Her Great Expectations by Joan Kilby Page A

rid of those. The postcards were painful reminders of the weekends he and Leanne would fly the Cessna to wherever fancy took them. As long as it had a landing strip. She would collect a card from every town they visited. She didn’t write on them or mail them to anyone; she just bought them as a souvenir.
    Warrnambool, Wagga Wagga… He flicked through the colorful cards. Merimbula. His hand stilled and he felt sick all of a sudden. They’d arrived at the seaside town on the New South Wales coast on a Friday afternoon. By Sunday morning when they’d departed, a low pressure system had rolled over the Great Dividing Range, bringing heavy rain.
    He shut his eyes as he remembered the sound of her voice, the things they’d talked about that day. The hopes and dreams they’d shared. All gone now. All his fault. Like his broken GPS, these postcards anchored him to the past, to his grief and guilt.
    Jack shoved the postcards back into the box, grabbed the overalls and hurried back to the shed, forcing Bogie into a trot.
    The scent of warm cinnamon and caramelized sugar hit him as he walked in. The men had abandoned their tools and were clustered in the kitchen area. Ralph’s wife, Jean, orange haired and plump in flowered capri pants, was cutting a freshly baked coffee cake.
    “Ralph asked me to make something for morning tea,” Jean told Jack as she handed around big slices. She was as round as Ralph was spare and clearly pleased to have a group of appreciative men to bake for.
    Steve’s gaze met Jack’s as he lifted a piece of cake to his mouth. His dad hesitated. Jack raised his eyebrows at his father’s sheepish expression. His dad needed to lose weight, sure, but since when had he needed Jack’s approval to eat?
    Jack dropped the overalls on the bench and walked over to get some cake. Within a few minutes Steve was reaching for his second piece. “Go easy, Dad,” he said with good humor. “Save some for the rest of us.”
    “Oh, don’t listen to him.” Jean thrust the plate under Steve’s nose. “You go right ahead.”
    “Don’t mind if I do.” Steve helped himself.
    A pair of boys in gray-and-green school uniforms with schoolbags on their backs appeared in the open double doorway. The curly blond head belonged to Oliver. With him was a shorter boy with shiny brown hair that fell across his eyes.
    “Hey, Oliver,” Jack said. “Don’t you have school?”
    “We got out early because of a teacher’s conference. Mum said you were starting the Men’s Shed. We came to help you make toys.”
    “Does Sienna know you’re here?”
    “We stopped at the clinic on the way. It’s cool.” Oliver came to a halt in front of Jack. “This is Jason.”
    The Men’s Shed was available to males of all ages, although Jack hadn’t anticipated teenage boys coming along. But why not? “You boys want cake?”
    Oliver’s eyes lit. Jason smiled, revealing a mouth full of stainless steel braces. “Yes please,” they said in unison.
    Jean happily fussed over them as if she was their own grandmother.
    The men had finished eating and gone back to work. Jack approached Steve, who was measuring a length of pine with a metal ruler and a carpenter’s pencil. Smedley had slithered under the bench to snooze, his muzzle resting on his front paws. “How would you like to teach Dr. Maxwell’s son and his friend to make rocking horses?”
    Steve nodded. “Send them over.”
    Jack found Oliver and Jason washing their plates under Jean’s supervision. “You boys go see Steve, the older man with the glasses. He’s my father. He’ll sort you out.” The boys hurried off and Jack turned to Jean. “Thanks for bringing the cake. It was delicious.”
    Jean’s round face was wreathed in smiles as she picked up a tea towel to start drying. “I’ll bring scones and jam tomorrow. And I make a nice pound cake, too.”
    “Excuse me?” Oliver was at his side.
    Jack turned. “Yes?”
    “I’d rather help you if that’s okay. I