Evergreen Falls

by Kimberley Freeman

Genres: Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction; Historical Romance

Synopsis

1926: Violet Armstrong is one of the few remaining members of staff working at the grand Evergreen Spa Hotel as it closes down over winter. Only a handful of guests are left, including the heir to a rich grazing family, his sister and her suave suitor. When a snowstorm moves in, the hotel is cut off and they are all trapped. No one could have predicted what would unfold. 2014: After years of putting her sick brother's needs before her own, Lauren Beck leaves her home and takes a job at a Blue Mountains cafe, the first stage of the Evergreen Spa Hotel's renovations. There she meets Tomas, the Danish architect who is overseeing the project, and an attraction begins to grow. In a wing of the old hotel, Lauren finds a series of passionate love letters dated back to 1926, alluding to an affair – and a shocking secret. If she can unravel this long-ago mystery, will it make Lauren brave enough to take a risk and change everything in her own life? Inspired by elements of her grandmother's life, a rich and satisfying tale of intrigue, heartbreak and love from the author of the bestselling Lighthouse Bay and Wildflower Hill.

Publisher: Touchstone

Print pages: 416

Sample

Evergreen Falls

PROLOGUE

1926

They keep saying “the body” and Flora thinks this might make her scream and never stop. Speaking in whispers that are not quiet enough, as men do, they say it over and over. “We can’t have the body simply lying in a room here.” “If we put the body in the bathing pool, then it might appear to be a drowning.” “But when they examine the body they’ll find no water in the lungs.” And so on. All the while Flora, locked in the grim prison of her mind, unable to comprehend anything since she discovered the poor, pale remains, shivers against the icy breeze that licks through the open door and stalks the tall eucalypts that line the dark valley.

“If the old man gets wind of this,” Tony says, punctuating his observation with a short puff of his cigarette, “he’ll slam that bank vault shut and Flora here won’t get a thing.”

She wants to say she doesn’t care about the money, that death has never seemed so vast and present and final than in this moment, standing by the remains of a real person who only yesterday breathed and cried. Her lips move, but no sound emerges.

“What do you want to do, Florrie?” Sweetie asks her.

“No point speaking to her,” Tony says, shaking his head in the low light of the hurricane lamp. “She’s going to need a few belts of whiskey to snap her out of it. Look, the only thing we’re certain about is that people can’t know. It must seem to have been an accident. A fall while out walking the bush track.”

“In the snow? Will anybody believe that?”

“Ask yourself what this person’s reputation has been,” he says, and—oh, dear God—he pushes the toe of his patent-leather wing tip gently against the body so that it lifts then sags back onto the floor. “Not really a solid citizen.” Tony seems to realize Flora is listening and checks himself. “Apologies, Florrie. I’m just being practical. You have to trust us.”

Flora nods, in shock, unable to make sense of the situation.

“How far shall we take it, then?” Sweetie asks.

“As close as we can get to the Falls.”

Sweetie nods and reaches down to lift the limp legs in his meaty hands. Flora moves to help, but Tony pushes her away, gently but firmly.

“You wait here. You’re no use to us as you are, and it’s murderously cold. I don’t want two bodies on my hands.” He flicks his cigarette butt out the door ahead of him, and it arcs into the snow, a brief ember soon extinguished.

Flora watches them go. They lumber into the dark and the cold, until they become small figures at the boundary of the garden, then disappear down the stone steps that lead into the valley. Rain has begun to fall, fat drops from the swirling night sky landing silently on the snow. She stands at the door, her fingers turning numb, and watches for their return.

The rain will wash their heavy footprints out of the snow, along with the possible track of limp, dead arms that drag between them. But the rain will also wash over the body, a wet shroud, a sodden burial. Flora puts her head in her hands and weeps, for her shock and her disappointment and her loss and for the horrors that are no doubt to come. Poor Violet, she says over and over in her mind. Poor, poor Violet.