It’s the right decision, Addy Topic told herself as the Spirit of Tasmania berthed at Devonport at the criminally early hour of 6.30 am.
‘You’ve got this,’ she said as she drove off the ferry and immediately found a café with a five-star coffee rating. Never a morning per-son, she sculled her espresso fast then sipped a latte, taking her time to savour the brew while she scanned The Advocate. Not a lot had changed since she’d last read it—it was still a mix of odd crimes, agriculture wins and losses, and ongoing housing issues.
‘Anything to eat?’ the waitress asked.
‘Why not?’ Moving house was why not. Addy ought to be maxi-mising her time and getting settled before starting her new job. But knowing she should seize the day didn’t touch the part of her that was in no great hurry to reach Rookery Cove. ‘I’ll have poached eggs with the avocado cup, thanks.’
Three hours later, after taking a detour through Penguin and dodging phone-wielding tourists snapping photos of the decorative penguins that now lined the Esplanade, she eventually drove into the cove. Then she turned away from the main drag and up the hill before pulling into her parents’ driveway.
My driveway.
Addy shrugged the words away. Four years after Ivan’s and Rita’s deaths, the house still felt very much theirs.
She turned off the ignition, took a deep breath and got out of the car. Despite the weeds on the path, the bulging orange rose-hips and the peeling paint—travesties her mother would never have allowed—she still expected Rita to step out onto the veranda, give her sadness-tinged smile and say, ‘Aida, you are home.’
But Addy hadn’t called the cove or the house home in twelve years; and since Rita’s death, no one had called her Aida.
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