That Island Feeling

Chapter Thirty-four – Andie

Chapter Thirty-four

ANDIE

S et right on the waterfront, The Oyster House is situated in a narrow brick building painted fairy floss pink – the same shade as the sky right now. It’s tinier than I imagined from Hazel’s story, but no less charming.

Instead of smashing through the glass door with a metal crowbar, Jack retrieves a key from his pocket, and I breathe a sigh of relief as he inserts it into the solid brass lock. Of course he has a key! But that also means a considerable amount of thought has gone into this date. It was one thing for him to organise a beach picnic at Pearl Cove to impress me when we hadn’t slept together yet, but why has he gone to so much effort now?

As we step inside, the brickwork from the exterior seamlessly transitions to the interior walls. Combined with the high ceilings, glittering chandeliers and banquette seating, it feels as though we’re in The Great Gatsby .

The last of the day’s light filters through the giant arch windows, casting the room in a romantic glow. Tables are arranged tightly, adorned with gleaming, long-stemmed wine glasses resembling small fishbowls, ceramic salt and pepper shakers and dainty banker’s lamps on brass stands with glass shades and pull-chain switches.

Jack flicks on the switch near the door, and the sconce lights dotted around the walls burst to life, enveloping the space in a warm, yellow hue and creating a cosy ambience that’s a stark contrast to the expansive open waters on the boat ride here.

‘Wow.’

‘Pretty impressive, right?’ Jack grins at me. ‘It was initially a kiosk until tourists started flocking to the river, then it became a restaurant with simple counter food and BYO wine, until it turned into what it is today. First established in 1922.’

‘Ah, the year of The Great Gatsby ,’ I say, secretly pleased with myself for correctly identifying the era of the decor. That film was another of Mum’s favourites.

‘And how does Leo fare in that one?’ Jack asks.

‘Not any better, unfortunately,’ I say, aware that the twinkle in my eye betrays my serious tone.

‘That’s a real shame.’ Jack sticks out an exaggerated bottom lip. It’s soft and pouty and before I realise what I’m doing I spring forward and attach myself to it. Jack kisses me back, and our lips meet with urgency and a hint of citrus.

We stumble back into the corner of the table. I barely register the pain from the sharp corner ramming into my hip bone, but the impact causes a wine glass to crash down onto one of the plates.

‘Alright, obviously we can’t be trusted in here,’ Jack says, pulling away and turning to straighten the table. Luckily the glass hasn’t broken. ‘Tom will kill me if we damage the joint – although I suppose that’d be payback for the state of Keith’s place. But he has gone out on a limb to let us in here. Ah, shit, I wasn’t supposed to say that.’ He pauses briefly. ‘You’re meant to believe that this is all movie magic.’ He wiggles his fingers in the air like Kirsten Dunst in Bring It On – another family favourite.

I laugh. ‘Do that again.’

‘Movie magic.’ His spirit fingers transform into unwieldy flappy birds.

‘Ha. Watch out!’ I lean in and narrowly save another glass before it’s sent flying.

‘Oops.’ Jack grins, sheepish. ‘We’d best get out of here.’ He takes my hand and leads me out of the room, retrieving the bag of oysters he’s left by the door on the way.

‘So Tom works here? Why isn’t it open tonight?’ I ask as we step into the kitchen. It doesn’t have the same time-warp effect as the front of house, but it is an impressive masterpiece of stainless steel.

‘Yeah, he does – well, mainly on their oyster farm,’ Jack responds. ‘It’s the same issue we have on Pearl Island, really. I guess with budget airlines, tourists now prefer going further afield to Fiji and the like, so The Oyster House is only open a few days a week. At least they still have oysters going for them. And sea planes.’

‘Sea planes?’

‘Yeah, there’s space for them to land here. I always say that if we had that same luxury on Pearl, we’d be beating the tourists off with sticks. I know I’m biased, but our beaches, wildlife – everything – is so much better.’

I love the love he has for his home.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask you how you found our little island?’ he says.

‘My parents honeymooned there, actually,’ I reveal, my stomach swooping with an influx of emotions.

‘Ah, really? That’s lovely.’

‘My dad was a marine biologist, so I think maybe that’s why they chose Pearl Island.’

‘And you organised the girls’ trip here so –’

‘So that I could see the slice of perfect paradise they always spoke about so fondly,’ I finish. ‘I guess to help me feel closer to them. Well, it’s a bit more than that, really . . .’

I trail off, like a hermit crab retreating into its shell.

Jack studies me, his expression tender. ‘Please, continue,’ he encourages softly.

‘My mum spoke about this “island feeling” all the time,’ I say, raising my fingers to give the words air quotes. ‘So, I came in search of it. I wish she’d chosen a more tangible sign, like a butterfly or a rainbow.’ A faint smile flickers across my face.

‘Or a parrot or a seagull. There’s plenty of those to go around.’ Jack laughs gently, leaning in and planting a kiss on the tip of my nose. ‘Don’t worry, Andie-girl. We’ll track down that island feeling for you.’

My insides hum with hope, and for the first time I entertain the thought of what life could look like with Jack once I’m off the island. Yet as quickly as it arrives, I dismiss it. Sure, Pearl Island is only a two-hour commute from Sydney, but it’s absurd to think that a holiday hook-up could become something more, especially considering how vastly different our worlds are. I can already picture him, next week, cooking buttery rock lobster for some new tourist girl, while I return to caring for Dad.

I try to suppress the sudden rush of emotion. ‘Thank you. That’s very sweet.’

‘Sweet? You’re the one who is one hundred per cent Chupa Chups right now,’ Jack says.

‘Okay, so I might have inherited a sweet tooth,’ I laugh, thinking of Dad’s chocolate obsession.

‘Thank goodness for those thirty-four years of brushing,’ Jack fires back.

My heart does a joyful little dance. It’s this easy banter filled with our private in-jokes that has me confused. He’s clearly fluent in the language of flirting, and it’s impossible for it not to have an effect on me.

‘So what’s on the menu tonight?’ I ask, trying to steer the conversation back onto more comfortable terrain.

‘Well, an empty restaurant is good news for us. It means no middleman.’ He slings the bag of oysters onto the countertop and empties it out. ‘Although I do have one tiny confession.’

‘Yes?’ I ask nervously. My mind races through every possibility, from the restaurant unexpectedly opening and us having to cook for a crowd like a cruel prank, to something even worse – that he’s still involved with Clara. Ever since Taylor mentioned they used to live together at Moorings, it’s been weighing on my mind.

Jack pulls open the drawer underneath the counter and retrieves a knife and a steel mesh glove.

‘I was trying to impress you the other day by shucking oysters on the beach when, truthfully, pearl oysters pop open with a butter knife. This is more serious business,’ he says as he rolls up his sleeve.

Oh.

He slips the glove on his left hand and plucks one of the rock oysters from the pile, cradling it as he pulls a chopping board from another drawer. I watch as he cracks the end of the shell slightly to create a small opening, then inserts the tip of the knife and rocks it back and forth, just as he did at Pearl Cove, but with much more force.

If he was trying to impress me before, what the hell is he doing now? Heat rushes between my legs.

‘I’m cutting the adductor muscle,’ he says, eyes flicking up to me as he slides the knife along the shell. It breaks into two clean halves.

‘She’s a beauty.’ He whistles, looking down at the creamy insides. ‘Ready to taste?’ He plucks the oyster from the chopping board and guides the shell towards my mouth.

‘Wait. Does it need to be washed?’ I ask, retracting my head. It’s so strange to go from hearing nothing but how you can’t eat the oysters, to eating them now.

‘No way!’ Jack exclaims, like I’ve personally offended him. ‘Unrinsed is the only way to eat them. You need to get the full briny flavours.’

He lifts the oyster to my mouth and my tastebuds zing at the fresh, salty smell.

Fuck. This is sexy.

We’re alone in the kitchen of a fancy restaurant, who knows where – somewhere completely remote that only seems reachable by boat or sea plane – eating aphrodisiacs foraged from the landscape. I’m ridiculously turned on.

I tilt my head back as he brings the oyster to my lips and the mollusc slides into my mouth. I bite into the flesh, a burst of ocean and minerally creaminess dancing across my tongue. I savour the flavours before swallowing, and Jack leans in to seal it with a kiss.

‘What did you think?’ he asks.

‘Mm,’ I moan, the taste of oyster and Jack mingling together.

‘That good, hey?’ he chuckles, eyes sparkling. Jack reaches for another oyster. ‘I’m going to finish shucking these quickly so we can get to enjoying them. Why don’t you head into the dining room and pick somewhere for us to sit?’

Reluctantly leaving him to it in the kitchen, I opt for the sweetheart table nearest to the window. Darkness has settled outside; the window offers glimpses of the glistening river illuminated by the moonlight and the twinkle of lights from boats in the distance. I switch on the lamp and locate some matches to light the tapered candles in the middle of the table. I’m admiring my handiwork when Jack emerges, holding a platter piled high with shucked oysters. He makes a few trips back and forth from the kitchen, setting various dishes of condiments on the table, before returning for a final time carrying a bottle of sparkling wine.

‘Is there anything better than oysters and wine?’ he asks, popping the cork and pouring the fizz into a pair of flutes.

‘Nothing,’ I murmur, a magical thrill rippling through me. This might be the most romantic moment of my life. In fact, I know it is.

Jack remains standing as we clink glasses, then sweeps a linen napkin across my lap before taking a seat and arranging his own napkin over his smart khaki shorts, a surprising departure from his usual boardies.

‘Now, pick your poison. I have pink finger lime pearls, a coriander and sweet chilli mignonette, umami mayonnaise, black garlic and saltbush . . .’ He trails off as he gestures to the tiny dishes in front of us.

‘What’s your recommendation, Cap?’ I purr, and take a swill of wine.

‘Well, I think they’re best served naked. Maybe with a squeeze of lemon – but that’s it,’ he says, flashing eyes meeting mine with wicked subtext: he wants to put his lips on me.

‘I might have some of the mayonnaise,’ I say. Why is he playing with fire? He’s already made it clear that Tom won’t be impressed if we break anything in here.

‘Suit yourself. These oysters would have taken three years to grow. I like to take a second to think about the effort behind their creation. From their crucial role as filter feeders in the river, to the meticulous care of the farmers who handle them at least sixteen times before they end up on our plate. Eating an oyster is about as quick and easy as it gets – a massive contrast to what it takes to grow them.’

‘Gosh, I’ve never thought about that before,’ I admit, wondering how it escaped me given Dad’s background as a marine biologist.

‘Don’t worry, most people don’t.’

‘You’re super knowledgeable about this stuff.’

‘Well, growing up on Pearl, you learn a thing or two about oysters,’ he replies, leaving me curious for more. But there’s something in his tone that suggests he’s not keen on elaborating. ‘You can pop your empties here,’ he says, nudging a plate towards me.

‘Taking them home for art supplies?’ I ask.

‘Nah. I only use pearl shells. I’ll pour this lot into some of the island potholes. After a few wheelbarrows bump over them, they’ll be crushed into limestone.’

For a while, we’re content, slurping and sipping, our gazes occasionally meeting over the flickering candle flame, until I decide to break the silence.

‘So, your mum mentioned she used to come here with Billy for their anniversary. Did you and Clara ever come here for yours?’

What the hell, Andie!

Jack bristles ever so slightly before replying. ‘Nope. Never.’

‘Sorry, I’m not sure where that came from. Just from what I’ve heard I assume you guys were a thing, but it’s none of my business,’ I say, chasing down my regret with a succession of large wine gulps. Why does it matter to me? Jack Cooper is a holiday fling. His personal life should be of no relevance to me.

‘No, I’m happy to share. It’s what you would call a unique situation.’

‘Oh?’ I try to appear unfazed.

‘There used to be something between us when we were kids; at least we thought so – or, more accurately, Mum and Hannah hoped so. But it became clear once we hit our twenties that we were very different people who wanted very different things. We’re still good friends, but nothing more. Clara always struggled with being a big fish in a small pond, whereas I love my small pond. She was all set to move to Sydney when Hannah got sick. So, she stayed put and I moved into Moorings to help out. With the MS, lots of muscle was needed to take care of her.’

‘Where was Tom?’

‘Tom struggled pretty badly with Hannah’s deterioration. He moved to Sydney and went to uni for a bit – until I guess the guilt finally got to him and he moved back closer to home and found work here.’

My heart squeezes. So Jack and Clara were all about helping out Hannah . . .

‘That’s really amazing of you, Jack.’

‘Ah, not really. I was happy to, and it made Mum happy too,’ he replies, shrugging off my compliment. But then his expression intensifies. ‘And we both know that it’s nothing you wouldn’t have done yourself, Andie.’

Our eyes lock and it feels like he’s peering into the core of who I am. Is this why we connected so quickly? Not only because of the physical attraction, but because our souls recognised a kindred spirit. The parallels between our lives feels deeply unsettling.

OH NO .

I wince as the realisation hits me.

This is definitely more than a holiday fling now.