Chapter Forty-three – Andie
Chapter Forty-three
ANDIE
‘G race! Can you blow those candles out up there?’ I call from the bottom of the staircase.
We’re running late for Hazel’s documentary premiere, so I want to get going ASAP, but I also don’t want to burn Moorings down on our final evening. It’s hard to believe that tonight is our seventh night here, and we’ll be heading home in the morning.
Grace comes bounding down the stairs, with Lizzie behind her.
‘Wow! Ands,’ Lizzie gushes.
‘You like?’ I ask, giving a twirl. I’m in Mum’s sunshine-coloured blazer, which I had intended to wear to brunch at the River Brasserie. I love that I’m wearing it to our neighbour’s house instead – someone who, in just a week, has started to feel a lot like family.
‘You look like an assistant director,’ Grace echoes.
‘Ha. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ I say.
‘Has helping out with this project made you miss your film stuff?’ Lizzie asks.
I shrug. ‘Yeah, a bit,’ I answer honestly. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought over the past few days. I’ve even considered enrolling in a part-time online course, alongside my teaching. But I’m not sure how much spare time I’ll have, especially if I’m going to try to keep seeing Jack . . . Though I’m getting ahead of myself. First and foremost, I want to get back to Dad and check he’s okay. Toby has continued being hopeless with messages, so it’s not like I can permanently pass along any responsibility to him.
‘Well, if you want our two cents, we think you should seriously consider it. We know you’re a great teacher, but these last couple of days, you’ve been sparkling. Or maybe that’s Jack’s influence . . .’ Grace elbows Lizzie, and they dissolve into giggles.
As silly as they’re being, I know that it’s true. I’m no longer seeing the world in autumn greys and browns; it’s shifted towards tangerines, saffrons – even sunshiny yellows. The challenge lies in seeing if these colours will bleed into the real world.
‘Come on, let’s go. Taylor’s meeting us there.’
She messaged earlier to say she and Mitch were still chatting. Neither Grace nor Lizzie seemed surprised by that fact. It makes me wonder how long they’ve known about the reason for Taylor’s break-up.
Hazel’s house is bursting at the seams when we arrive. Jack and I lock eyes across the crowded room, and he flashes me a huge, shiny-salmon grin. He’s squeezed into one of the far corners, wedged between a patterned chaise and an Art Deco floor lamp. The jumble sale has made its comeback. The floral fabric shade hovers above his head like a hat, as if he decided to dress in his mother’s river furniture. I’m torn between laughing and admiring how incredibly sexy he looks in that suit – probably from the Milan suitcase. It fits him so well, like really well, as if it were tailored specifically for his broad shoulders and not some Romeo’s.
He winks at me, sending a tingle of warmth through my body. The thought of an ‘us’ off of this island still feels surreal. What will Toby think? How do I even introduce him to Dad? Is he my boyfriend, or are we just dating? There’s been no one since Luke eight years ago, so I’ve forgotten all the rules.
But we can discuss everything in bed tonight, or beneath the blazing canopy of my last island sunrise.
The room is so full that I still can’t make my way to Jack as elbows jostle for a prime position to view the show. Hazel has kept her promise: this event could give the Oscars a run for its money. A sea of red roses, all sacrifices from Hazel’s garden, decorates the space, and a special wreath of lilies and gum leaves hangs on the wall, encircling the yin–yang artwork. I picture my own bunch of lilies sitting in a jug on my nightstand back at Moorings.
Bottles of white wine have been cracked open, and trays of bruschetta and smoked salmon canapés with creamy brie and berry compote circulate around the room.
‘Alrighty! Everyone out on the verandah for the fireworks display,’ Hazel announces.
Fireworks!
My hands tightly grip the balustrade as Arthur uses his hexagonal oars to paddle out into the middle of the river. Across the balcony, I catch Jack’s amused gaze. It’s like there’s an invisible string that connects us, finer than fishing line, that only we’re aware of. My mind records the moment to replay later when I’m back home in Sydney.
Oohs and aahs ripple around me as the first firework rockets into the air and the sky erupts into a kaleidoscope of pinks and purples that rain down over the river.
Arthur’s boat disappears under a dark cloud of smoke, as if he’s rowed into the crater lake of an active volcano.
‘Are you alright, mate?’ Jack shouts.
Arthur flashes us a thumbs-up – at least it appears that way; he’s wearing an oven mitt.
The show is over almost as soon as it began, a final golden shimmer of sparkles marking the finale. A brief silence follows, the night air thick with the smell of gunpowder and the river reflecting the last flickers of light.
‘Back inside now!’ Hazel barks. Her lips are painted rose red again. It really is her colour. ‘The documentary is about to commence.’
The whole island seems to be here, even Ben, Garth and Richie – who has taken an entire platter of smoked salmon canapés for himself and is set up in a corner, scoffing the lot.
We assume our original positions and I spot Taylor at the door. Mitch is at her side. She must have slipped in during the fireworks display.
The girls’ trip hasn’t ended the way I envisioned, but then again, none of it went as expected – for better and for worse. But mostly for the better, I reflect, eyeing Jack across the room with his lampshade hat. I can’t see his feet from here. I wonder if he’s barefoot in that suit.
Hazel points the remote at the television, then pauses.
‘Andie-girl!’ she calls out. ‘Come join me over here. Make some space for her, please.’
The obedient crowd parts, creating a clear path to Hazel. I take a seat next to her on the settee.
I’m now seated in front of Jack. I can feel heat radiating from his body, a blend of warm familiarity and stickiness of his skin baking in its wool blend. The scent of oranges reaches my nose as a gentle whisper.
‘Right, we’re ready to begin,’ Hazel says. She points again and clicks.
A chorus of chirps plays through the speakers, transporting us through the heavily forested trees on Jack’s side of the island. The sound is mesmerising. I glance at Hazel and smile. ‘Eyes on the screen, Andie-girl,’ she smiles back, patting my leg gently.
I almost miss the opening sequence, only just catching the swirly font before it flashes away.
For Hannah. And for Lily.
We’ll meet you in the movies.
Joy and confusion pitch inside me, and it takes a moment for my brain to catch up. As I feel Jack’s hand on my shoulder, tears well up in my eyes. He’s told Hazel about my mum.
Over the next ten minutes, a breathtaking montage of Pearl Island unfolds – everything I’ve come to love: the birds, the beaches, Izzie – even Brad and his rip-off ice-cream boat.
Next, Hazel speaks animatedly to the camera. Some of these stories I have heard before, while others are new to me. Hazel is vibrant and full of life as she shares tales of her time on the island with Hannah, occasionally bursting into sparkling laughter, her words budding with hope.
As her image fades, a resolve settles over me – Pearl Island has left me hopeful too, for the first time in a long time. Hazel’s voice carries on, only now she’s recounting the island’s darkest day while the screen fills with photos of oysters scattered across the beach in front of a small building. Is that Jack’s cabin?
Before I can ponder further, his face appears.
The back of my neck tingles as I catch sight of his dulled sea-green eyes, so different from the sparkly ones I’ve come to . . . love? I think, maybe, yes. It feels a lot like love. His eyes drift across the screen as a despondent voice – one I barely recognise – speaks. ‘We gave our blood, sweat and tears to our oysters, and now we have nothing.’
I read the caption underneath his image: Former co-owner, Pearl Island Oyster Farm.
Wait. What? I suck in a shock of air as it hits me. It was Jack’s oyster farm. Jack’s livelihood. Jack’s responsibility.
His hand is still on my shoulder, and I sense his unease behind me. Reaching back, I place what I hope is a comforting hand on top of his. How did I not piece this together sooner? I knew about the oysters, yet I reduced his life to that of a simple island local with a casual cleaning gig, who spent his days paddleboarding and fishing. I cringe as I recall how many times I implied – or even outright told him – that his life was uncomplicated. But why didn’t he correct me? Why was he okay with letting me believe a version of his life that was clearly false? I pull my hand away.
I continue watching, but I’m struggling to focus. Then Keith appears on the screen, a matching title under his name: Former co-owner, Pearl Island Oyster Farm. Snippets of his monologue reach my ears.
‘After we sold the site to the resort, I couldn’t stay on the island.’
The rest of the documentary passes in a blur. When the final credits roll, I’m relieved when Taylor immediately approaches. Jack brushes my back as he slips out from behind the settee, and my gaze follows his broad shoulders as he exits the room behind Hazel.
‘Girl! That was fabulous,’ Taylor greets me, with Mitch by her side. ‘I can’t believe you produced it. Oh, and I love this,’ she tugs on my blazer. ‘You’ve really committed to the lemon theme to the end, huh?’
I nod, holding back my thoughts about the real lemon in the room – Taylor’s ex-husband, standing right there.
‘Mm,’ I answer noncommittally. ‘And I can’t take any real credit. I just helped Hazel with a few shots.’
‘But you’re clearly back in your film era. I’ve noticed you capturing all those candid videos around the island. Are you planning to make a memento of our trip?’
You mean, of your non-divorce trip , my internal monologue screams. Are we really not going to address the fact that we’re only on this holiday because your ex-husband, who is standing right there, is a giant arsehole?
‘They’re just to show Dad,’ I say, swallowing down what I really want to say. ‘He and Mum honeymooned here.’
‘Did they?’ Taylor’s brow lifts, and I wonder why I haven’t mentioned this detail to her before.
I look at Mitch. ‘Long time no see – how have you been?’ I ask, attempting to be civil.
‘Yeah, okay,’ he mumbles, his gaze dropping to the floor. ‘How about you?’
Oh, you know, just busy picking up the shattered pieces of your ex-wife’s broken heart , I think.
I’m still trying to muster up a passably polite response when Richie sidles up to us.
‘Hey girls, are you ready for an encore performance? I found where Arthur stashed the spare fireworks. Grace and Lizzie are already in position,’ he announces with a devilish gleam in his eyes.
He turns to Mitch. ‘Sorry mate, I don’t think we’ve met?’
‘This is Taylor’s ex. He’s here to win her back, apparently,’ I cut in.
Taylor responds with a sharp look and slides her hand into Mitch’s. ‘We might actually head off now.’
‘Really? But don’t you want to introduce Mitch to the other guys – to Ben?’ I ask.
A lone firecracker explodes in the distance. ‘Shit, Garth has started without me, gotta go!’ Richie exclaims before rushing off.
‘Andie, can I speak to you in private, please?’ Taylor asks, tone clipped.
She drops Mitch’s hand and pulls me out into the hallway.