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

‘Floriography.’

Jade immediately sucked in a breath, realising she’d just shown him up. He’d get snarky like Corey and she braced herself.

‘Floriography?’ Lachlan said it as if trying the word on for size. ‘Wow, thanks. I didn’t realise it had a name.’

Her breath released on a stunned whoosh of relief. ‘No worries. According to Wikipedia, it started in Turkey during the Ottoman Empire—apparently, they were obsessed by tulips. But it was the wacky Victorians who went mental with it. They wrote dictionaries for the meanings of each flower and they used flowers to send coded messages.’

‘You’d want to hope your lover had the same dictionary.’

Jade laughed. ‘Right. If a woman got white roses, they could either mean innocence and purity or piss off, we’re over.’

‘What flowers do you like?’

She smiled. ‘I haven’t met one I didn’t like.’

Confusion tangled in his moss-green eyes. ‘So you do want the zinnias and the alstroemerias?’

‘Yeah.’ She bit her lip and forced herself to apologise. ‘Sorry I sounded ungrateful. It’s just you surprised me. I don’t do so great with surprises.’

‘Too many bad ones?’ Although his tone was light, his gaze was intense.

She shifted uncomfortably, busying herself with the plants. ‘Did you bring some of that worm poo to give these a kickstart?’

‘Sure did. I reckon I should talk to my boss about making a donation to the whole garden and getting a sign like Hoopers.’

‘Fiza would give you a recommendation. Actually, can you give her some more? She’s moved out of Serenity Street and planted maize at her new place.’

‘Too easy. How was she when she saw the damage?’

‘Pretty cut up. It didn’t help that the coppers wanted to talk to Amal even though he had an alibi and was nowhere near Tranquillity.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense. If they suspect it was kids from the park, why didn’t they talk to them?’

‘They don’t work that way. They prefer people to rat on their mates first, then they talk to them.’

Lachlan gave her a sideways look and she realised he’d probably never talked to the police outside of a random breath test. She didn’t want him to know that the police had always drifted in and out of her life.

‘That’s what happens on the TV anyway.’

Lachlan laughed. ‘Big fan of crime drama, are you?’

‘I prefer documentaries and history stuff. And reading. I love reading. There’s always something to learn. What do you like?’

‘Now I know you’re an intellectual, I’m not sure I should tell you.’

She snorted at his comment, but was secretly pleased. ‘I’m not an intellectual. I haven’t even been to uni.’

‘I went to uni with a bunch of blokes whose biggest aim was to write themselves off every weekend.’

‘But you went.’ It surprised her how much that hurt.

‘You can go too,’ he said quietly.

She jerked her head towards Milo. ‘You forgetting someone?’

‘Nope. My mum studied social work when I was a kid. I remember how proud Dad, my sister and I were when she got her degree. When she crossed the stage in her cap and gown, we stood up and cheered.’

Jade tried to picture Corey and Milo doing the same thing, but the image wouldn’t come. It was hard enough to imagine herself at uni, let alone graduating.

‘What would you study if you had the chance?’ Lachlan asked.

‘I dunno.’

‘What are your two favourite things?’

‘Books and flowers.’

He rubbed his jaw. ‘What about a florist who sells books?’

‘You been smoking the wacky baccy.’

‘Nothing wrong with dreaming, Jade. That’s where the best ideas come from.’

Was it? Jade let her mind wander to flowers and books. Different baskets of flowers for each genre of books. Roses for romance—that was easy. Waratahs, bottlebrush and kangaroo paws for Australian fiction. What was the flower for crime?

‘You’re thinking about it,’ Lachlan said.

‘No.’ Then she noticed he was holding Milo out to her.

Lachlan wrinkled his nose. ‘He’s a bit whiffy. I think he’s done a dump. And I better get back to work or the boss will have my guts for garters.’

Jade’s daydream fractured, turning opaque like glass and blurring the view. This was why she tried not to dream—it always left her feeling agitated and diminished. And who was she kidding? She could barely pay her rent let alone start a business. She needed a job before she needed a degree.

She lifted Milo into her arms and the dream vanished completely. She was the only person who changed his nappies. She was the only person who loved him enough to stay.

No one loves you enough to stay.

CHAPTER

23

Helen was trying her best to get on with her day, but her concentration strayed on every task. The word eviction beat in her veins like the call of a drum.

She waved to Fran at the library desk before logging on to computer three and checking the Facebook page. There were another two hundred likes and lots of comments about the importance of transparency in local government.

Keep the bastards honest!

Community land belongs to the community.

Councillors don’t give a sh*t about anyone. They’re only in it for themselves.

Riverfarm is Yorta Yorta land.

No Chinese.

Keep Australia Australian. Send the buggers back!

Helen rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to fend off a headache. Why did people go off on tangents? She deleted the racist comments and started a post to keep the followers focused.

Boolanga has a long history of caring for all of its community.

Her fingers stalled. The Yorta Yorta would dispute that. So would some of the refugees. She pressed the backspace button and started again.

Having a home is a basic human right, but each night in Boolanga up to twenty people sleep rough, many of them women. Are you shocked? You should be.

Anxiety hovered—she might soon be adding to the statistics. She tried to banish it by concentrating on uploading photos of the river, the garden and a picture of a similar housing project on the New South Wales central coast. She hit post, logged out and turned her attention to The Standard.

African youths strike again. No longer content with graffiti, they’ve