped at two.

Bob’s mouth curved into a self-deprecating smile. ‘More to the point, I enjoyed myself.’

‘Well, if it’s something you want to do …’

‘I thought it was something you wanted to do.’

‘It was.’

‘But?’

Things had changed since she’d first mooted the idea of the stall. Now she was helping the Hazara women establish their garden as well as waiting for the shire’s response to her tiny houses submission. The moment the project got the green light, her time would be consumed by the steering committee.

Bob’s eyes—still bright and vivid for a man his age—were fixed on her, waiting for an answer. She didn’t like depending on anyone—people invariably let her down—but at the same time she didn’t want to be perceived as flaky. It was unusual for her to say she’d do something then not follow through.

‘I’m sorry I can’t be more specific, but there’s an important project on the horizon. It’s still under wraps, but when it happens it will be big. It means my time will be spread very thin.’

‘Fair enough.’ Bob flipped the fish parcel over. ‘What if you and I do the stall together until you get too busy? That way you can teach me the ropes. You know, stuff like who’s who on the market committee and all the protocols. Then you can leave knowing the stall’s in capable hands.’

She reminded herself that Bob had only ever been helpful and this was a reasonable and sensible suggestion—one she should accept. But knowing that didn’t make it easy to change years of protective