Page 73 of Where the Wattles Bloom

‘It’s nice that they buried them together.’

He didn’t say anything for long moments. Neither did Rowena. But, without thinking about it, she slipped her hand into his. If he was surprised by the action, he didn’t show it, just laced his fingers through hers.

‘They scattered most of his ashes from a plane over the reef he loved so much, off Cairns. But my grandmother and my aunt on my dad’s side wanted me to have some of his ashes so he could also be here with me.’

‘That was thoughtful.’

‘Yeah.’ He chewed at his bottom lip as if he was back at that day again. ‘I hadn’t really cared at the time. I mean, he was dead, right? He wasn’t his ashes. I hadn’t understood how important it was going to be to me when I was older, and I’m grateful they had the wherewithal to suggest it.’

He knelt then, his hand sliding from hers. ‘You didn’t take your father’s name?’ she asked absently as she watched him brush at a few stray leaves.

His mother had obviously kept hers but it was unusual to see, in a marital situation, a child not taking the father’s surname back then.

‘I did,’ he said, resting back on his haunches. ‘I changed to McCabe when I was fourteen. I grappled with it a bit, worried that somewhere out there my father would see it as a rejection of him. But eventually it just felt right.’

Rowena nodded. She supposed some people, not comfortable with deeply emotional subjects, might have told Lachlan that his father would have understood. And she had no doubt that was probably true. But she’d worked in NICU for long enough to know that platitudes seldom helped.

Instead she slid her hand on his shoulder and stood silently as she stared at the grave.

Eventually he roused, pushing to his feet, brushing off the denim covering his knees. Rowena’s gaze fell on the roses—so … well, English, in this very Australian setting.

‘Did Reggie bring those?’

‘No, I did.’

Rowena was surprised by the admission, although she didn’t know why. Lachlan was hardly some knuckle-dragging Neanderthal running around pretending nothing ever bothered him. He’d spoken about the loss of his parents, his marriage failures, how he’d grappled with changing his surname, with emotional intelligence and honesty.

‘I visit once a week,’ he said, ‘since returning to Blairgowrie.’

‘Do you talk to them?’ That’s what she always encouraged grieving parents of her patients to do. Talk about them, too.

‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘Usually.’

‘What do you tell them?’

He shrugged. ‘The latest gossip from town. The weather. Sheep prices.’

Rowena laughed. ‘Newsy.’

A smile broke across the solemnity of his face as he continued. ‘Reggie’s latest antics with Madge. And lately about you. And … the baby.’

Ah. Well, yes … she guessed that made sense.

‘My mum always said babies were little gifts from the future. I think they’d be tickled pink knowing they were going to be grandparents.’

It was on the tip of Rowena’s tongue to sound her usual warning bell but she quelled the urge. She didn’t get to do that here. The man had to have somewhere to go, someone to talk to during this time.

‘She sounds lovely.’

‘Yeah.’ He lifted his gaze to hers. ‘She was.’ He gave a gentle smile then, before saying, ‘Come on, we should get going if we want to check some fences before the sun sets.’

Rowena followed him out, stopping just prior to the gate as a gravestone off in the corner caught her eye. Or rather, a clump of unkempt grass and a glimpse of stone caught her eye.

She crossed to it and peered down at the grave, which, compared to the others, was very poorly kept. The squat stone had a slanted face, was only ankle-high and almost buried in leaves. Also, and most notably, it faced away from the other graves. Unlike the others that sat side by side in family unity, it was facing out, only its back side visible to the rest of the cemetery.

Interesting.

Rowena had to brush away the grass and leaves to read the inscription, which was just a name and two dates.