She’d set up her paints and easel in the back of the shop so she could watch for customers during the day while painting in her downtime. It wasn’t the kind of business that stayed hectic all day long. There were stretches of quiet, and this gave her a chance to add to the collection of paintings hanging on the shop walls.
She swept up a pile of leaves near the doorway and then scooped them into the rubbish bin. When she returned to her painting, she held the brush poised over the seascape for several long minutes before drawing the brush down the side of the canvas to add texture to the waves.
An art dealer had stopped by the shop yesterday to ask her about the artists who exhibited there — he’d heard good things, he said.
“Do they have representation?”
She’d said she didn’t think so. Would he like to speak to Finn Hilton?
“Yes, and Charmaine Billings. They’re both very talented. I’d like to put together a showing in Cairns.”
So, she’d set up a meeting with herself and Finn and the art dealer that afternoon, and they’d signed a contract for a showing six months from the date. Butterflies flapped in her gut as she thought about it. She needed to finish two dozen paintings before then; she wasn’t sure how she’d manage it. It was exciting and scary — putting something out there that reflected a piece of herself for everyone to study, criticise, reject. Her instinct was to pull back, to say no, to run. But she held herself together, nodded sagely, and shook the man’s hand when he left. Then she and Finn had squealed, hugged each other, and danced to a song on the radio with the sound turned up.
The bell over the front door jangled, and Charmaine looked up in surprise to see Frank and Samantha walk in.
Sam ran to Charmaine and threw her arms around Charmaine’s waist.
“Sam! I haven’t seen you in an age.” Charmaine’s eyes filled with tears as the girl squeezed her hard. “I missed you.”
Sam took a step back, her mood somber. “We’re moving.”
“You are?” Charmaine looked up to see what Frank would say about that.
He nodded. “Yep. All packed and ready to go.” He waved a hand towards the road behind him. There was a small moving truck parked at the curb.
“Where are you going?”
Frank stepped closer and handed Charmaine a piece of paper. It was wrinkled and covered in text. She glanced at it then back to him, her brow furrowed. “What’s going on, Frank?”
“I’m sorry, Chaz. I have some bad news.”
Her stomach tightened. She was being thrown out. She’d have to leave the florist’s. If she didn’t find a job, maybe she’d have to abandon the island and the life she’d built entirely. It wasn’t fair—she’d finally found happiness. “Okay…”
“Betsy died.”
His words were like a punch to the gut. She gasped, the wind knocked from her lungs. She hadn’t expected that. She thought he’d talk to her about the shop or the flat, or money, or something else. Anything other than that.
“She died? How?” Her eyes flooded with tears against her will. She didn’t want to cry in front of him—it was silly. He was Betsy’s son. Betsy was a murderer. Why was she crying?
He looked at her kindly. “She had a heart attack in jail. I’m sorry. I know you cared about her.”
She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. “Thank you for telling me. And I’m sorry for your loss.”
She glanced at Sam, who was watching her with wide, reddened eyes. Charmaine held her arms open, and Sam fell into them, sobbing against her shirt.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” she said, rubbing a circle on Sam’s back.
Tears wound down Charmaine’s cheeks. She gave up trying to keep them at bay. It was no use, not with Sam’s face buried into her side, her tears soaking through the fabric.
Frank walked into the back of the shop, leaving the two of them alone. He returned a few moments later with a box beneath his arm. “Mum’s coin collection and some photographs.” He patted the box. “Plus a few sentimental trinkets. I’m leaving the rest. You can have it.”
“What?” she asked, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and scanning the register for the tissue box. “No, you should take it all.”
He shook his head. “That paper I gave you is a photocopy of the will. She left you the shop and everything in it. The flat as well. It’s all yours.”
Charmaine gaped and glanced around the building, taking it all in. This made no sense. She wasn’t a relative. Frank and Sam needed it more than she did.
“But what about you and Sam?”
