Part Nineteen - Dark Skies

The mid-afternoon light streamed through Patty’s kitchen window, casting golden streaks across the fine china teacups. Myra sat across from her, nervously tapping a spoon against the saucer, eyes flickering between warm nostalgia and restless anxiety.

“Hello dears! Patty here!” Patty smiles warmly to her adoring TV audience. “I did not expect to Myra to suddenly show up with a gorgeous Victoria sponge. Her smile looked ready to devour me and her barely contained mannerisms had me on edge,” Patty said, cutting herself another slice, “But who wouldn’t put up for a little discomfort for a slice of her divine baking,” Patty gave a wink before focusing on her guest. “You’ve truly outdone yourself, Myra.”

Myra beamed, though her fingers twitched against the edge of her saucer. “Well, I had to try, didn’t I? Even if Jack thinks I should cut back on baking.” She rolled her eyes, taking a delicate sip of tea before whispering conspiratorially, “He always said I was too soft…about the middle.”

Patty’s eyes narrowed. “Jack is a fool.”

Myra giggled, though it came out a little too high, a little too sharp. “Oh, Patty, always so sure of yourself.” She sighed, stirring her tea with unnecessary force. “I don’t know how you do it. You’re so strong, so modern. I mean, studying? Politics, no less? I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

Patty gave her a warm, reassuring smile. “You’d be surprised what you can learn when you just start.”

Myra sighed dramatically, patting her hair. “Oh, I wish I were like you, Patty. Brave and bold.” She let out a little chuckle. “I wanted to be daring once, you know. But I ended up being the kind of woman whose children don’t even need her anymore.”

Patty’s chest tightened, hearing the deep loneliness beneath Myra’s words, “They still need you, Myra,” she said gently. “Your daughter wants you to live with her after all.”

"Well...that was an unrealistic dream...it fell through." But Myra shook her head, laughing lightly. “She was merely placating me...just like her father.” She seemed to wilt before Patty so small and sad. “I just—float around the house, baking cakes no one eats and trying not to feel like I’m disappearing.”

Patty reached over, squeezing her friend’s hand, “You haven’t disappeared. You just need something that’s yours again.”

Myra blinked rapidly, as if surprised by her own emotions. Then she forced a bright smile, tilting her head like an actress in an old film, “I always wanted to see Paris ever since I saw that movie. The one where Audrey Hepburn gets discovered in a bookstore. The only thing I ever got discovered doing was preventing a soggy bottom.”

Patty laughed, about to reply when— The back door burst open. Myra gasped, nearly knocking over her teacup.

Patty was already on her feet, heart pounding as two men strode into the kitchen—large, broad-shouldered, the kind of men who looked like they belonged in a pub brawl, not a quiet suburban home.

One of them, a thick-necked brute with slicked-back hair and a permanent sneer, tilted his head at Patty. “You Mrs. Love?”

Patty lifted her chin, even as her stomach twisted in warning. “Who’s asking?”

The other man, shorter but stockier, cracked his knuckles. “We’re just here to deliver a message.”

Patty barely had time to react before one of them grabbed her wrist, yanking her forward. Myra let out a piercing scream, but the short one snatched up the collar of her dress, nearly pulling her off her feet.

Patty twisted violently, managing to slam her knee into the first thug’s stomach, but it barely fazed him. He shoved her back against the table, the crockery crashing to the floor.

“This is what happens,” he growled, gripping her arm so tightly she winced, “when your husband starts sticking his nose where it don’t belong.”

Patty stilled. Freddie. This was about the bushranger story. They were here to shut her up. Then—The sharp crack of a gunshot shattered the air.

The taller thug crumpled, screaming as blood blossomed from his knee, his body crashing onto the tiles. The short one froze, his grip on Myra loosening just long enough for her to reach for the nearest weapon—A cast-iron meat tenderizer.

With a guttural scream, Myra swung the heavy mallet right into his gut, sending him doubling over, gasping for air.

Patty jerked free, breathless, her ears ringing from the gunshot.

Standing in the doorway, a pistol still aimed with deadly precision, was Betty Knight. She stepped forward, her heels clicking softly against the floor, her expression calm, unshaken, “Well, well, what do we have here, Mrs. Love?” she said, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, “This is an awful lot of excitement for a Wednesday afternoon. I'm sure you'll need the vampers after this.”

Patty exhaled sharply, her hands still trembling.

The man on the floor groaned, clutching his knee, while the other gasped like a fish, still doubled over from Myra’s unexpected attack.

Patty, still catching her breath, leaned down and grabbed the taller man by the collar, “You came into my house,” she growled. “You put your hands on my friend.” She tightened her grip, her voice dark and low. “Now, you’re going to tell me exactly who sent you. Or I’ll let my neighbour take your other kneecap.”

The man winced, swallowing hard. His good leg twitched, “The mayor!” he blurted.

Patty froze. Betty raised a brow. “Oh! How deliciously wicked.”

The short one nodded quickly, sweating bullets. “He don’t want no stories coming out. He’s Riley Carrington’s kin.”

Patty’s stomach dropped. The upright, respectable mayor—the man shaking hands with priests and schoolteachers—was the offspring of a bushranger and a criminal.

Patty crouched down next to the injured man, “Yes, but who helped Riley escape from the morgue?”

The thug hesitated—Betty squeezed his bloody wound. The man let out an almighty cry of pain, “You were saying?”

“The copper…back then,” he muttered. “They grew up together. Same orphanage. Looked out for each other. One became the law, the other… well.”

Patty’s head spun. This was bigger than she’d thought, “But this is all hearsay. You could be making this all up? We need proof.”

“All you need is a key to their homestead. You’ll get your answers there.”

Myra piped up, “Well…I do know Roselyn Cash! We are dear friends! That was before I got so fat and unpleasant. We grew up in the same neighbourhood. Both dirt poor and with not a penny to our names but we were happy. Probably the happiest time of my life.” She smiled, warmly, “I could get the proof you need.”

Patty exchanged a look with Myra, who was still gripping the meat tenderizer like she intended to use it again.

This all seemed to be going a little too far. She didn’t care about the story. She was much more concerned about getting these thugs out of her house. She heard the sirens break through the silence knowing the additional help would soon arrive.

********

The kitchen was a mess—shattered crockery, spilled tea, and the lingering scent of gunpowder. The men were gone, dragged away by the police after a stern phone call from Betty to a detective she knew. Myra had fled home, clutching her sponge cake tin like a life raft, mumbling something about too much excitement.

Patty stood in the wreckage, rubbing her wrist where the thug had grabbed her. Betty, ever composed, holstered her pistol in her handbag, smoothing down the front of her dress like this was any ordinary afternoon.

Patty exhaled, shaking her head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… thank you.”

Betty’s red lips curved. “You’re welcome."

Then Patty glanced at her, hesitant. “I suppose I misjudged you.”

Betty arched a brow, amused. “Oh, absolutely not, darling. I am all those things and much more…now you’re accepting me for that behaviour and not looking down your perfectly straight nose at me.”

Patty huffed out a small, reluctant laugh. “You could be right. Sorry about the cherry pie.”

Betty leaned against the counter, smirking. “And you, Patty, are more my kind of people than I first pegged you for.” Betty’s smirk faded slightly, and she gave Patty a knowing glance. “I owe you a thank you as well. You turned Tommy’s tattle-tail manuscript into cinders.”

Patty blinked. “There was too much at risk.”

"I knew you'd take action that moment...I so clumsily left a couple of the pages on the porch," Betty tilted her head, “Some things are better left to the imagination and not free to cause all kinds of trouble.”

"You planned it!"

Betty exhaled, glancing toward the doorway as if making sure no one else was listening. “You did me a favor, Patty. More of a favor than I think you realize.” Patty narrowed her eyes. Betty smiled thinly, but didn’t confirm or deny it. Instead, she reached out and squeezed Patty’s hand, just briefly. “Let’s just say—some ghosts are better left buried.”

The front door swung open, and Freddie stormed in, eyes wild with worry, “What the hell happened here?” His gaze snapped between Patty and Betty, taking in the chaos, the overturned chairs, and the bullet hole in the ceiling.

Patty sighed, stepping toward him. “Oh, you know, dear. Just a bit of afternoon excitement.”

Freddie exhaled, rubbing his temples. “I need a drink.”

Betty laughed lightly, already heading for the door. “And that’s my cue. I’ll leave you to clean up, Patty. I know how fond you are of a broom.”

Patty glanced back at her, “Betty.” Betty paused, looking over her shoulder. “Come for tea sometime. Preferably when we’re not dodging insults.”

Betty’s lips quirked into a knowing smile. “I just might.”

As the door clicked shut behind her, Patty turned back to Freddie, her smile vanishing.

“This has to stop.”

Freddie blinked, still frazzled. “What?”

Patty gestured around the kitchen, her hands trembling with leftover adrenaline. “Your damn story. It’s not just words on a page anymore—it’s here, in our house. In our lives. What if the children had been home, Freddie? What if it wasn’t me and Myra sitting here, but Lizzy and Teddy?”

Freddie’s expression hardened, his hands curling into fists. “Patty, I can’t just—”

“You can,” she interrupted, her voice sharp and unyielding. “And you will. I am telling you, as your wife—as the mother of your children—this has gone on long enough.”

Freddie swallowed, torn between his duty as a journalist and the reality staring him in the face.

Patty softened, placing a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat still pounding beneath her palm, “I need my husband, Freddie. Not a martyr.”

Freddie exhaled slowly, wrapping his hand around hers. For the first time since he started chasing the ghost of Riley Carrington, he truly considered letting it go.

*********

Patty was peeling the potatoes for tea while her children surveyed the damage to the cubby. Freddie was trying to salvage what could be used again. He was still going on about Lizzy’s reckless while she fired back with her scientific principles. Teddy just teased his sister some more causing her to wallop his arm which than caused Freddie to play peace maker. All in a day’s work with this family.

The phone rang. She wiped her hands on her apron and picked up the receiver, expecting a routine call. Instead, Flo’s voice, strained and trembling, came through the line, “Patty, it’s Flo. I have some terrible news.”

Patty’s heart sank. Her legs began to waver, “What is it, Flo? What has happened?”

“It's Myra... She’s... Myra’s gone. They found empty an pill bottle beside her body.” Patty felt the air leave her lungs. She gripped the counter for support, her mind reeling, “Apparently, her neighbours called the police when they saw smoke coming from her house…her very last ginger fluff.”

The world seemed to silence in that moment. All Patty could hear was her own anguish. She placed the phone back on the cradle and leaned against the counter, tears streaming down her face. Myra, with her struggles and insecurities, had been a part of their lives for so long. The thought of her being gone was unbearable. Myra’s death was a stark reminder of the hidden battles people fought every day.

Patty just sat there in her grief until Freddie came back inside. She crumpled into his arms. He held her as she howled her anger and frustration. Freddie put her to be bed with a whiskey and left her to find solace in her sleep.

*********

The overcast sky mirrored Patty’s heavy heart as they gathered at the cemetery for Myra’s funeral. A light drizzle began to fall, blending with the tears that streamed down her face. Freddie stood by her side, his arm around her shoulders, providing the support she desperately needed.

The book club ladies were there too, each one looking sombre and reflective. Lucy, recently out of the hospital, stood quietly, she was still not her old self. This funeral did not help. Cindy and Flo exchanged solemn glances; their grief palpable but composed.

As the service concluded and the mourners began to disperse, Patty’s gaze fell on Jack, Myra’s husband. He stood a short distance away, looking haggard but with a strange sense of relief on his face. The sight of him ignited a spark of anger within her. She broke free from Freddie and marched toward Jack, her steps purposeful and her eyes blazing.

“How can you even raise your head?” Patty’s voice trembled with fury as she confronted him. “Shame on you! You’ve always had a cruel and unkind streak where Myra was concerned but did you have to abandon her as well?”

Jack’s face contorted, not with guilt, but with irritation. “Patty, don’t start. Myra brought this on herself. She was weak and foolish. She couldn’t handle things. That is not my fault.”

Patty’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Not your fault? She was your wife, Jack. You were supposed to love her, support her. Instead, you treated her appallingly when she needed you the most. You might as well have stuffed them down her throat yourself.”

Jack shrugged, a coldness in his eyes. “I’m free now, Patty. Free from her constant whining and insecurities. She was a burden, and now she is gone. Maybe it is better this way.”

Freddie moved quickly, stepping between Patty and Jack, his hands gently but firmly gripping her arms. “Patty, enough. This isn’t the time or place.”

“No, Freddie,” Patty cried, tears streaming down her face. “He needs to hear this. He needs to know what he has done.”

Jack rolled his eyes, clearly unrepentant. “Spare me the dramatics, Patty. She did this to herself. I’m done feeling guilty for her stupidity.”

Patty’s anger gave way to a deep, sorrowful exhaustion. Freddie pulled her close, whispering soothing words in her ear. “Let’s go, Patty. This won’t change anything.”

Reluctantly, Patty allowed herself to be led away, her body shaking with sobs. As they walked back towards the waiting cars, she felt the weight of grief settle heavily on her shoulders.

Patty glanced back at Jack one last time. He stood alone; a man untouched by remorse amidst the headstones. She couldn't find it in her heart to forgive him, not yet. Maybe not ever.

**********

Book club was quiet. Too quiet. The energy had shifted, dull and heavy, weighed down by absence and unspoken worries. Patty sat at the head of the table, stirring her tea, feeling as if the group was slowly fading, its enthusiasm dwindling along with its membership.

Everyone was present except Lucy. She was still reconciling her faith with the fact that her friend had taken her own life. Only God had that power. Didn't he? She was prayer for her friend's mortal soul.

The others all sat comfortably, but no one spoke. No one chattered about books or gossiped about town affairs. Even Flo, usually the first to stir the pot, simply tapped her nails against her teacup, as if waiting for someone else to break the silence.

Finally, Cindy sighed, glancing at the empty seat across from her, “I could use a slice of her cake right now.”

Patty set her cup down, exhaling, “We weren't enough to save her. She was really struggling. Oh that man! He was awful to her, comparing her to pin-up girls and movie stars. She had been taking those diet pills, trying to lose weight to make him happy.”

Ruby shook her head, setting her cup down with a soft clink. “Oh, girls! Those pills are dangerous.” Her fingers tightened around her saucer. “Yet we all get it! The pressure to look a certain way, to fit some ridiculous ideal… it’s relentless.” She hesitated, lowering her gaze. “I've never had the luxury of vanity, but I know what it is like to be compared to other women." She looked up, almost embarrassed. “I can't say I have never wished for my skin to be a little lighter. Just being around you all makes me anxious. Like perfect Barbie dolls.”

A wave of guilt rippled through the room. Flo, Cindy, and Patty exchanged glances, and Cindy—always the first to philosophize a crisis—spoke up, “We’ve all played our part in this,” she admitted. “I read an article recently, criticizing these impossible beauty standards. It talked about how harmful it is to constantly compare ourselves to unrealistic ideals.” She sighed. “And it’s not just our looks. My mother keeps asking why I’m not married yet, as if that’s the ultimate measure of my worth. It’s exhausting.”

Patty took a deep breath. Time for her own confession, “I’ve felt it too, you know. The need to be perfect. I’ve struggled with it for a long time.” She hesitated. “I started taking Happy Pills to cope with the stress and disappointments in my life. There was a time I was so jealous of Diana and her glamorous lifestyle.” The women looked at Patty, their faces a mix of curiosity and concern, “But lately,” Patty continued, “things have been different. The talks at the library. Your friendship. It’s given me a new sense of purpose. I’m not needing my Happy Pills as much. I’m not drinking like a fish. I feel… more in control.”

Flo smiled fondly. “That’s wonderful, Patty.”

Patty sighed with relief, feeling a warmth spread through her. “Thank you, Flo. But it’s not just me. We’re all amazing. We just need to remind ourselves of that.”

A new voice cleared her throat at the doorway, “Not all of us.”

Patty turned just as Lucy stepped inside. A hush fell over the room.

Lucy looked smaller somehow, thinner, but still perfectly composed, her dress crisp, her posture straight as ever. But her usual sharp edges were softer now. There was something different.

Flo snorted. “Well, that is one way to make a dramatic entrance.”

Lucy’s mouth twitched, but she remained serious, “I can’t condone what she did in the eyes of God but I… I understand why she did it.” Lucy took a slow breath, “Myra’s obsession with beauty. With being enough.” She slumped down into her once vacant chair, “I have been obsessed myself…with being more than I actually was.”

Flo’s brows lifted, “You’ve had quite the rapture while you were in the funny farm.”

Lucy smirked wryly but didn’t look up, “I found a new perspective surrounded by women who had lost their minds because the world told them they weren’t good enough. Too fat. Too plain. Too much. Too little.” She exhaled deeply, her usual rigid composure faltering for just a second, “I’ve spent my whole life trying to craft the perfect life for myself, but perfection is a fallacy.” She lifted her gaze, and for the first time, Lucy Calloway looked vulnerable, "I was just as deluded at Myra.”

Silence. The kind that held weight.

Then, Flo—of all people—reached across the table and squeezed Lucy’s hand, “So does this mean you’re no longer going to be a pain in the backside?” Her eyes gleamed, “You’ll let me read your tarot cards?”

“I may be humbler,” Lucy let out a breath like a deflating balloon, shaking her head with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “But you’ll keep those prophets of Satan away from me.”

Flo smirked. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Lucy sat back, the conversation settling deep into the bones of the room. They had all felt it—the pressure, the expectation. And now, maybe, they were starting to let go of it.

Patty sighed, glancing at Myra’s empty chair. There was a mix of regret and guilt that would never fade. She would just get use to those feelings sitting side by side with her everyday life. Yet there had to be something else she could do to stop more women ending up like Myra.

To lighten the mood, Cindy reached into her handbag and pulled out their next book club selection, Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

“Passion, scandal, and a bit of smut,” she declared. “Perfect reading material to honour our Myra.”

The women smirked, already imagining Lucy’s inevitable reaction. She rolled her eyes with disdain. Surely there must be higher brow literary works than smut? And Myra? Well, she would be shrieking with delight loving every page.

*********

The morning light streamed through the kitchen window as Patty poured herself a cup of tea, the warmth doing little to ease the lingering weight in her chest. She noticed a small, unmarked envelope tucked beneath the morning post.

Patty frowned, setting down her teacup and picking it up. The handwriting on the front was unmistakable. Myra. Patty’s stomach tightened.

She turned the envelope over and carefully broke the seal, pulling out a single folded letter. Attached to it were two pieces of paper—one was a black-and-white photograph, the edges slightly worn, as if it had been handled many times before. The other was a certified birth record.

But there was also something else inside. A gold coin—old, heavy, the very same kind the children had found buried on the island.

Patty’s breath caught as she stared at the photograph. It was a family portrait, taken long after Riley Carrington was supposed to have died.

In the center of the image, looking alive and well, was Riley Carrington himself—his notorious, sharp-featured face unmistakable, but aged, his once-wild hair now neatly combed, his trademark smirk softened into something almost respectable.

And beside him, not as an enemy, but as a trusted friend, stood the very policeman who had sworn he had killed him.

But it was the small boy in the front row that made Patty’s heart clench—because she recognized those eyes.

Patty pushed back from the table, gripping the photograph as she rushed into the study, where Freddie kept his collection of old newspaper clippings and crime archives.

She threw open a drawer, rifling through papers until she found it—Riley Carrington’s wanted poster. She laid it beside the family photo, comparing the faces. The same high cheekbones. The same angular jaw. The same smirk.

Except, in the family photo, the outlaw was a man at peace, no longer hunted. He had lived his life in the shadows, hiding in plain sight, raising a family that now ruled the very town he once terrorized.

Patty’s breath came shallow, her pulse hammering in her ears. She unfolded Myra’s letter with trembling fingers.

Patty,

I was taking Rosalind Cash a cake after those hoodlums accost us. I also wanted to know the truth before I left. I may have been snooping while she was in the kitchen making tea. And I may have come across these little treasures tucked away in an old writing desk.

Now, you know me, Patty. I don’t claim to understand all the things you and Freddie poke your noses into, but I know when something is interesting. And this? This seemed like the sort of thing that would make your little reporter’s heart go pitter-patter.

Anyway, I’ll leave it to you to decide what to do with it. Just don’t tell Rosalind I was poking about, alright?

With love, from wherever I am now,

Patty.

Patty exhaled shakily, staring at the photograph, the wanted poster, the birth certificate, and the gold coin. She set the letter down, gripping the documents just a little tighter. She had a choice to make. And she already knew what it would be.

#LGBTQIAStories #AustralianFiction #FictionOnTheWeb #1950sHouseWives #FemaleProtagonist #SocialChange #FemaleFriendships #Dramedy #SoapOpera #TeenLGBT #StrongFemaleCharacters #Nostalgia #QuirkyReads #FunReads