Chapter 3

3

Blake set the table for five, before walking back into the kitchen. She opened the oven and looked in, the smell of chicken and roasting vegetables filling the room. Growing up, she’d dreamed of arriving home to a house that smelt of home cooking or baking, although she could probably have counted on one hand the number of times that had actually happened. Every now and then, her mum would manically clean the house until the smell of bleach hung heavy in the air and cook something delicious for dinner, but by the next day she’d be slumped in her chair again or unable to rise from bed, and Blake would be left rationing out slices of bread and glasses of milk to try to make what they had last.

As the eldest, she remembered what it had been like before, when they’d had a fully functioning family, but those memories had become harder and harder to hold on to as she’d slowly taken over the role of caregiver. And now, even though she was all grown up and her siblings were adults with lives of their own, she still had a compulsion to feed them and care for them, to make sure they knew how loved they were. It was also why she’d stayed in their childhood home—a worn, three-bedroom apartment—long after her brother and sister had both moved out, to make sure they had somewhere to return to if they ever needed it.

There was a knock at the door then, followed by the sound of her sister calling out.

‘Blake! I’m home!’

Blake forgot all about the chicken roasting and hurried out to greet her sister. She hadn’t seen Abby for three months, and hearing her voice set her at ease, as if something missing from her life had finally been returned.

‘It’s so good to see you.’ Blake almost tripped over her sister’s bags in her hurry to wrap her arms around her, giving her a big, long hug.

‘It’s good to see you, too,’ Abby said. ‘God, I’ve missed your cooking. Something smells great, as usual.’

Blake beamed, holding her at arm’s length so she could study her. ‘I’ve never seen you so tanned, and your hair is all beachy-looking. I love it.’ It was usually impossible for people not to notice they were sisters, with the same long, dark-blonde hair and chocolate-brown eyes, but Abby had turned into a blonder, more golden version of her everyday self.

‘Australia suited me,’ Abby said. ‘I only wish I could have stayed longer.’

They walked around her bags and into the kitchen as Abby talked excitedly about her travels and Blake opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. She’d always lived vicariously through her sister, and this trip was no different. Blake had never travelled, and yet Abby seemed to be ticking off countries as if she needed to see every corner of the world before she turned twenty-five.

‘So, what’s new with you?’ Abby asked when she finally paused for breath.

‘Nothing, really,’ Blake said. ‘Just work and more work, you know me.’

‘You really need to see the world, you know that, right?’

Blake laughed. ‘One day I will. But for now, I want to feed you and hear all about the past three months.’

Just as she finished speaking, there was another knock at the door, followed by her brother Tom calling out to announce himself. Within seconds he was in the kitchen with them, although it wasn’t until Blake had hugged him and then watched as he bearhugged Abby off the ground, that she realised he was alone.

‘Where’s Jen?’ Blake asked, looking around him as if his girlfriend might still be in the other room, or perhaps hiding behind him. ‘I thought she would be joining us.’

‘Ahh, we broke up.’ Tom shrugged, as if it was no big deal. ‘Sorry, I should have told you she wasn’t coming.’

‘She was lovely , though,’ Blake groaned.

He just shrugged again, and Blake was at least grateful to have Abby there so that they could exchange looks that signalled just how mad their brother was. He didn’t have a problem meeting nice girls, but he most definitely had a problem staying in a relationship with them longer than three months’ duration. The problem was, Blake always seemed to fall in love with them more than he did.

‘Do you have beer?’ Tom asked.

Blake nodded. He asked the question as if it wasn’t always there waiting for him. ‘In the fridge. Help yourself.’

She didn’t bother asking him what had happened with Jen; she knew he’d talk when he was ready, so instead she let her siblings catch up while she took the chicken from the oven, admiring all the little roasted vegetables and potatoes she’d layered around it. They were all golden, the potatoes slightly crispy around the edges, just how everyone liked them.

‘Is this the box from the lawyer?’ Abby asked, as Tom disappeared, presumably into the living room to watch television.

‘It sure is.’

‘You’ve been looking at the clues again?’

Blake glanced over at Abby, watching the way she was turning the box over in her fingers, studying it.

‘I have. I just can’t stop wondering what it’s all about, and how the clues link back to us as a family.’

‘You know, this box kind of reminds me of you,’ Abby said. ‘The sketched design and the piece of fabric, it’s as if this was left for you. Have you ever thought that, or is it just me?’ Blake finished plating the chicken and left it on the counter, going to stand beside her sister as she studied the clues. Abby wasn’t wrong; it could have been something left specifically for her. She reached for the design and looked at it, even though she’d long ago committed it to memory. For years she’d dreamed of being a designer, although her sketches were never as polished as this one, despite its age. But there was still something almost familiar about the lines of the design—it could have been because she’d stared at it for so many hours, she knew that, but she’d almost convinced herself that the connection ran deeper. She traced her fingers around the silhouette of the sketch, imagining that she’d created it herself.

‘Do you truly think that the person who sketched this is related to our family?’ Abby asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

Blake leaned in to her sister, their shoulders pressed together as she continued to stare at the piece of paper. ‘Honestly? I don’t know. I mean, maybe, but also perhaps the design points to something else. Perhaps whoever left it behind just wanted their daughter to find the person who’d designed it. Maybe that person is the one who has answers about our family.’

Abby lifted the piece of fabric, which was a fine, grey, silky velvet, and as she did so, Blake found herself wondering if the fabric was connected to the design, or held some other significance. But as she stared at it, she could imagine a larger sample of it being used to drape over the design in the picture, almost as if it were coming to life before her eyes.

She imagined the dress would have been considered provocative when it was drawn, decades earlier. It was low at the front and hugged the curves in a way she was almost certain wouldn’t have been common back then, and was clearly designed to show off the female form.

‘Do you still have your old sketchbook? From when we were younger?’ Abby asked.

Blake put the fabric down and went back to the food, checking it was plated perfectly before calling out for Tom to come and carry it to the table. ‘I think so. I haven’t looked at it in years, but it must be somewhere.’

‘You were always drawing in that book. I remember the day I sneaked into your room and opened it up, thinking that you’d been scribbling in a diary and wanting to know all your teenage secrets. I was determined to read everything you’d written about boys, or what you’d been doing with your friends, or whatever it was that girls older than me did.’

‘And instead, you found a load of designs.’ Blake laughed. ‘I thought they were great at the time, but in hindsight, I’m sure they were terrible. I was obsessed with drawing all the clothes I wished I could have, all the things I would have made if we’d had a better sewing machine, or bought if we’d had the money.’

‘Hey, I barely noticed what the designs looked like. I was just devastated that I’d sneaked into your room and didn’t get to read about your boyfriends and whether you’d been kissing them or not.’

Blake didn’t bother telling her sister that there hadn’t been any boyfriends to write about, even if she’d wanted there to be—she’d been too busy making sure her siblings got to school and didn’t realise how incapable their mother was. All she’d ever wanted was to make sure they felt normal, and that none of the other kids at school realised how dysfunctional their family was. It was bad enough having lost their dad when they were young, but having a mother who couldn’t care for them was mortifying at the time—it hadn’t been until they were older, and their mother had been diagnosed as having severe depression, that they’d understood why she’d been so absent. Just then, her phone pinged with a text message, and she reached for where she’d left it on the bench.

You officially have the green light. Start Monday, first story due by the end of next week. You need a new story at least every week, so get cracking!

Blake gulped. Nothing like a bit of pressure .

‘What is it? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. It’s not Mum, is it? Please tell me it’s not Mum?’

Blake shook her head. ‘No, it’s not Mum.’

Abby was staring at her with a mildly alarmed expression on her face when Blake eventually looked up.

‘I pitched this,’ she said, gesturing to the clues spread out in front of Abby, ‘to my editor. I thought it would make a good story.’

‘It would make one hell of a story,’ Abby said, before pulling a face. ‘So long as you can work out the clues, that is. Can you work out the clues?’

‘That’s what I’m worried about.’ Blake groaned, but not before replying to her editor’s text with a thumbs up, as if it was no different to any other story she’d been commissioned to write. As if she wasn’t completely terrified at the prospect. ‘What if I can’t deliver?’ she asked, more for herself than because she needed an answer. ‘What if I can’t make head nor tail of what’s been left behind? What if I write the first two stories, and then there’s nothing else to write?’ She suddenly felt like hyperventilating.

‘You’ll deliver, you always do,’ Abby said. ‘And honestly? I think this will be good for you. Imagine what you might discover! This could change everything we know about our family’s past.’

‘And you’re sure you don’t mind?’ Blake asked. ‘I mean, this is your heritage, too. If it’s something you’d like to explore, or if you don’t want me to go public with it, if you think we should keep it all private…’

Abby placed her hands squarely on Blake’s shoulders. ‘You’re doing what you always do. Don’t overthink this. You do not need my permission, or anyone else’s, to do this.’

Blake stared back at her. Abby was right; she was exceptionally good at overthinking everything. It came from always being the one worrying about everyone else.

Abby shook her head, her hands still on Blake’s shoulders. ‘Okay, I have a feeling you need to hear me say it, so this is me saying it. I think it’s a great idea, you can shout about it from the rooftops if you want to, and I love that you’re doing this. Okay?’

‘Thank you,’ she said, resting her head on one of Abby’s hands. ‘I just, I realised I hadn’t really talked it all through with you first, and I should have. I feel like it’s not only my story to tell.’

‘You know, I was serious about what I said before, that it’s almost as if it’s been left for you specifically,’ Abby said, stepping away so she could have a sip of her wine. ‘I honestly feel as if it is your story to tell. You and Grandma always had such a special connection, and she was the one who encouraged you to design. She would love to know it was you doing this.’

‘You truly think so?’

Abby blinked away tears, which made Blake wipe at her own eyes. Their grandma had been incredibly special to them both, and it had been hard for them all when she’d passed.

‘I don’t just think so, I know so.’

Blake picked up her phone again, seeing that Deborah had sent her a thumbs up emoji back.

‘No work, not tonight,’ Abby said, taking Blake’s phone and placing it farther down the bench. ‘For now, let’s drink wine and eat that incredible-smelling chicken. One day you’re going to have to teach me how to cook, you know. I mean, just in case you decide to travel the world and leave us all in danger of starving.’

They both laughed. ‘Not funny,’ Blake said.

‘Actually, it kind of was. Sometimes it’s as if you think we’re all still kids that you need to take care of.’

‘Hey, Abs, I want to hear all about Australia. We should plan a trip,’ Tom called out from the other room, putting an end to their conversation.

Abby winked at Blake and took both of their glasses, walking from the room and gesturing that she should follow. And so, Blake did what she always did: she picked up the enormous plate of food that could have fed a small army, despite having asked her brother to carry it, and went to sit with her siblings so she could feed them until they were full to bursting and hear all about their adventures. She could panic about her own life later.

After two hours spent hearing all about Abby’s adventure overseas, and listening to her younger siblings plan a trip for later in the year, Blake’s evening with her family had drawn to an end. It was so nice being all together, especially since it had just been her and Tom, and sometimes Jen, for the past few months, but she was ready to tidy up and collapse into bed.

‘Dinner next Sunday?’ Abby asked, as they all stood by the door. ‘Please tell me it’s still a weekly thing?’

Blake grinned. ‘It’s still a thing. I’ll be hosting Sunday dinners for the rest of my life, unless one of you decides to take the mantle from me. Which, for the record, would be amazing.’ They all knew she was teasing—she would hate to be left without the job of cooking for everyone. It was her love language, and she imagined it always would be.

‘Lasagne,’ Tom said, dropping a kiss on the top of her head as he passed, before giving her a sweet smile that she couldn’t resist. ‘ Please .’

‘Lasagne it is then,’ Blake said. ‘And if you want to talk about?—’

‘I won’t,’ he said, ducking his head as if he were a teenager about to get a sex education lesson. ‘Your cooking is all I need to make me feel better.’

She nodded. ‘Understood.’ They’d always been better at eating their feelings rather than talking about them. Food had been the glue that had held their family together when they were younger, a way of making them all feel as if their lives weren’t coming away at the seams, and it had stopped them from drifting apart when they’d grown up and gone in their different directions. No matter what they had going on in their lives, Sunday night dinner had remained a permanent fixture in their calendars. Sometimes there were boyfriends or girlfriends who joined, other times it was just the three of them, but they all protected their family dinners as if their lives depended on it, and they were always hosted by Blake.

‘Blake, you are going to do this, aren’t you?’ Abby said, giving her a big hug. ‘The whole clue discovery thing?’

She hugged her back. ‘I think at this point I’d lose my job if I didn’t. So yes, I am going to do this. And I promise to keep you updated if there are any developments.’

‘I heard you two whispering earlier,’ Tom said, leaning against the doorway with a lopsided smile on his face. ‘I like that you’re doing it, too, just so you know. Grandma would have loved it.’

‘Thank you, Tom,’ Blake said, feeling emotional all over again. ‘That means a lot, truly it does.’

‘Well, if there’s anything we can do, any way we can help with the clues or just be a sounding board for you…’ Abby held her gaze. ‘You don’t have to do everything on your own, I suppose that’s what I’m trying to say. I’d like to help you, and I know Tom would, too.’

‘Thank you. I might take you up on that offer.’ Blake was so used to working alone that it often felt like the only way, but she was starting to see that there were times when it would be helpful to have a partner in crime.

She said goodbye and leaned against the door frame as she listened to Abby and Tom talk. Part of her wished Abby had stayed; when she’d seen her arrive with all her bags straight from the airport, she’d thought the fresh sheets she’d put on one of the spare beds might actually get used for once, but it wasn’t to be. Abby had decided to return to her own flat—she’d kept her room despite travelling for so long, having sublet it while she was away—and it seemed she was eager to return to her own home.

Once Blake had finished clearing up, she turned off all the lights and went to her bedroom, flicking on her bedside lamp and drawing her blinds. She turned on the television but kept the volume on low—a habit she’d had for years that made her feel as if she wasn’t at home alone.

She’d been telling the truth when she told Abby that she hadn’t looked at her sketchbook in years; it had been so long that she wasn’t even sure exactly where it was. She went to her wardrobe and leaned into the very back, reaching past her winter coats, feeling for the edge of the cardboard box that was there somewhere. She wiggled her fingers, stretching out and eventually connecting with it, gripping as tight as she could to pull it out. One thing she’d never told Abby or her brother was that she hadn’t only saved the sketchbook that had been so precious to her as a teenager; she’d also saved the special milestones from their childhoods, too, since it was clear that no one else was going to. And so, in the box that she’d long since packed away, containing her precious sketchbook, were also paintings and her siblings’ high school photos and other memorabilia.

When her friends talked about becoming mothers one day, Blake often baulked at the thought, and not because she didn’t like children. She couldn’t wait for Abby or Tom to have kids of their own so that she could become an aunt and spoil them rotten. But she felt as if she’d already raised a family; as if she already knew what it was to become a mum and didn’t have the energy or desire to do it all over again.

Blake tugged the box all the way out and lowered herself to sit cross-legged on the ground with it, taking the lid off and immediately finding what she was looking for. She blew dust off the cover and ran her fingers over it, finding comfort in the familiarity of seeing it again. It was a soft pink colour, and she still remembered the day her grandma had given it to her.

She’d been sitting at her grandmother’s kitchen table, when she’d come over to see what Blake was working on. Usually she’d hidden her designs, but that day she’d been caught, the back of her maths book covered in sketches of dresses and skirts. Her grandma had pressed a kiss to the top of her head and not said a thing, but the next time Blake had come to visit, there had been a present wrapped on the table for her, and inside had been the design book that she’d cherished every day since.

She’d only been fifteen when she first started designing, curling up in her bed at night once all her chores were done for the day, drawing until her eyes couldn’t stay open for a moment longer. But when her grandma had passed unexpectedly, effectively leaving her with no adult in her life, she’d stopped drawing. Blake had put down her pen after that, never finding a reason to pick it up again, with the exception of making Abby’s dress for her high school prom. But now, as she cracked open the cover that had remained closed for so long, she found pages of sketches of flowing dresses, silhouettes that hugged the female form, and wide-legged pants with narrow waists that had since become popular again. She’d dreamed at the time of pinning pieces of fabric, buttons and scraps of lace to her drawings, but of course there hadn’t been any spare money in their household to buy anything frivolous. And so she’d used coloured pencils and watercolours that her grandmother had given her years earlier when she’d been a much younger girl, carefully illustrating her creations and bringing them to life. She remembered at one point even making her creations from newspaper and proudly modelling them for her grandmother.

Now, designing felt like a dream that had existed in a different lifetime. But still, when she looked at those sketches, she remembered the dream she’d once had, dreams that she’d long since given up on believing in. And now here she was, looking at someone else’s design, and wondering if that too had simply been a dream from another woman in her family, someone from her past; or a design that had gone on to be made into a beautiful garment. It also reminded her how boring her own wardrobe was—the girl she’d been would be horrified to see her capsule wardrobe. It was stylish, but it wasn’t a wardrobe filled with designer pieces or extravagant gowns.

Blake placed the book on her bedside table, leaving the box of memories on the floor, and went back out to the kitchen to retrieve the much smaller wooden box from Hope’s House, feeling the need to have it with her. Even though she had no idea what the clues meant, or how she was even connected with it, there was something familiar about it now, something that kept drawing her in and making her so deeply curious about her family’s secrets.

She returned to her bedroom and curled up on the bed, opening and unfolding the piece of paper, staring at the design for the hundredth time and trying to figure out when it might be from. She doubted it was the 1920s, because the designs from that era were more conservative and this wasn’t that. The 1930s, 1940s? Blake placed it on the bed and reached over for her book, opening it to one of her designs. The one from the box couldn’t have been more different to her own creations—not only were the styles so obviously from different eras, but also the boldness of the lines in the older drawing was intentional and flawless, exhibiting a confidence that she believed only came from experience. Whoever had penned the design was a professional, there was no doubt in her mind of that.

Blake sighed and put everything on the other side of her bed, before snuggling down under the covers. She reached out, her eyes shut as her fingers connected with the slightly rough texture of her sketchbook, letting herself remember what it had been like to be young and full of dreams. It felt childish even dwelling on the past, but it was hard not to think about what could have been. She had a great job and good friends, but there was something about acknowledging that the dreams she’d once held so close were never going to come true that still devastated her, deep down.

Tears ran down her cheeks as she struggled to push the thoughts away, trying not to slide back into the past in her mind. But tonight, for a reason she couldn’t understand, despite the fact that she’d been surrounded by family all evening, she’d never, ever felt so alone.