Chapter One

Frances Keating’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, and she willed herself not to look as she crossed the street down where she used to live. It was hard enough coming back to Cannington after twenty years. She wasn’t ready to see the old family home just yet. She winced as, unbidden, the words of an old David Cassidy song swam through her mind.

“Such a long way back, and this boy’s lost track…You just can’t go home again.”

“Except I am, aren’t I?” She continued driving along Cannington’s main street, a sharp pang in her heart. God, it had been years since she last heard that song. It had been one of her mum’s favourites, and while she used to sing along to its chorus, Frances had never imagined that it would ever apply to her. She was surprised at how easily the lyrics came back to her.

What was less surprising was how little the town had changed in the two decades she had been away. Cannington wasn’t the largest town along Victoria’s rugged southwest coast—that title belonged to Warrnambool, a hundred kilometres further west—but it claimed the bulk of the tourists that flocked to the region each summer. They were drawn by the pristine sands of Cannington’s sheltered bay, its craggy coastline, and the town’s proximity to two of the more iconic attractions along the world-famous Great Ocean Road—the Twelve Apostles and Loch Ard Gorge. While the January school holidays saw the town enjoying its peak tourist season, Cannington had always been a year-round favourite short-break destination for Melbournians keen to explore the region’s natural beauty. Inevitably, as more people discovered the area, the more desirable it had become as a place to live. There were now housing estates where once there was farmland, a massive shopping centre squatted on the outskirts of town, occupying the site of the old woollen mill, and a cluster of midsized high-rise apartments fringed the esplanade that fronted Trelawney Bay. But the Trelawney Bay Hotel—the Lawney—was still there on the seafront. The shopfronts in the heart of town was still shaded by wide verandas, the civic buildings had retained their Victorian grandeur, and the offices of the Cannington Clarion looked just as run-down as they had when she had interned there as a high school student.

She swooped into one of the parking spaces right in front of the newspaper office. Marked as reserved for staffers, it was miraculously vacant, something that was not always the case during tourist season. She peered at the old place through the windshield of her Club Mini, overcome by a sudden wave of memories.

Batting away the unwanted reminiscences, she clambered out of the Mini, grimacing as her spine popped and cracked. The two-and-a-half-hour drive from Melbourne hadn’t done her back any favours. Leaning back into the car to retrieve her satchel, she beeped the car locked and made her way past the neglected and unloved gardens fronting the building, pushed open the heavy timber-and-frosted-glass doors, and stepped into the reception area.

Christ, she thought to herself. The place hasn’t changed a bit.

The same dusty rubber plant sat in one corner, while an armchair that looked as if it were last upholstered in 1973 sagged in the other corner. Running the width of the room, directly opposite the entrance, was a massive timber counter, its edges darkened and shiny from generations of elbows leaning against it. On the wall behind it, a clock ticked tiredly, while a ceiling fan circled lazily overhead. Frances was about to ding the little silver bell that sat on the counter when an inner door burst open and a woman who looked as if her sixtieth birthday was a distant memory bustled in, a mug of coffee in one hand and a plate with an enormous slice of chocolate cake in the other.

“Oh, my lord!” she exclaimed, catching sight of Frances. “You gave me a fright. You haven’t been standing there long, have you, dear?”

Nope, nothing had changed at all. Frances grinned to herself before replying. “No, I’ve just walked in, Enid.”

The woman frowned, then peered more closely at Frances. “Wait a minute. I know you, don’t I?” A smile spread across her face as recognition dawned. “Frances! Oh, my lord, get in here, child!” She pulled open the door that separated her office space from the reception area and beckoned her into it. “We weren’t expecting you until Monday,” she said, enveloping her in a warm embrace.

“I know,” Frances replied. “I just arrived in town and thought I’d pop in for a quick hello.”

“Come on through. Everyone’s going to be so excited to see you.” Grabbing her by the hand, she dragged her into the newsroom.

“Look, everyone!” she hollered in a voice louder than it should rightfully be expected from someone with a frame as slight as hers. “It’s Mick’s girl!”

Several heads bobbed up from behind the partitions that divided the room into a dozen mini offices, each accommodating four workstations. Their faces broke into smiles as their owners came and gathered around Frances.

“Clarrie. Bob. Julie.” Frances shook each of the journalists’ hands, their names dropping into her brain as effortlessly as if she’d seen them just a few days ago instead of decades before. The delight on their faces did much to dispel the misgivings she had had about returning to her hometown. She still wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing in accepting the job of editor in chief, but at least for now, no one seemed to resent her for it.