Chapter Twenty-one – Andie
Chapter Twenty-one
ANDIE
T his is so much better than the River Brasserie , I think as I sit on the sand, sandals off, filming the scene around me as I wait for Jack to return.
Boats criss-cross gracefully and cockatoos squawk and glide from tree to tree above. I’m surprised that there are only a few people on the beach. I watch a little boy splashing in the water, adjusting his goggles before pushing off the sandy bottom with a delighted giggle. My eyes are still on the boy when a boat pulls up close to shore and a leathery-skinned, long-haired man bounds out. ‘Magnums, Cornettos, Gaytimes, Calippos!’ he calls.
An ice-cream boat! How quaint!
The little boy, who looks to be around the same age as my kindergarteners, dashes out of the water, heading straight for his unsuspecting parents, who are sharing a bottle of wine on the sand. I’m so engrossed in their fierce negotiations (that kid is going places!) that I almost miss Jack striding back up the beach towards me. Dressed in a bright yellow shirt covered in miniature palm trees and matching board shorts, he looks like he’s permanently on vacation. Which makes sense now that I know his wardrobe is literally pulled from a vacation suitcase. I laugh to myself as I replay that earlier scene on the dock. I love how lightly he seems to take life.
Right now, he’s bounding towards me like an eager-to-please golden retriever, a goofy grin etched on his face. His carefree demeanour is very attractive.
‘Should we?’ I ask, nodding towards the ice-cream boat. The little boy is triumphantly licking a drippy chocolate Cornetto cone and the Robinson Crusoe vendor is pulling up his anchor, preparing to leave.
‘No way. It’s river robbery. Brad charges twelve dollars for a Calippo!’
‘Ouch.’
‘But if you want one, of course . . .’ he adds, turning to see if there’s time to flag the boat down.
‘No, no, no,’ I say, eager to put him at ease. ‘I just liked the novelty of it.’ My tongue still tingles from the sugary lollipops.
‘Thank God, because Charlie would have me shot.’
‘He doesn’t strike me as a violent man,’ I say. ‘What does he have against Streets ice creams?’
‘Not violent? I won’t tell you what happened to that poor king parrot gang.’ Jack extends an arm to help me up from the sand.
‘Ah, yes, no thank you.’
‘Seagulls are currently public enemy number one,’ he informs me, scooping up my sandals. ‘And Charlie’s issue isn’t with the ice creams, it’s with Brad. He’s not even from Pearl, he lives on a neighbouring island, and he loves torturing Charlie by anchoring right outside the shop and slashing his prices.’
‘Right, ice-cream boat strike it is.’
I add Brad to my list of island enemies. At the top of that list is Clam Cove Resort manager Alec. I have a feeling from Jack’s earlier haunted expression that his vendetta against Alec runs a bit deeper than price gouging. He must be Jack’s boss?
‘Although, I’m sure Charlie would forgive me if I told him I was just trying to impress a tourist girl.’
My stomach somersaults. ‘Are you regularly trying to impress tourist girls?’ I’m curious to know if this is an every week kind of thing.
‘Only the cute ones,’ he responds with a wink that sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine.
I thought as much, yet somehow this makes him even more appealing to me. The less strings, the better.
How is this real life? It’s like I’ve stepped straight into a movie featuring a hunky holiday fling. Because it’s not real life , I remind myself. It’s temporary island life .
‘Come on.’ Jack tugs my hand. ‘I’ve left our stuff at the other end of the beach and I don’t want anyone to nick it. Especially those damn birds.’
If there’s a way of looking sexy while trudging through the sand, it’s certainly eluded me. At least it’s late in the day, so the sand is refreshingly cool underfoot. I’m content trailing behind Jack, quietly admiring his muscular calves, and grateful that he’s spared the sight of my uncoordinated clip-clopping, like a stunted thoroughbred.
We grew up near the coast, spending countless days at the beach. In the last few years, I’ve visited even more frequently. Mum, Dad and I, then just Dad and I, sometimes with Toby, would sit on a wooden bench overlooking the ocean. It always has a calming effect on us. The warmth of the sun, the gentle breeze and the sound of waves is said to trigger sensory memories. When Mum became unable to drive, shortly after starting her treatment, I took them to the beach after school. Our daily ritual always ended with a comfort movie of Mum’s choice.
I’m a sweaty mess by the time we reach the far end of the beach. Thankfully, there’s no make-up to slide off my face – I’d opted for a tinted SPF for a natural, dewy look and a lick of waterproof mascara. Still, I’d appreciate a quick mirror-check, or at least a glance at a shiny shell to make sure I don’t look like a sea anemone. But all thoughts of my appearance vanish when my eyes land on the gorgeous set-up in front of me. A peach picnic blanket, the colour of the changing sky, is laid out in front of a pair of sweeping palms connected by a hammock swinging lazily in the breeze. The blanket is scattered with cushions, a vintage wicker picnic basket, and an ice bucket holding a bottle of wine.
‘Is this all for us?’ I ask, glancing around, half expecting to see the Bachelor film crew materialise.
Jack clears his throat. ‘Well, it took a bit to get you here, so I wanted to make sure it was worth your while.’
He motions to the portable charcoal barbecue balanced on a boulder next to us. ‘This thing needs a bit longer to heat up. How do you feel about a quick dip while it’s still light?’
He sees me hesitate.
‘I know you ignored my footwear instructions, but tell me you brought your swimmers . . .’
‘I did, I did,’ I laugh. Jack’s fears are unfounded: unlike my mother, I remembered to pack multiple swimsuits.
I look from the glittering river to Jack’s eager face, then back at the clear water. It does look very inviting.
Screw it. I’m going in.
I peel off my sundress to reveal my trusty black one-piece. With its retro silhouette and full bum coverage, I feel semi-decent in it.
Jack unbuttons his palm-tree shirt and I turn, distracting myself by rummaging in my tote bag for a beach towel.
‘Wait! What about your hand?’ I exclaim as my fingers brush against the box of Little Mermaid bandaids I found in the back of the cupboard at Moorings earlier.
‘Oh, yes.’ Jack is quick to appear by my side, leaving me no time to suck in my stomach. ‘Will you do the honours?’
He removes the old bandaid then sticks out his hand, and I apply the plaster to a non-existent wound.
‘Aaand, you’re all healed,’ I declare. ‘Too bad I ate all the lollipops.’
As we wander down to the water’s edge, I’m grateful for the cover of the shadowy dusk light. I’m first in, delighted to find a soft sandy riverbed underfoot and not sharp oyster shells. The water feels like a warm bath. It’s only a few degrees cooler in than it is out.
I’m chest-deep when a loud splash sounds from the shore and I turn to see Jack stroking powerfully towards me, his head above the water and a knife clamped between his lips, like a dog with a stick.
‘Shit. What’s that for?’ I ask as he pulls up beside me. I’m still standing, trying to avoid getting my hair wet.
He removes the knife from his mouth. ‘For the sharks,’ he says, expression solemn.
‘What?!’ I yelp.
I’ve been so worried about Jack seeing me in my swimsuit that I haven’t even stopped to consider what dangerous creatures might be lurking beneath the surface.
‘Duuunn dun . . . duuuunnnn dun . . . duuunnnnnnnn dun dun dun dun dun dun dun dun dun dun dunnnnnnnnnnn dunnnn,’ Jack hums ominously.
‘That’s not funny.’ I inch closer to him and have to hold myself back from jumping into his arms and wrapping my legs tightly around his waist.
‘Sorry, Andie. Bad joke.’ He sounds somewhat remorseful.
‘So, no Jaws?’ I ask shakily.
‘No Jaws,’ he reassures me. ‘Well, I can’t really guarantee that, but I’ve been swimming in this river my entire life and I’ve never had a close encounter.’
I relax and sink my whole body into the water, forgetting about my hair.
‘Except for Woof,’ Jack adds, a cheeky glint returning to his eye. ‘But he’s kinda like the island pet at this point.’
Oh God. ‘Do I want to know about Woof?’ I groan, shoulders immediately tensing.
‘You may have noticed that there are no dogs or cats on the island?’
I actually haven’t, maybe because I’ve encountered approximately a hundred other species.
‘It’s to protect the native wildlife,’ Jack continues. ‘But there’s this one bull shark that we’re all constantly hooking and releasing. He’s got that many puncture marks now he looks like a punk rocker. Someone – I can’t remember who – named him Woof, and it’s stuck.’
It’d be a sweet story if it wasn’t about a bull shark.
‘Amazing!’ I laugh nervously. ‘And when was the last Woof sighting, exactly?’
But Jack doesn’t hear my question. He’s plunged under the water, bubbles cascading around him. When he hasn’t resurfaced a minute or so later, I begin to panic.
‘Jack?’ I call out, alarmed, eyes fixed on the rippling water where he disappeared. Just as I’m about to hurry back to shore to call for help, Jack pops up next to me.
His eyes are glassy from the water and he’s clutching his knife and half a dozen rocks covered in seaweed and mud.
‘Wild oysters,’ he exclaims.
We’re settled on the picnic blanket against the backdrop of a breathtaking, fiery sky, enjoying the delicious aroma of buttery rock lobster searing on the grill, when Jack takes his shucking knife to the oysters.
My stomach squirms uneasily as I sip on my wine and watch him skilfully wield the knife. He hasn’t washed them, and I can see algae and barnacles attached to their rough shells.
Say something, Andie. Argh, but you don’t want to offend him . . .
He positions the knife at a forty-five-degree angle and inserts the tip into the spot where the two shells meet.
‘Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves?’
His eyes flick up at me.
Well, you said something, Andie. Just not what you wanted to say.
‘Honey, I could do this in my sleep.’
Jack makes a point of keeping his gaze on me as he pushes the knife deeper into the hinge and twists. I want to look away. One slip of the blade and we’ll need more than a box of Little Mermaid bandaids. He wriggles the knife back and forth.
‘Ummm, Jack?’
Okay, I’ve finally worked up the courage.
‘Yes, Andie?’ He bites down on his tongue as he concentrates.
‘Are you trying to poison me?’ I blurt.
Crack! The oyster springs open. A satisfied smile spreads across Jack’s face and he takes a sip of his wine as just reward.
‘What do you mean?’ he asks, brow furrowed.
I take a deep breath. ‘Ah, um, Hazel mentioned that the oysters here have some disease so you can’t eat them?’
The low chuckle starts deep in the pit of his stomach before spilling out of his mouth as a warm roar.
‘Yes. That is true,’ he says eventually, when he’s finally done laughing ( at me?).
‘Oh, okay. I thought I may have misunderstood something.’
That still doesn’t explain why he’s about to serve them to me, or what’s so funny. I’m suddenly conscious that I’m in the middle of nowhere with a man who, up until a few minutes ago, I felt entirely comfortable with.
Holiday hook-up rule number one: Never go somewhere you don’t know, with someone you don’t know.
‘I’m checking them for pearls,’ he says, and I immediately feel a rush of embarrassment.
‘Right. Sorry . . . I shouldn’t have assumed.’ Heat prickles at my skin and I allow my towel to slip off my shoulders, embracing the fresh air.
‘Don’t be silly. You weren’t to know.’
He’s already working away at the next oyster.
‘What are the odds?’ I ask, trying to ignore the fact I’ve just accused him of deliberately attempting to make me violently ill.
‘Only about one in ten thousand – about as common as a four-leaf clover.’
‘Have you found one before?’
‘A few,’ he answers coyly. ‘Nature’s lotto ticket.’ He’s moved on to the third oyster, glancing up at me as he digs the knife in. ‘I see you with your meal-ticket eyes, thinking you’ve discovered some millionaire island boy.’
My face flushes.
‘For your information, they’re only worth about two hundred dollars a pop – give or take. So no early retirement by the beach for you. Argh, no dice here either, unfortunately,’ he says, casting the oyster aside.
I take another sip of wine and watch him open the final pair.
‘Here, you can check these last ones.’
My heart is racing as I lean in to inspect the creamy fillings. Jack leans in too.
Our heads hover centimetres apart as we look down at the fleshy iridescent layers. I can’t see anything glimmering back at me, but I’m also focused on Jack’s warm breath that gently caresses the top of my head and sends tingles throughout my entire body. Just when I think he’s going to lean down and cup my chin, he pulls away.
‘Doesn’t look like any beginner’s luck, unfortunately,’ he says, voice gravelly.
I shake my head dumbly. My heartbeat continues to thud loudly in my ears.
‘Good thing dinner is ready to cheer us up,’ he adds.
My swimsuit is almost dry, so I slip my dress over my head and towel my hair to avoid looking like a wet poodle.
Jack pours me another glass of wine and dishes up our dinner on pretty patterned melamine plates. The plates and peach picnic rug seem at odds with his rustic cabin. The aesthetic, the wine, the postcard-perfect scenery . . . it’s clear Jack has a well-oiled routine.
He’s cut up a mango and avocado for a salad to accompany the lobster, which is cooked to absolute perfection. It’s caramelised in its natural juices and the sweetness cuts through the salty brininess.
‘Mm,’ I say after swallowing another delicious mouthful.
‘Sorry, it’s not a charcuterie board, but at least we have wine.’ He winks, raising his glass in my direction as he recalls what I said to him when I turned down his paddleboarding invitation.
‘I can’t believe you created all this from practically nothing,’ I say, flustered that he’s remembered that detail.
He shrugs, grinning, his chin marked with a dark food smudge that makes me feel less self-conscious about my poodle hair; I don’t have a brush on me to slick it back down. ‘I’ve had plenty of practice.’
I’ll bet.
Once we’re done with dinner, Jack pulls a pack of UNO cards from his picnic basket. We play the best of three. We each win one game, and then Jack takes out the final round with a UNO Reverse card. It’s been at least a decade since I played with Toby, so even though I lose, I’m still filled with fizzy energy as the cards are put away and we enjoy the last of the setting sun.
‘I wish my life was this uncomplicated all the time,’ I breathe out, gazing at the watercolour horizon. ‘I love that you work to live and not the other way around.’
We’re enveloped by hues of orange, pinks and purples, the colours blurring seamlessly into the darkening water as twilight closes in. I find myself speaking more easily now; the wine has loosened my lips. Shucked by rosé , I think.
‘It must be nice that your only worries are the tides and the tourists, and that you get to relax and play card games, and enjoy all of this,’ I say, tears suddenly pricking at my eyes as the soothing melody of waves gently lapping at the shore carries me back to my family’s bench by the ocean.
Jack doesn’t respond immediately.
‘Hot chocolate?’ he eventually asks softly, pulling a thermos from the picnic basket.
I swallow my emotion.
Holiday hook-up rule number two: Don’t cry.
‘Yum. Yes, please.’