Second Chance Lane (Brockenridge #2) - Nicola Marsh Page 0,63

thought Betty was good, Mason was in a league of his own—if this was the kind of fare he intended on serving to the good folk of Brockenridge she’d be first in line every day.

But that might not happen now, courtesy of her witch of a mother, and Jane knew she wouldn’t sleep until she confronted Gladys.

With sugar making her blood fizz and her head spinning with the implications of why she cared so damn much what Mason Woodley thought of her, she drove ten minutes out of town to her childhood home.

After her father died, she’d expected Gladys to leave Brockenridge in favour of Melbourne or Sydney, to live her fake life in a glamorous city better suited to a phoney like her. She should’ve known better, because Gladys needed the adulation of those around her and it would’ve taken her too long to build up an audience of minions in a new city. Here, she could lord it over everyone: hosting the best book club; donating the most to local charities; opening her famed garden to the public to raise money for drought relief. Revered, adored Gladys Jefferson, a pillar of the Brockenridge community.

What a crock.

Jane pulled into the circular driveway of her old home with a spray of gravel, quashing the childish urge to do a few burnouts. The only thing stopping her was that it wouldn’t affect her mother anyway, she’d just get one of the staff to clean up the mess in the morning.

She’d barely parked and stepped from the car when the ornate front door opened. Anger made her shake as she stalked towards her mother, silhouetted in the doorway like some villain from a classic movie.

‘It’s awfully late for dropping in—’

‘Cut the crap, Mum. We need to talk.’

As Jane caught a glimpse of Gladys’s smug smirk, she knew this was her mother’s intention all along: to get her to come home, on her terms.

Jane stalked into the nearest room, a lavish library that housed floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves filled to capacity. She’d always considered this room her dad’s space because she’d often find him in here, behind the desk, poring over something on the computer. She later wondered if it had been his coping mechanism, a way to hide from Gladys, some much needed me-time. Whatever his rationale, it hadn’t worked, because her dad had been compelled to find the ultimate way to escape Gladys. And the suspicion surrounding the lack of skid marks before his car slammed into that tree at one hundred and forty kilometres an hour told Jane all she needed to know. Her dad’s death hadn’t been an accident. Gladys had driven him to it.

‘What’s this all about, Jane?’

Gladys perched on the edge of a brown Chippendale sofa, her hands clasped in her lap, her smile serene. It didn’t surprise Jane that even at this late hour her mother wore a designer pantsuit in the palest of pinks. Gladys never let anyone see her as anything other than polished and perfectly made-up. Jane couldn’t remember ever seeing her mother without make-up, or in pyjamas for that matter. Every morning Gladys would appear in the kitchen fully clothed and made up, and would maintain her façade until she closed her bedroom door at night.

Jane had once done everything in her power to present the perfect image Gladys wanted in the vain hope it would get her mother to acknowledge she actually had a daughter; it hadn’t been enough, so she’d stopped caring about her mother’s aloofness towards her. She’d put it down to the lack of a maternal gene or two. While her mother’s indifference hurt, it hadn’t mattered as much because her dad had adored her and they’d been a tight-knit twosome.

Bitterness tightened every muscle in her body but Jane had to relax. She needed to get this sorted out. ‘Why are you stalling the sale of the shop next to the bakery?’

‘Oh, that.’ Gladys waved her hand like she was shooing a bothersome fly. ‘I’m an astute businesswoman so there’s nothing wrong with wanting top dollar for my investments.’

‘It’s been empty for years. Why not settle quickly?’

A glint of smugness lit Gladys’s steely blue eyes. ‘Why would I do that when this is so much more fun?’

Jane had known this was about her mother yanking her chain all along, wanting to see her grovel or dance to some warped tune, damn her.

‘Mason and I are not involved. He’s hiring me to assist with the interior design. That’s it. So