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Historical

Date Published: 11-26-2024

Two women. Two generations. A lifetime of secrets…

Sydney, 1989. When a secret trunk belonging to her enigmatic mother is delivered, Olivia Bennet’s safe and predictable world is thrown into disarray.

Inside the trunk, long-buried secrets tell of a different life that is totally foreign to shy and unadventurous Olivia. Secrets she’s certain her mother intended to stay hidden.

For the first time, Olivia has hope of finding answers about her father, and along with it, her identity. But only if she has the courage to face who she truly is.

Sydney, 1964. Amidst the vibrant backdrop of multicultural inner Sydney, Rosemary Benito plans to leave behind her painful past and embrace the freedom her new home offers.

While her exotic beauty attracts unwanted attention, if she works hard enough in her new country, Rosemary can become whatever—and whoever—she wants. She just has to make sure her old life doesn’t catch up with her.

Neither woman can change their pasts. But if they’re brave enough, they both have the power to determine their futures…

A poignant family saga full of love and loss that spans two generations. There’s Something About You, Olivia Bennet, reveals the tender bond between mother and daughter, the undeniable ties that bind generations together, and the importance of belonging.

Her mother had chosen the name.

Olivia.

Her only connection to her ancestral home, where groves of olive trees reached towards the Mediterranean Sea.

Elizabeth.

Symbolic of a life trapped in secrets.

Bennet.

From Benito. ‘To be more Australian.’

Olivia Elizabeth Bennet.

A name that held secrets. A reminder of the mysteries her mother had carried close to her heart.

Olivia was determined to make sense of them.

Olivia

Chapter 1

February 1989

Holding her pants up, Olivia hopped into the living room to catch the ringing phone. In her efforts to sidestep Gin, she lost her balance and landed hard on the floor. Groaning, she stretched up to the antique credenza and flicked the handset off its hook.

‘Hello?’ a voice called out from the receiver.

Using the cord, Olivia pulled the handset towards her.

‘I’m here!’ she shouted. She’d been trying to get a hold of Shirley for a few days. There was no way she was going to miss the call. She quickly untangled the cord and placed the receiver next to her ear. ‘I’m sorry. I was getting ready for work.’ She pulled herself up and sat against the wall.

‘Is this Olivia Bennet?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘This is Matron Rixon,’ said the stern voice. ‘Shirley O’Connor was admitted this morning. She’s had a stroke. You’re listed as her next of kin.’

Olivia’s heart slammed against her chest. ‘Is she okay? Can I see her?’ She glanced at the clock. She was due downstairs at the shop. ‘I just need to find someone to take my shift.’

‘Miss Bennet, I believe this is a Sydney number?’

Olivia nodded frantically then realised the woman couldn’t see her. ‘Yes.’

It may not be best to come today. Mrs O’Connor is resting, and we have tests scheduled. Tomorrow would be better.’

Olivia fumbled to grab the pad and pencil on the credenza. ‘What ward is she in?’ The pencil shook as she scratched down the details the matron provided. ‘Please tell Shirley I’ll be up tomorrow. Thank you, Sister, for calling me.’

Her skin prickled with heat as she hung up. She needed some fresh air. After pulling herself up, she limped to the wooden French doors across the room. She rattled and pushed against the charcoal vintage handles, which already required some force to open. As the warm air blasted her, she sucked it in, working on stilling the panic in her chest.

Shirley had to be okay.

She wouldn’t be okay without her.

A car horn on Johnston Street made Olivia jump. She stepped back into the flat and jammed the doors shut with a clank. A heaviness settled in her chest. She glanced at the clock again and grimaced. She needed to compose herself before facing the Saturday-morning customers.

Taking slow, deep breaths, Olivia straightened the floral patchwork quilt on the gold two-seater she’d picked up at the retirement village where she volunteered. Tidying up usually had a soothing effect on her. She ran her hands along the length of it, teasing out the crinkles.

After checking that the tap in the old kitchen had been turned tight, she picked up her copy of Forrest Gump and tucked it in her handbag.

‘Gin,’ she called.

Her well-fed marmalade cat sauntered out of the bedroom. As soon as she opened her apartment door, he shot past her and down the wooden stairs. At the door to the street he meowed, itching to spend the day outside. He rubbed and wrapped himself around her legs as she unlocked the two bolts. The feel of his warm body on her bare ankles calmed her further, but when Olivia pulled open the door and Gin bolted down the street, her heart tightened again.

Today of all days, she wouldn’t be able to bear it if anything happened to him. She hoped he’d come hang out in the bookshop when it got too hot.

She turned to see a crowd of irritated adults and impatient children outside on the footpath. She checked her watch.

9:45 am.

Why wasn’t the shop open and where was Poppy?

‘I’m sorry.’ She avoided eye contact with the customers and fumbled for the keys in her backpack. ‘I’ll get the shop opened up right—’

‘I’ve been here since 9 am,’ said a woman wrangling a rambunctious toddler.

Olivia flushed. Saturday-morning story time was due to start in fifteen minutes. Where is Poppy?

She rushed into the shop to turn off the alarm, and the crowd filtered in after her. An audience of eager kids made themselves comfortable on the scattered cushions in the kids’ area while their parent began browsing—most likely the only peace they’d get that weekend.

With trembling hands, Olivia picked up the address book near the cash register and flicked the pages looking for Poppy’s number. When she found it, she tucked herself inside the door frame that led into the staff kitchenette behind the register.

Please answer, she prayed.

When someone picked up, she worked hard to keep her voice steady. ‘Good morning, my name’s Olivia Bennet and I work at Bertie’s Bookshop. Is Poppy there?’

The woman on the line informed her that Poppy had left for work.

Olivia did some calculations in her head. Poppy should be here by now. She fixated on the door, willing her to walk through. Poppy maintained a laissez-faire attitude to life and Olivia, although only a few years older at twenty-four, looked out for her like a big sister.

A squeal made her jump. The kids were getting bored. She thanked the woman and hung up then turned to see a mother with her hair pulled back tight in a ponytail tapping the counter with bright-red fingernails.

‘Excuse me. Isn’t story time supposed to start now?’

Olivia gulped. ‘I’m sorry. It shouldn’t be too long until we get going.’

She loved working at the bookshop, but the Saturday-morning shoppers weren’t her favourite. They weren’t locals but people from the outer suburbs who came into the city for a day out with their children.

Bertie’s Bookshop was renowned for its children’s books. Short sky-blue and orange shelves arranged asymmetrically stood like a maze around the kids’ area. On tiptoes, Olivia could just peer over the top of the highest shelves.

Wanting the shop to be comfortable, Bertie had added three large wing chairs for people to sit and read, each one a different design and colour. Every time Bertie renovated her townhouse in Rose Bay, a new wing chair found its way into the bookstore.

The woman glared at her. ‘You know you shouldn’t advertise an event if it’s non-existent.’

‘I’m sorry, but Poppy, the girl who runs story time, is running late. She should be here any minute.’ Olivia plastered on a nervous smile, willing the woman to accept this and not stand there giving her annoyed looks. Story time had been Poppy’s idea. She had a knack for knowing how to relate to children.

‘Well, why can’t you do it? I gather you can read. You do work in a bookstore after all.’

A chill drained the blood out of Olivia. Being the centre of attention, even if her audience was composed of pre-schoolers, terrified her. Plus, her scar would likely pique their curiosity, cementing the focus on her even more. Avoiding people meant no questions, and no questions meant she could keep her guilt buried. Before she could stammer out a response, a guy who looked to be about her age approached the counter. His bohemian attractiveness—tussled wavy hair and light stubble—forced her to catch her breath. Warmth flooded her body.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m happy to do story time.’

‘You can?’ Olivia said, relief joining the warmth.

‘Sure. Happy to do it.’

‘Are you sure? It’s just that—’

‘It’s what I do nine to five,’ he interrupted with a grin. ‘. Well, nine to three. I teach primary kids.’ He glanced over to the kids’ area, where several toddlers were pulling books out of coloured crates. ‘Though under-fives aren’t my speciality. But kids are kids, right?’

Olivia nodded quickly. ‘Are you sure? There’s craft time afterwards too.’

Sebastian leaned over, and Olivia caught a whiff of his cologne—cedar and sandalwood.

‘Craft is my superpower,’ he said with a broad, cheeky smile activating a pair of dimples.

Olivia blushed. Then she quickly reached up and covered her scar with her hair. The redness would make it glow.

‘Thank you,’ she said, avoiding direct eye contact.

‘No worries. What’s the story?’

About the Author

Valerie G. Miller is an Australian author celebrated for her dual timeline historical fiction, weaving heartfelt narratives that resonate across generations. Rooted in her Italian heritage, Valerie brings rich cultural nuances to her stories, crafting tales that celebrate family, resilience, and the deep human need for belonging. Her short stories explore the intricacies of human connection, capturing the tender moments that bind people together and create a sense of home in each other's hearts.

In addition to her writing, Valerie is training to become an accredited book coach, sharing her passion for storytelling and supporting aspiring writers on their creative journeys.

Originally from Sydney, Valerie now calls Brisbane home, where she lives with her husband, daughter, and a lively household that includes her dog and two cats. A lifelong lover of storytelling, she earned her Master of Letters in Creative Writing in 2021, further honing her craft.

Valerie is never far from her next story, always keeping a novel and a notebook tucked in her bag, ready to capture inspiration wherever it strikes.

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