READ ON FOR A SAMPLE OF THE STORY

CHAPTER ONE

THE EMAIL THAT would change my life sat in my inbox, waiting patiently for my return. After a week spent cloistered in a remote retreat, where the noise of the world was banished and digital screens were forbidden, I returned to my apartment in Marseille, dropping my duffel bag near the front door. The retreat had promised clarity and peace, but now the world seemed more overwhelming than serene.

As I powered up my laptop for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I braced myself for the deluge—work updates, client demands, the relentless march of emails that had surely accumulated in my absence. But amid the clutter, one message stood out because of who it was from: Duval & Associates Solicitors.

A frown creased my brow, a flicker of unease sparking in the back of my mind. Solicitors? The word tugged at my thoughts, pulling them into the realm of work—some legal matter perhaps, an inquiry about a contract, or maybe a mundane administrative task. But as I clicked on the message, a knot of apprehension tightened in my gut.

The email, written in a language of condolences, bore news of my father’s departure from this world. Words leapt off the screen, each one landing with a weight that echoed through me. As I read, the air in the room changed, as if the walls themselves absorbed the news. My father, a man of quiet strength and reserved tenderness, had slipped away from the realm of the living. The reasons, shrouded in the prose of doctors and medical jargon, seemed distant and inconsequential.

Amidst the sombre lines there was an unexpected twist. The family home, where my childhood had unfolded, was now mine. The house, with its creaking floorboards and memories etched into the very grain of its timber, became the unexpected inheritance of a grief-stricken daughter.

The news hit me in waves, heartache and inheritance crashing against the shores of my consciousness. I closed my laptop with hands that now bore the burden of loss and legacy and wondered if the family home held within it the answers to questions left unasked.

The room, bathed in the soft glow of muted lamplight, became a cocoon of solitude as I sat on the bed. The knowledge of my father’s death clung to the air and the heaviness settled within me.

Practicality nudged its way into the forefront of my mind. I had to call Gregor—my business partner, my ally in the perpetual juggle of event planning. And my suitcase, a silent sentinel in the closet, beckoned like an artifact from a life that had abruptly changed course.

I extracted the suitcase from the closet and placed it on the bed. As I stared at it, the mundane task of packing became a daunting prospect, a choreographed dance I had performed countless times but now found strangely unfamiliar.

How does one pack for the journey back to grief? Unsure of where to begin, as if the very act of packing would solidify the reality of my father’s absence, I sought a distraction.

My cell phone lay within reach. I picked it up, the familiar object grounding me in the present. With a hesitant breath, I tapped a path to Gregor’s number and put him on speaker. I held the phone close to my lips, its ring mingling with the sounds of the Marseille streets below. Gregor’s voice, a steady cadence of authority, spilt into the room.

“Eva, I’m glad you called.”

“Gregor,” I interrupted, the brevity of the news conveyed in the hushed tones of my voice. “I need to take some time away.”

Gregor’s protests, brief and intermittent, attempted to penetrate the fortress of my determination. I stood my ground with a calm resolve that belied the turmoil within.

“Camille can handle it,” I assured him, the words a mantra against the cacophony of logistical details. “The event is meticulously organised, and you have the plan. Just let her oversee and it’ll be seamless.”

“I need you here in Vienna next week. It’s only a month until the enviro-conference and then we have the light show a few days after that.” Stress caused Gregor’s tone to become gruff.

“I won’t make it to Vienna,” I asserted, holding my phone tightly. “But you can handle them both, Gregor. I trust you. We’ve done conferences a hundred times. And we have experts hired for the light show. It’s just another event. You’ve got this.”

He continued voicing his insecurities, and amidst the ebb and flow of our conversation, I finally found the strength to utter the words I’d been avoiding—the unspoken truth that rendered all other concerns insignificant.

“My father died,” I confessed, the words slipping through the tight knot of my throat. A hollowness overtook me, the emotions too big, too overwhelming.

A moment of silence hung between us, a space filled with unspoken condolences. Gregor’s voice, when it came, carried a solemnity that echoed through the phone.

“I’m so sorry, Eva,” he said, his tone softened by the gravity of the news. “Take the time you need. We’ll handle everything here.”

The acknowledgment, a lifeline thrown across the chasm of my emotions, held the reassurance that I needed. I felt the weight of responsibility shifting, the burdens of business momentarily set aside to make room for the profound task of mourning.

“Thank you,” I managed. “I appreciate it. I’ll be in touch when I can.”

As I ended the call, the room closed in around me. The Marseille streets below carried on, oblivious to the upheaval within. I stood at the precipice of departure, the journey back to Australia a pilgrimage into the heart of misery.