Chapter 2
WESTON
S teering the plane to land on Ceto Island never fails to make me maudlin.
Sure, the pristine white sands of the beaches and the cerulean blue ocean edging the island are beautiful, but all I see as I guide the plane onto the narrow landing strip is my dad, standing at the end of that runway and waving like a crazy person.
It’s a memory, of course, because Dad died a decade ago, but his pride in me getting my commercial pilot’s licence never waned. Whenever I came home, he’d meet me in the same spot, waiting until I disembarked from the cockpit before enveloping me in a bear hug redolent of briny sea air and seafood.
Dad’s father had been a fisherman on the island, and Dad followed in Gramps’ footsteps. They may not have understood my need to fly high, but they supported me.
When they died in a boating accident together in the middle of a cyclone, our family had been bereft. But I stepped up for my brothers: Lincoln, Walker, and Kai. Being the eldest Spade came with responsibilities. Especially as our mother fled this island when we were kids and never returned.
At least my visit this time should be fun. Tom’s a dickhead for marrying a woman he’s only known for six months, but we’ve been mates a long time and I’ll support him. And that includes making a special trip to pick up some fancy imported ham and drop it off to the caterer.
Tom gave me strict instructions on how to pack the Esky to ensure the ham remains in tip-top shape. Whoever this caterer is, they’re already a pain in my arse. I’ll make a stop at the beach shack, drop it off, then go in search of my brothers, who’ll be surfing on the other side of the island.
They’ve been renting out this shack to wedding couples for years—a nice money spinner. I rarely interfere in family business because I avoid the island as much as possible. Too many painful memories.
But Linc, Walker, and Kai value familiarity and spend months at a time here on a flexible rotation they work out among themselves. In the lead up to Christmas, they’re all here, and after Tom’s wedding on Christmas Eve, I’ll spend a day with my brothers before flying back to the mainland.
The sooner the better.
As I crest the hill where the beach shack sits perched like a shag on a rock, I glimpse formidable storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
A slow-moving cyclone has been hovering on the edge of the Great Barrier Reef for two days, but meteorologists forecast it to move north and avoid the islands of Airlie Beach, including Ceto.
As a pilot, I pay close attention to meteorologists but have learned that the weather can be unpredictable, and I’ve hit more unexpected turbulence than I’d like over the years.
That’s all I need: to be stranded here with my bozo brothers and their unswerving, unnerving optimism.
I trudge towards the kitchen attached to the shack, the tempting aromas of sautéing onions, ginger, and lemongrass making my stomach rumble and reminding me I haven’t eaten anything since this morning.
Maybe I can persuade the caterer to sling me a sample or two and make this trip to deliver the ham worthwhile.
However, as I heft the Esky up the steps and stick my head into the kitchen, I baulk.
Emery Powell, Tom’s sister, twerks and shimmies at the stove, brandishing her wooden spoon like a microphone, singing some lame eighties song at the top of her voice.
Engrossed in her performance, she doesn’t see me until she twirls, and I grin as she jumps like a scalded cat and yells, “Fuck!”