Chapter 39
Mrs Mills called from the verandah. ‘Phone, Tom.’
He finished potting up the last myrtle-beech seeds that he’d found under the bench in the main greenhouse. There were dozens of other seeds too: leatherwood, celery-top pine, sassafras, waratah. A cornucopia of local flora. A rainforest in a box. Autumn was harvest time in the bush. Soon he’d be collecting seeds of his own.
It surprised Tom to hear Emma’s voice at the end of the line. ‘I have to talk to you. No, not on the phone. I’ll drive down this afternoon.’
They sat outside, beers in hand, as the setting sun sent golden flares across the folds of the ranges. Mrs Mills brought out a platter of ham, cheese and red grapes, fresh from a local vineyard. ‘I’m sorry to hear about you and Harry, Miss Emma. It’s a scandal for him
