Joan Kilby - Home to Hope Mountain

“I do all the time.” Summer got out of the car.

He’d only been in Hope Mountain since Friday and wasn’t familiar with her routine. “Okay, well, do you have your key? An umbrella in case it rains?”

“I’ll be fine.” She poked her head back in through the open door, her red hair swinging. “So, have you thought about it?”

“About what?” Adam glanced at his watch. He should have been on the road to Melbourne by now. The team from Shanghai was arriving at 10:00 a.m.

“Me getting another horse.”

“You only asked me fifteen minutes ago.” He shouldn’t have promised to think about it when he had no intention of getting her one. “I’m sorry, Summer, but the answer has to be no.”

“Why?”

He honestly felt badly for his daughter—her horse, Bailey, had died in the bushfires that had swept through the area nearly a year ago. But he had to stand firm. “It’s not a good time.”

“Why, just because you say so? I’m supposed to accept that?”

He tugged at a lock of her hair in a vain attempt to wipe the scowl off her face. “Who’s this sullen teenager and what have you done with my sweet-natured daughter?”

She didn’t crack a smile. “Please, Dad, not another one of your stupid jokes.”

“Hmm, tough audience.” Being a single father was tough, too—much more difficult than he’d expected, and he’d only been at it a couple of days. Reiterating his primary reason, that he wanted to put the house up for sale at the end of the year, would only spark another argument. “Everything’s up in the air. We’ll talk about it later.”

“You always say that.”

“Honey, I have to go to work—”

“You and your work. I guess it’s more important than me!” She slammed the car door.

“Summer! Don’t leave like that.”

She was already halfway up the path to the school. Her friend Zoe, a tall dark-haired girl, was waiting for her, no doubt with a ready ear for Summer’s tale of hardship.

Adam sighed and put his car into gear, easing out of the drop-off zone and onto the street. He drove slowly through the three-block-long commercial end of tiny Hope Mountain.

Sun broke fitfully through the clouds above the mountains enclosing the narrow valley. Trees lining the wide street were budding, and daffodils were springing up in newly planted flower beds. The setting was picture-postcard pretty.

But Hope Mountain was far from idyllic.

The entire mountainside to his left was black and ruined. The remains of burned trees looked like giant charred toothpicks. The community center had burned to the ground, along with the pub, a church and half the businesses on Main Street, leaving empty, barren lots. In the public gardens a huge tent had been set up to distribute donated household goods to people who’d lost everything.

Near the rose garden workmen were erecting a memorial to the people who’d died—nearly two hundred souls. Did they really need such a reminder when the evidence was all around that Hope Mountain was in a region of high fire danger?

The place had been nearly wiped off the face of the map, yet the sounds of nail guns and saws rang out in the clear mountain air, as the townsfolk were determined to rebuild.

More fool them.

The narrow winding road out of town led down the mountain, through more burned-out forest. Twenty miles later, at Healesville, he took the turnoff to Melbourne. Only as he accelerated onto the freeway entrance and set course for the city did he breathe easily.

Three hours later he was wrapping up his presentation to the delegation from Shanghai. Lorraine, his boss, was seated at the end of the boardroom table along with five men and one woman, all in identical gray suits.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that concludes our firm’s vision of the luxury high-rise apartments in the Changning district of Shanghai,” Adam said. “Please, take all the time you need to review our brochure. I’m available to answer your—” he broke off as his phone vibrated inside his pants pocket “—questions any time.”

The damn phone had rung five times in the past half hour. He’d ignored it until now, but it wouldn’t stop.

“Excuse me. I’ll just be a moment.” He threw Lorraine an apologetic glance and hurried out of the room. Shutting the door, he answered his phone. “Yes, what is it?”

“Mr. Banks? This is Tom Dorian, the principal of Summer’s school.”

“What’s wrong? Is she hurt?”

“No, she’s fine. Well, not fine, but...I’d like you to come in. She’s been caught shoplifting.”

“Shoplifting? Summer?” He barked out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s not possible.”

“She was caught red-handed by the owner of the shop.”

Adam pinched the bridge of his nose. This couldn’t be happening. And yet it was. Did he even know his daughter anymore? “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

An hour later, the company helicopter set down on the rain-wet grass of the high school football field. Adam ducked beneath the whirring rotors, his long stride breaking into a jog as he neared the front doors of the school.

Summer had never been in trouble before. Ever. She was a good student, sweet-natured—this morning’s tantrum aside—obsessed with boy bands and horses...typical in every way. She’d had a rough year, with the divorce and the bushfires, but she’d never given him or Diane, his ex-wife, a moment of worry.

Until now.

Adam smoothed his hair and straightened his tie as he rushed to the principal’s office.

A secretary looked up from her computer. “Good morning. Do you have an appointment, Mr.—?”

“Adam Banks. I’m expected.” Through the open door of the principal’s office he saw Summer sitting with her back to him, her shoulders slumped.

He swept past the secretary, knocked once and pushed open the door. “Summer, honey, what’s going on?”

His daughter swiveled on her chair and greeted him with a blank expression and a shrug.

“I can fill you in, Mr Banks.” Tom Dorian was round and slightly sweaty, with short, dark hair. He rose and extended a clammy hand, then walked around to close the door before returning to his desk. “Please, sit down. I’m sorry to have interrupted you at work, but I had no choice. The shopkeeper is talking about pressing charges.”

Pressing charges. The words were enough to strike fear into the heart of any parent. Frowning, Adam took the chair next to Summer. She avoided his gaze and picked at the cuticles of her ink-stained hands. “Summer, what did you steal, and from where?”

Again, she just shrugged.

“A pair of earrings from the Gift Shop Café.” Tom Dorian laced pudgy fingers over his desk blotter, his earnest, boyish face serious. “It happened around 11:30 a.m. She was also skipping school.”

Adam rested a hand gently on Summer’s shoulder. “Is this true?”

“So I cut school. Big deal.” She shrugged his hand off.

“Not that. Shoplifting. Is this about the horse?”

“I wanted something for Mom’s birthday and I didn’t have any money.” She raised her chin and stared at him. His heart sank—now she was lying, too. She received a generous monthly allowance, and her mother’s birthday had been two months ago.

“We’ll talk about that later.” How had she sunk to such a low point without either him or Diane noticing? Behind Summer’s defiance he sensed her fear and heard her unspoken plea: Daddy, get me out of here.

He turned to the principal. “What happens now?”

“You need to go to the police station and talk with the arresting officer,” Tom said. “Since it’s a first offense the shopkeeper might let it go. But even disregarding this incident, Summer’s been on a slippery slope. As you know, her attendance is poor, her grades are falling—”