It was November, three months after the awful day at the park when Olivia’s life as she knew it had been blown apart. She looked around at the mountain of boxes tied with satin ribbons, filled with delicate latte-coloured macarons. Towers of the things teetered on the benches and the dining table, ready for the fundraising bake sale tomorrow at Darcy’s school. It was possible, she observed, that she was channelling her grief into baking. This wasn’t entirely a bad thing, given that she was a pastry chef. How much more complicated her life would be right now if her loss had manifested in an inability to bake. Instead, the windows of her cake shop in the main street of Richmond, Tasmania, were full of tempting treats, the aromas wafting out into the street to entice customers. She’d never been so busy.
Tonight, though, it was time to put the baking trays down. ‘That’ll do, pig,’ she muttered to herself, echoing Farmer Hoggett from the movie Babe. She lifted her apron over her head and turned off the oven, quietening its hum. In the ensuing silence, she could hear her own heartbeat. The kitchen walls seemed to tick down like a cooling car, exhaling with relief after her whirlwind of activity. It was only nine o’clock, hours before she’d be tired enough for her busy mind to rest.