Chapter Twenty-five – Jack
Chapter Twenty-five
JACK
‘U gh,’ I groan, sprawled out on my bed with a freshly cracked beer. ‘I wanted to kiss her so bad.’
Izzie appears utterly unimpressed, her expression fixed in a perpetual state of indifference as she chews on her banana.
‘Just hear me out, Iz. She really threw me when she said that stuff about me not having any worries – that it’s all tides and tourists. Well, she’s right about the tourists – just not for the reasons she thinks.’
I stand to unpack our picnic things, Andie’s face looming large in my mind: her unruly curls, her freckles darkening with each day, and that swimsuit.
There’s no way I can tell her about the oyster farm, and the dilemma I’m facing now with Alec and the Pacifics. I’ll frighten her away before she gets to know me properly – especially when it’s clear she’s going through some shit herself. She’s mentioned her dad has dementia, but I get the feeling there’s even more to her story.
I just hope that I handled her tears okay – pretending not to notice them. Without even realising it, she’s fast becoming my happy place, my escape from it all – and I want to be the same for her.
I slowly remove items from the basket, starting with Clara’s rug and picnic set. It still feels strange to be using her treasured belongings without her. But she was adamant about leaving everything behind to start fresh, and I knew better than to argue with her.
Once the basket is emptied and the food crumbs shaken out for Izzie to enjoy, I move on to the green shopping bag where I stowed the oyster shells after I discarded the diseased meat and scoop them out to inspect closely.
A jagged line runs through one of the iridescent pearly shells like a lightning bolt. There was a time a couple of years ago when we tried to recoup some money for the farm by grinding the shells into a fine powder to sell to manufacturers, to make metallic paint for cars and the holograms on plastic credit cards, but that ship has long since sailed. Now, I keep any wild ones I find for my art.
As I add the shells to my collection, my phone alarm sounds. I wish I was still hanging out with Andie, but instead I have a room to turn over ahead of a late check-in at Clam Cove Resort.
Thanks for such a lovely evening. x
I’m walking and texting and am about to hit send, proud of myself for not deliberating over my message too much, when I spot Alec hurrying up the path towards me.
Shit . I try to slip into the shadows of the closest beach hut, but he’s already seen me.
‘Cooper.’ Alec nods sternly as he adjusts his tie. Seriously, who wears a suit at 9 p.m. on a balmy-as-fuck-even-at-night island? ‘Please tell me you’re on your way to clean room nine. He’s getting a water taxi over and should be here in half an hour.’
‘On it, boss.’ I wonder if he can detect my souring tone.
‘You’re cutting it fine. Did I spot you out on the water earlier?’
‘I thought we agreed that I didn’t have to keep specific hours as long as I got the work done?’
Fucked if I’m going to utter a word to him about Andie.
‘That’s right. But I won’t tolerate any piss-taking.’
‘No piss-taking happening here, mate. You do know we have a shared goal, right?’
‘Do we?’ He eyes me with suspicion.
Well, maybe not exactly the same goal. Obviously, Alec is only in it for the money, whereas I’m concerned with Pearl Island’s tourism industry in general. More rooms filled equals more tourism dollars equals a livelihood for me and my friends. So far, the best we’ve managed is thirty per cent capacity.
‘I’ve heard rumours you’re managing some private lettings,’ Alec says.
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ I lie.
‘Right, well I better not get a whiff of anything untoward.’ Alec fiddles with his wanky cufflinks shaped like giant clams.
‘Or what?’ I challenge. Whether it’s the beer I’ve just chugged or the potential of something developing with Andie, tonight I’m feeling invincible.
‘You haven’t replied to me about the oyster farm,’ Alec says.
My heart instantly plummets.
‘Yeah, I’m not sure now’s the best time,’ I say, gesturing to my mop bucket brimming with cleaning supplies and scanning for someone who might need directions. I’d prefer to break the news that the River Brasserie is permanently closed to a posh guest than chat to Alec.
‘Well, tick-tock, Cooper. You only have three more days to decide. I’ve already taken over the lease, so this is happening with or without you. To be honest, I thought you’d jump at the chance to give the island back its oysters and get back into farming without any of the financial risk. I’m happy to take Keith on too, if that’s the issue.’
‘That’s not the issue, Alec,’ I say, pressing my lips together and trying to keep my insides from exploding outside.
‘I still don’t understand this Pacific oyster vendetta . . .’
I sigh. ‘It’s pretty simple. Pacific oysters aren’t native to this estuary. They’re an introduced species and have caused absolute havoc.’
‘But they’re here now. And that’s the whole point, they grow so much faster – we’d have stock to harvest in eighteen months. And they’re bigger and creamier – everyone loves them!’ Excitement bubbles in his voice. ‘I could get the brasserie reopened, sell them to the bowlo and Charlie Farleys. He’s a mate of yours, right? I’m sure you’d love to see him back on his feet?’
‘Mm,’ I say, not giving anything away. As if I’m not already having a hell of a time with this very dilemma. I want out of this conversation.
‘Everything would be done above board and according to the biosecurity laws. I mean, how can it not, with the bloody Department of Primary Industries breathing down our necks?’
Nothing less than a flat-out no would be a betrayal to Keith and everything he’s taught me about how his people have farmed the river for thousands of years. One of my earliest memories of working with Keith is seeing him taking golf clubs to a patch of wild Pacific oysters and smashing them to smithereens. Still, I’d do almost anything to help Charlie and breathe life back into this island.
‘I’ll get back to you,’ I tell Alec, grabbing my bucket.
‘Remember, three more days, Cooper.’
‘Yup, got it.’
Bloody Alec has kept me so long that I’m still wiping down the shower screens when I hear a key slide into the door.
‘Sorry, I’m just finishing up in here,’ I call out, my words bouncing off the sparkling tiles. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to buff and shine. ‘I’ll only be a few more minutes.’
‘Oh, right. Okay.’ I can tell I’ve startled him. ‘No problems, mate. You do your thing.’
I slip into autopilot while I work with speed, channelling the same mindset I used to deploy while hauling up the oyster cages from the river and scrubbing vigorously to clean off the barnacles and debris before lowering them back into the water.
I emerge five minutes later, smiling like a professional, even though I can feel sweat running down my back. I’ve remembered to wear my uniform (thank God, or that would have been another thing for Alec to go at me for): a navy linen short and shirt set printed with hibiscus flowers, despite no hibiscus growing on the island.
‘Hey, mate, sorry again about the delay. High season,’ I say to the stocky man standing in the doorway with his luggage. There’s something about his face that is vaguely familiar. ‘Let me help you with that.’ I swing his suitcase up onto the luggage rack, even though his sturdy stature tells me he could have managed it just fine. No one can ever accuse me of not trying with the guests.
‘All good, mate,’ he says, reassuring me that no negative reviews will be left on Tripadvisor. It’s an odd position to find myself in – simultaneously wanting the place to succeed and fail.
‘So, what brings you to Pearl Island?’ Yes, it’s small talk, but also important research insights.
‘A girl, actually. I’m here to win my ex back.’
‘Ni-ice.’ I let out a low whistle. ‘Well, best of luck to you, mate. Hit me up if you want to impress her with a boat ride or a paddle. I’m normally floating around here somewhere. I’m Jack, by the way.’ I extend a hand to him.
‘Mitch.’