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The house was in a quiet cul-de-sac. An old-fashioned weatherboard, painted a creamy gold with maroon edgings that glowed in the late afternoon sunshine. The garden was a mass of scented plants—white, pink, purple, and blue.
Esther hesitated. How could one knock on a door and say, “I think I might be your granddaughter?” There were no guarantees this was the right N. Macdonald anyway. Probably easier to say, “I’m looking for a Naomi Macdonald who has a son, William.”
A passing neighbour peered at her. She’d better get on with it before someone decided she was up to no good. Esther pushed her bike across the road, through the gate and up the path, watching for unfriendly dogs. Placing the bike to one side, she went up two steps onto the verandah and rat-a-tat-tatted with the knocker.
