Hold On to Me Read online

  Hold On To Me

  VICTORIA PURMAN

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  Victoria Purman loves books, wine, chocolate, sad country music, hard-rock songs, love stories, her family, her friends and especially her readers. She writes books set in the beautiful locations of her home state of South Australia.

  In 2013, Victoria was selected as a Writer in Residence at the SA Writers Centre. In 2014, she was named a finalist in the Favourite New Author 2013 category by the Australian Romance Readers Association. She also made the long list for Booktopia’s Favourite Australian Novelist 2014 poll.

  She was also thrilled to be named a finalist in the RuBY Awards—the Romance Writers of Australia’s Romantic Book of the Year Awards—for her first book, Nobody But Him.

  Victoria has been a featured author at the 2014 Adelaide Writers’ Week and the 2015 Sydney Writers’ Festival and, most days, considers herself the luckiest woman in the world.

  ALSO BY VICTORIA PURMAN

  The Boys of Summer novels:

  Nobody But Him

  Someone Like You

  Our Kind of Love

  Only We Know

  To C

  CONTENTS

  Also by Victoria Purman

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER

  1

  What was that noise?

  Stella Ryan rubbed her sleepy eyes, tossed back the cotton sheets on her bed and sat up. She stifled her yawn and tried to be still to hear what was going on. She cocked her head to the side and swept her ruffled hair behind one ear.

  Was that a siren?

  Car horns? Listening closer, Stella could make out the distinctive heavy chugging and throaty throbbing of a truck engine. Something was going on: she got out of bed to investigate. She reached for her silk kimono, slipped it on, jogged outside, closed her front door and glanced past her low stone front fence and then up and down her narrow street. The historic sandstone cottages on either side of hers and across the road were quiet. A sea breeze blew up from Horseshoe Bay and rustled the leaves in the street trees. Her neighbour’s teenaged son’s car was parked out the front of her place. Again. Everything looked as it should.

  But an unfamiliar cacophony had woken her. It was a Sunday morning in the earliest days of summer in a small beachside town—normally the only sounds were birdsong and the muted rumble of the sea. And now, an acrid smell like burning plastic was battling with the salty breeze, wafting unpleasantly all around her.

  Stella walked out of her narrow front garden and let her ears lead her. She turned left towards the main street and then left again into The Strand. She pulled the antique silk tighter around her and tugged a tight knot at her waist as she picked up her pace, her leather thongs slapping on the road.

  There was increasing commotion in the distance and, when she crossed the train line, she stopped short for a moment in shock. Country Fire Service trucks, police cars and an ambulance were parked at the northern end of the street. People were milling around everywhere, slowly emerging from their holiday rentals and houses in dressing gowns and bed hair. She barely registered the bare chests and low-slung boardshorts on the young men; the holidaymakers with small children still in their pyjamas, mesmerised by the trucks and the lights.

  The northern end of The Strand, away from the beach. Something was going on up there. Something bad.

  That’s where her shop was. Style by Stella.

  Her business.

  Her labour of love.

  Her whole life.

  Fear squeezed the air from Stella’s lungs. She kicked up one foot behind her, then the other, yanked her thongs off, and bolted, barefoot, right up the middle of the bitumen road to the end of the street. Her kimono fluttered against her legs like a flag.

  Soon her heart was throbbing and her lungs were burning from the sprint. Smoke stung her eyes and tiny bits of ash floated in the street like summertime snow.

  This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.

  Fifty metres from her shop, a police car was angled across the road, blocking it, its lights flashing. When Stella tried to get past it, a uniform held her back. A uniform with a tight blonde bun at her neckline. Size twelve. Shoes eight and a half. Favourite colour magenta. Stella reached out to touch the officer’s elbow.

  ‘Courtney?’ Her voice came out thin. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Oh, Stella.’ The police officer turned. Stella could see her friend was trying to keep things professional, but also that she was shaken. Courtney took her hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t let you through just yet. The CFS is still in there making sure the fire is out.’

  Stella felt sick, the nausea rising fast in her stomach, and she pressed a hand to her belly to tamp it down.

  ‘A fire?’ Her voice caught. ‘Oh, god. It’s my shop, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s the café.’

  Stella’s stomach unfurled in guilty relief and then knotted itself again. She was, all at once, relieved for herself and horrified for Ian and Lee, whose café was next door to Style by Stella. ‘Oh god. Oh no. They weren’t in there, were they?’

  Courtney shook her head. ‘No, they’d only just arrived to start doing breakfasts and saw the roof on fire. They called it in immediately and everyone—us, the CFS—we all got here as fast as we could. They’re okay, Stella. Well, physically unharmed, anyway. They’re talking to the sarge now.’

  ‘Thank god.’ Stella closed her eyes. If she believed in prayers or an afterlife or anything but bad luck and circumstances and poor decisions, she would have thanked god and all the angels. But she didn’t believe in any of that. Life was a lottery and sometimes you just drew the short straw. She knew that better than anyone. There was never any point in asking why.

  Stella blew out a big breath and then couldn’t seem to suck one back in. She backed up, stumbled, felt the cold stone of a low fence at the back of her knees and lowered herself to its rough and uneven surface. She dropped her head down between her legs and tried to breathe. She could feel Courtney’s hand on her back, her friend trying to reassure her with gentle pats.

  Stella tried to focus. This was supposed to be Sunday morning. It should have been like every other Sunday morning in her life. She should have been out walking along the cliff tops before breakfast, then walking to her shop to open it at eleven to sell lovely things to her grateful customers. She should not be there in the early morning light, wondering if everything she’d worked for had gone up in smoke while she was sleeping.

  Someone crouched down in front of her.

  ‘Oh, god. Stella? Are you all right?’

  Summer Harrison was the closest person she had to a best friend.
A masseuse with magic hands, she too had a business in Port Elliot, at the other end of the street nearer to the bay.

  Stella lifted her head just a little. ‘Yes. No. I don’t really know.’

  Summer threw her arms around her friend and held her tight. ‘Here, sit up.’

  Stella obeyed automatically, and Summer’s hands flew to her shoulders, where she pressed and kneaded her tight neck and then lower down her back. Summer knew just where Stella’s vulnerable spot was, in the middle and to the left of her spine, having performed weekly massages on her for the past couple of years.

  Stella let Summer’s expert fingers work away the tightness and eventually she managed to breathe again.

  ‘I need to get in there and see it for myself,’ she said as Summer’s fingers dug into a knot of muscle.

  ‘Of course you do, honey.’

  ‘I’m imagining the worst.’

  ‘That’s probably a good place to start, seeing as there’s been a fire and everything.’

  Stella sighed. ‘Thanks. That was just what I needed.’

  ‘The back rub or the cold hard truth?’

  She rubbed her eyes and tried to find the words to answer. ‘Both. I think.’

  Summer wiggled her fingers in the air. ‘You know I’m here for you. Look. Two hands; no waiting. Any time.’

  ‘I know, and I’m grateful. Thank you.’ As Stella slowly stood and hugged her friend, a CFS truck rumbled past the two women and then turned left to head out onto the main road. Stella and Summer watched it and then there was a flash of dark-blue police uniform in front of Stella.

  Courtney sighed and found a sad smile. ‘You okay?’

  Stella shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know.’

  Two young women sidled up to Courtney, shaking their heads in disbelief.

  ‘How terrible,’ said one.

  ‘I was just there for lunch yesterday,’ said the other. ‘The food was lovely.’

  Courtney cleared her throat and slipped her sunglasses back on. ‘Best to move along, thanks, and let the emergency services do their job.’ She shooed away the interested onlookers and they reluctantly moved off down the street. Once they were out of earshot, she turned back to Stella and Summer. ‘We can’t find anything suspicious but the fire cause investigators from Adelaide will be down to check it over. The good thing is this looks like an accident rather than the beginnings of anything nasty.’

  ‘Thanks, Courtney.’ The words tumbled from Stella’s lips, automatically and politely. She couldn’t think of anything else to say. The whole scene was surreal and she could barely comprehend what was happening on her street. Ian and Lee were safe. That was the most important thing. What was inside businesses could be replaced.

  Courtney put her hand on Stella’s arm. ‘Stella … the thing is … even though the fire was next door, it still might not be good news for you, I’m afraid. It all went up pretty quickly and since it shares an adjoining wall with your place … there’s water everywhere. I’m so sorry, Stella.’

  Sorry? What was Courtney sorry about?

  And then her words sunk in.

  Oh no. Oh no no no.

  Summer’s arms were around Stella but she felt frozen.

  ‘Why don’t you go home and come back this arvo?’ Courtney said. ‘There’s nothing you can do now and you won’t be able to have a good look at your shop until at least lunchtime. And forgive me for saying, but you look like you need a coffee.’

  Stella tried to smile too. ‘I’d love one but my favourite café is gone.’

  ‘C’mon. I know you have that fancy machine at home. Go and make one. Or five. And eat some chocolate while you’re at it. It’s still a little early for wine, right?’

  Stella stood on shaky knees, hoping her legs would hold her. ‘Okay, I’ll go. But I need to know, Courtney.’ She reached for her friend’s arm and held on. ‘I’m already imagining the worst. Have I lost everything?’

  If Stella thought asking that question out loud would help, she was fooling herself. The words hung in the acrid air between them and she felt a new lump form in her throat.

  Have I lost everything?

  Courtney looked at Stella over the rims of her reflective sunglasses. ‘There’d be no one sadder about that than me—you know that. Well, except for you, obviously. Gawd, here I am trying to cheer you up and I’m putting my foot in it.’

  ‘I appreciate you trying,’ Stella said.

  ‘But there’s nothing you can do now. It might be best to think about it this way: what’s done is already done. Please, Stella. Go home. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything. I promise.’ Courtney’s phone trilled and, after a quick goodbye hug, she answered the call, rounded the police car and walked back to the scene.

  Summer reached for her friend’s elbow. ‘C’mon, I’ll go with you.’

  ‘Really, I’ll be okay, Summer. I just need to walk.’ She needed time to think, to calm the raging in her head and the burning in her chest. She needed the beach. She needed Horseshoe Bay. She needed the ocean and the waves and the wind in her hair and solitude.

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t have anything—or anyone—else to fill my Sunday morning.’

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  Summer looked right into Stella’s eyes. ‘You will get through this. You know that.’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘Oh no you don’t. That was a little half-arsed. You. Will. Get. Through. This.’ Summer lifted her chin and closed her eyes to the sky. ‘The angels are telling me.’

  The angels. Please. The only magic in the world was hard work. Blood, sweat and tears. And even then, everything could still turn to shit at any moment.

  ‘You know, I don’t believe in that stuff.’

  Summer’s mouth dropped open in shock. ‘What? All this time you’ve—’

  ‘I’ve been pretending. Yes. But if it makes you feel better, thank the angels for me.’

  Stella crossed back over the train line and walked up the hill to the top of the cliff—Freeman’s Lookout. To her left, picturesque Horseshoe Bay curved and calmed the waves that swept onto the sand. She took the historic Centenary Steps in front of her down to the pathway along the cliff top, and picked up her pace. It was windier there, exposed to the pulsing Southern Ocean, and she didn’t bother any more trying to tame her flapping kimono. If only it would turn into a kite and swoop her up into the sky so she could look down on the mess below.

  She found her favourite bench seat and flopped back onto it. Caught her breath. Her feet dangled above the rocky path underneath and she closed her eyes and leant back, taking in the salty tang of the ocean, sucking in great lungfuls of it.

  She looked down at her empty hands and realised that in the half-awake confusion of the morning she’d left her phone at home. Maybe it would be better to be distant from the bad news for a little while longer. Anything Courtney had to tell her could wait.

  Stella closed her eyes against the bright summer sun. Would she really have to start over with nothing? Although she’d been scrupulously vigilant and had every kind of insurance available, she couldn’t shake the dreadful, foreboding feeling that this was history repeating itself. She’d come back to the south coast five years before and started from scratch. She knew what it was like to have nothing and could build it all again if she had to.

  Her eyes flew open and there was blue as far as she could see. The ocean whitecaps and the choppy horizon were willing her on: she could feel it. Lifting her up, buoying her along. It had happened the same way five years before—the ocean had held her up when she’d felt like she was drowning.

  Stella didn’t know why or how or where the hell her drive had come from. But she’d had it then and she had it now. It had saved her.

  She had to rely on herself; she’d always known that. Had to be her own confidante, her own secret keeper, her own counsel. She’d made friends here, good friends, but this was something she had to do on her own.

  Her childhood ha
dn’t broken her. Neither had Sydney.

  She was determined that a fire wouldn’t either.

  CHAPTER

  2

  When Stella returned home an hour later, she showered and changed into black Capri pants and a flowing bone-coloured silk shirt. She washed her hair, styled it into her signature French bob and slicked on some mascara. To Stella, it was her business to look fabulous. Since she’d grown into adulthood, she had never slunk around in track pants and T-shirts. She proudly wore the uniform expected of the owner of Style by Stella. And she knew that if she was going to start again, she had to look at least on the way to her best while she was doing it.

  She’d hung her kimono outside on a padded hanger to air out and then flicked on the coffee machine. She’d found her phone—on the bedside table where she left it every night—and noticed there were a dozen missed calls, but she waited before checking her voicemail. She needed to gather her strength and pull herself together a little more first, so she made herself sourdough toast and lathered lemon marmalade on the top, poured her coffee and sat down at her Scandinavian-style dinner table. She pulled out one of the six reproduction Eames chairs gathered neatly around it and sat.

  Her shop and all that was in it might well be gone, but Stella felt an enormous comfort in knowing that her home remained. She’d transformed the historic sandstone cottage into something worthy of a lifestyle magazine in the years she’d had it. She leant her elbows on the table, dropped her chin in her hand and stared at her living room wall. It was painted Antique White USA and a large Scandinavian framed fabric swatch half-filled it. A wave of relief swelled her heart. It could have been her home that had burnt down. She should be incredibly thankful that it hadn’t. This little place, which was all hers—well, hers and the bank’s. She’d worked like a demon for four years to save the deposit and had transformed it internally without having to knock down a wall or replace the kitchen. There was only her and Mouse, her haughty cat, and they didn’t need much room. What space she had was stylish and chic. Her haven. Her place of solace.