Twenty-three
Luke gazed at the brightly lit and decorated Christmas tree in the corner of the window, pleased with what he’d achieved. When he’d come home the previous evening, his car filled with a collection of food and decorations, he’d spent over an hour decorating it, hindered by Nelson’s efforts to help. It might not look as professional as the one in Rachel’s living room but would pass muster, and for him, it was an achievement. ‘What do you think, Nelson?’ he asked the dog, hoping he wouldn’t attempt to lift his leg on it. Nelson looked up at him, seemingly disgusted that he had brought a tree into the house only to smother it with lights and coloured baubles.
Luke chuckled and headed to the kitchen where he poured himself a beer – one of the craft beers from the brewery – and sniffed the aroma of the lasagne he was cooking for dinner. It filled the room, reminding him of his mother. He’d always loved her food and, in his teens, had persuaded her to teach him to make some of his favourites. ‘Not for you, Nelson,’ he said to his dog who was nosing around the oven, as he filled the dog bowl with food which Nelson ate rapidly before returning to his previous spot. Luke shook his head. The dog had a mind of his own, especially where food was concerned.
He decided they’d eat outside, but at the table rather than by the firepit which would be good when the weather turned cooler. By the time Troy arrived, Luke had everything ready and had even tuned the sound system into a playlist of Christmas carols.
‘Looking good, mate,’ Troy said, when Luke greeted him at the door. ‘See you’re getting into the Christmas spirit. Don’t bother, myself. My oldest lays it all on and I spend the day with her and the family.’
‘My son and his partner are arriving at the end of the week, so I thought I should make an effort.’
‘And what do I smell?’ Troy sniffed appreciatively as he followed Luke into the kitchen where Nelson was still positioned by the stove.
‘Move!’ Luke said to the dog who only did so to sniff at the visitor’s feet.
‘Good looking animal,’ Troy said. ‘He probably smells my Jacko.’ He bent down to ruffle Nelson’s ears. ‘Smells like your mother’s kitchen, you know. Brings back memories.’
‘It’s one of her recipes. I like to keep my hand in and you’re my first visitor.’ Luke conveniently forgot the steak he’d cooked for Rachel, preferring to keep that to himself.
‘I always loved Mother Findlay’s dinners. You didn’t invite us round often enough.’
Luke chuckled. When he was growing up, his home was the focal point for the neighbourhood, his mother’s cooking legendary. It was a rare week when one or other of his mates didn’t share a meal with them, and they were always Italian dishes, usually pasta. ‘Beer, mate?’ he asked.
‘Thanks.’ Troy took a seat on one of the high stools at the kitchen bench while Luke took a beer out of the fridge. Then he lined up the supplies from his shopping trip on the benchtop – a romaine and radicchio lettuce, a tub of cherry tomatoes, jar of olives, red onion, chilli peppers, shaved parmesan, and croutons, the ingredients for the Italian salad to accompany the pasta. His mother would be proud of him.
Troy chatted about his day then said, ‘Wow!’ watching as Luke put together the salad, then mixed the herbs, red wine vinegar and oil to make the Italian dressing. ‘You missed your calling, mate. Should have been a chef.’
Luke laughed. ‘Wouldn’t have the patience to do this every day, but it’s worth it from time to time, and I do enjoy it.’
‘You mean you don’t eat like this all the time? You’re a pie and chips man like the rest of us?’
Luke laughed again, knowing he probably had a healthier diet than many his age. His mother had trained him well. These days people raved about what they called the mediterranean diet. It was how he’d eaten all his life.
Luke waited till they’d finished eating, and Troy had praised the meal. They were on their third beers, and he was feeling mellow, mellow enough to ask Troy about what was troubling him. ‘As I said, Mum taught me her recipes, the ones she’d got from her mother. You know she was Italian, obviously. But…’ he pulled on his beard, ‘… I’ve been trying to figure out more about her parents, my grandparents. I don’t remember much about them, only an old man sitting in an armchair smoking a pipe and a tiny woman dressed completely in black. You were here back then. I wondered… are your parents still alive?’ He waited with bated breath.
‘Sorry, Luke. Dad’s been gone a few years now, and Mum suffers from dementia. If she knew anything about your folks, it would have gone long ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry about your mum.’ Luke’s heart sank. After a few moments he asked, ‘Would there be anyone else?’
‘Not from our crowd.’ Troy took a sip of beer and gazed into space. ‘Tell you what. Remember old Agnes, lives by the river, hippie type?’
‘Vaguely.’ Luke tried to picture who Troy was talking about and came up with a shadowy image of a woman with long hair wearing loose, brightly coloured clothes. ‘She’s still there? She must be…’
‘No one knows how old she is. She takes care of sick pelicans these days, has done for years now. She’d be your best bet. She’s been around for ever.’
‘Not quite.’ But Troy was right. Agnes would have known his mother, maybe even his grandparents. ‘Thanks, Troy. I’ll talk to her, probably have to be after Christmas.’
‘You might have to go easy with her. She can be a tad edgy, but it’s worth a shot. She has a dog, a spaniel,’ he added as if thinking it would make a difference. Maybe it would.
It was late when Troy finally left, and Luke had agreed to going sailing with him after Christmas, something Josh and Abby would probably enjoy too. He had also made tentative arrangements to meet his old friend at the Christmas Eve carol singing and to attend a school reunion in February. It seemed, without any effort on his part, Luke was being pulled back into life at Pelican Crossing. And there was dinner with Rachel tomorrow to look forward to.