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

to watch out for so she could act and keep her family safe.

On Sunday morning, the gang arrived on time and the children wolfed down the pancakes before running off to play in the garden. There’d been less drama with the kids than at their evening gatherings and Tara wondered if they should have done brunch years ago.

Allowing herself to relax, she watched Jon happily holding court at the barbecue in the same way he’d done for years. She noticed the occasional jerk of the spatula, but he didn’t appear bothered by it. He was fully engaged in the conversation about work, cricket, the school working bee and town politics.

There was a lot of discussion about the mayor, Geoff Rayson.

‘I reckon Ainslea Park’s a front for something fishy,’ Kelly said. ‘I mean why are the Chinese visiting? They don’t race horses, they just eat them.’

‘I thought it was the Arabs who were interested?’

‘If the Chinese are going to buy anything in this town, it’s more likely the dairy. That way they can corner the baby formula market,’ Al said.

‘I thought they did that already. Isn’t it our biggest unofficial export?’ Rhianna said.

‘Don’t wish the Chinese on me!’ Kelly said. ‘Oh, wait. Do the Chinese hate the Muslims? I’m on board if they sack Fatima.’

‘Talking about Muslims, how are the neighbours?’ Brent asked. ‘Broken into the house yet as well as the store?’

‘They’re not like that,’ Tara said, guilt squirming in her gut. ‘Actually they—’ she realised if she said they were helpful, she’d have to say why, ‘—keep to themselves.’

‘A group of six of them came into the shop the other day. I followed them so they didn’t have a chance to pocket anything,’ Rhianna said.

‘Good for you,’ Kelly said.

‘Thought you kept all your electronics locked up?’ Jon said.

‘We do. But you of all people know what they’re like.’

‘They’re hardly going to pocket a washing machine,’ Tara said, surprising herself.

Rhianna glared at her.

‘Food’s up,’ Jon said firmly, cutting the conversation off at the knees.

Tara reached for the spatula, but he shook his head. He served the bacon, eggs and pancakes onto the platters Tara held close to him. A couple of times his hand jerked wildly and she had to chase the spatula, but only one pancake hit the deck. No one seemed to notice.

‘Bacon’s the reason I’ll never be vegetarian.’ Al piled three crispy rashers onto his plate. ‘Any chance of a light beer to wash it down?’

‘Don’t be such a philistine.’ Kelly refilled her glass with more sparkling wine than orange juice. ‘Where’s yours, Jon? I’ll top you up.’

‘I’m all good, thanks.’

‘He probably wants a beer, right, Jon?’ Brent said.

‘Such a comedian,’ Kelly said. ‘Don’t give up your day job. You blokes need to expand your horizons—you don’t hear French men complaining about drinking champagne.’ She picked up a clean glass, filled it and held it out to Jon.

‘No, thanks,’ he said.

Rhianna looked up from her pancakes. ‘Since when does Jon Hooper refuse a drink?’

‘Did you get suckered into doing one of those fundraising things?’ Al asked.

‘No. I got diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.’

The sound of cutlery scraping on plates ceased and four sets of eyes zeroed in on him.

Brent laughed. ‘Yeah, right, mate. Now who’s the dud comedian. Everyone knows it’s an old codger’s disease.’

Jon shook his head. ‘Twenty per cent of people who are diagnosed with it are under fifty.’

Tara looked at their friends’ faces and realised they didn’t believe him. ‘It’s real. The last few gatherings when Jon’s staggered and slurred his speech, he wasn’t drunk. It’s young Parkinson’s.’

‘And you have to stop drinking? You poor bastard.’ Al made it sound like that was the worst part of the disease.

‘That’s the least of his worries,’ Tara said sharply.

‘She’s right,’ Kelly said. ‘That American actor who got Parkinson’s—you know the one. When he talks, he wobbles like one of those solar hula dancers. God, what’s his name?’

‘When did you find out?’ Brent asked.

‘A few weeks ago.’

‘And you’re only just telling us now?’ Rhianna’s voice rose. ‘Gee, thanks.’

Jon flinched as if he’d been hit. Tara wanted to slap Rhianna for making this about her.

‘We needed time to process it before we could handle telling anyone,’ she said. ‘Apart from Ian, you’re the first people we’ve told.’

Why am I justifying our choices to you?

‘You don’t look sick,’ Al said.

Jon slid his hand into his pocket—a technique Tara now recognised hid his shaking hand. ‘I’m taking medication to help control the symptoms.’

‘All good then.’ Brent raised his glass.

Tara looked at Jon. Tell them how it really is. How tired you are. How your memory’s not as sharp. That you’re working less. Tell them your balance is unsteady. She didn’t expect him to talk about the constipation, the dizziness or the erectile dysfunction, but she hoped he might mention how tough they were both finding the diagnosis. The bad days when the black dog sat heavily on his shoulder and he didn’t want to get out of bed. How they needed the support of their friends.

But Jon stayed silent, his expression a blank mask. Only this time, Tara knew it wasn’t blank because of Parkinson’s. It was disappointment. It was shame.

A tornado of emotions whirled through her. Heartache for Jon, fury at their friends’ unsympathetic response, and a desperate desire to bring Chris and Shannon back from New York.

Later, Kelly helped Tara carry the dirty plates into the kitchen and stack the dishwasher.

‘So the change to brunch,’ she said. ‘It’s because of Jon?’

‘Yes.’ A tiny seed of hope opened inside her that Kelly was starting to understand. Perhaps Tara had expected too much too soon from the gang—they needed time to process the information too. ‘He’s better in the mornings, although not every morning. Wednesday was a shocker. After I’d tied Clementine’s shoes, I had to tie his too.’

Kelly’s eyes widened. ‘God, that’s …’

‘Yeah. It’s pretty confronting for both of us.’

As Tara put a glass on the coffee machine and pressed the latte button for Kelly, Rhianna walked in carrying the