Chapter 4 Jemma #2
Dad pulled the car in to the kerb near the restaurant.
As Jemma stepped from the vehicle, she zipped her cropped jacket.
Damp flurries gusted along the road so she scurried to the restaurant, drawing her long, dark hair forward over one shoulder as Dad and Sam caught up with her.
‘Sorry, but if you had any idea how long it takes to straighten this lot, you’d know I’m allergic to rain. ’
Dad rolled his eyes, but Sam chuckled. ‘Hang around here a bit longer and in no time flat you’ll end up living in jeans and with your hair in a ponytail.
Like the rest of us,’ she added as another couple made a dash for the door.
The guy’s surfer-blond hair was pulled into a ponytail.
He held a little girl’s hand and the woman with them—whose short, dark hair sported a surprising splash of neon blue beneath the top layer—carried a baby.
Jemma smiled at the misguided naiveté of Sam’s comment. Everything Jemma did had a purpose, a reason. She didn’t dress, date or speak without a plan. Life had to focus solely on the endgame—making partner at GB this was so unlike the city, where you walked past people without making eye contact.
‘Come on,’ Dad said, pushing open the door. ‘Everyone else is probably already here.’
‘Everyone else?’ Jemma’s heart sank. When had her father become so sociable?
‘No such thing as a quiet dinner in Settlers Bridge.’
She preceded him into the restaurant, then froze.
The tables were arranged into three rows to facilitate the sharing of the feast spread along the six-metre span.
Rectangular white bowls lining the centre of the table glowed with jewel-bright contents.
Jemma could identify hummus, a gold slick of pooled olive oil on top; the bright orange cylinders of lentil koftesi; and the lurid pink of tarama, but there were a dozen more dishes that she couldn’t immediately recognise.
Each trio of plates was separated from the next by a flat loaf of cratered pide.
‘One sniff’—she murmured to her dad, inhaling the fragrances of spice and oil—‘and a glance at all these dishes, and I know why you were raving about this place.’
‘And why would that be?’ Dad asked. He lifted a hand in greeting to a dark-haired guy at the back of the room.
‘Pierce,’ the guy said. ‘Centre table for you, my friend. I’ll be over to talk you through the mezze in a moment.’
‘Because I’m not the only one who thrives on challenge,’ Jemma replied as Dad pulled out a seat for Samantha, nodding at Jemma to take one alongside.
Sam chuckled. ‘You called it. Pierce has been up at night, revamping our menu.’
Jemma was irritated by any similarities between her mother and herself, but always secretly thrilled to find them with Dad. ‘Overachiever, much?’
Pierce shook his head but looked chuffed. ‘Between Gabrielle’s inn, this place, our restaurant and Christine’s Diner, Settlers Bridge is turning into something of a foodies mecca.’
Their conversation paused as the owner, who Dad introduced as Rik, talked them through the mezze dishes, suggesting they start with the lighter hummus and baba ghanoush, before progressing to the fried kofte and the midye dolma, rice-stuffed mussels.
As he left, Jemma tapped her plate. ‘It’s bizarre that such an underserviced town has so many places to eat.’
‘Two of them are well out of town, though,’ Lucie said as she unbuttoned her shirt to put the infant to her breast. Jemma looked away, but it seemed no one else at the lengthy table was disconcerted, focused on piling food on the ornate blue-and-white plates before them.
‘Tell you what, it’s really weird without a bakery here now,’ a guy with reddish-blond hair said as he took a seat across from her.
Jemma narrowed her eyes, but as no one complained, she assumed he was part of the group she was apparently dining with.
‘Is there no way we can persuade you to open up again, Sam?’
Sam leaned into Dad, looking ridiculously content. ‘Sorry, Hamish. Not a hope. Much as I enjoyed Ploughs and Pies, I am loving life now.’
‘Fair call,’ the guy said. He smiled at Jemma. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’re in town with plans to open a bakery?’
She almost choked. ‘Not a snowflake’s.’
‘Jemma,’ her father warned.
Sam patted his hand and Jemma scrunched her nose. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with running a bakery. I’m just not a putting-pies-in-bags kind of girl.’
Dad groaned. ‘Jem!’
What was she supposed to say? She didn’t mean to denigrate Sam’s job, but it wasn’t like running a shop in a small town was a career.
‘Hey, don’t diss pies in bags,’ Hamish said as he added a spoonful of vibrant green samphire salad to his pink fish-roe tarama. ‘They’re an institution around here. At least, they were.’
She shot him a withering glare. ‘I’m not dismissing them. I merely meant that, despite my genes, I’ve no flair for food. So, no, I won’t be opening a bakery to serve you.’
‘Genes?’ Hamish said, completely missing her takedown.
‘Jemma is Pierce’s daughter,’ Sam supplied.
‘Who clearly got her mother’s looks,’ her father added.
Her parents had been divorced almost her entire life, and yet it always surprised Jemma how respectful Dad remained about his ex-wife.
As a result, Jemma had maintained a tenuous relationship with her mother …
but it was out of a sense of duty to Dad.
And a need to hide from the world just how betrayed she’d been by her mother.
‘And Jemma’s something of a prodigy in the legal field,’ Sam added. ‘So definitely no hospitality work for her.’
‘We’re getting a replacement for Stokes already?’ Matt, the vet, said. Sam had quietly introduced Jemma to him and a couple of teachers as they took their seats. ‘He only closed his offices at the start of the year, didn’t he?’
‘God, no!’ Jemma blurted. ‘I’m here to visit.’
‘And help out Ma and Pops with some financial planning,’ Sam’s brother, Jack, said. He lifted his glass in a toast to his sister. ‘Cheers for bringing a solicitor into the family, sis.’
‘Barrister. And I really don’t do that kind of work,’ Jemma protested. ‘Like I told Pierce, I can provide your grandparents some basic information, but they’ll need an estate lawyer.’
‘I’m sure Ma and Pops will be happy just to talk through their issues,’ Jack said. The whole idea of planning for, you know, after, is pretty daunting for them.’ Pain flashed across his face and he shared a glance with Sam. ‘And f-for us, too.’
It was moments like these that Jemma was glad she didn’t have much empathy—although the uncomfortable silence was enough to make even her want to change the subject. ‘Hipster’s still a vibe out here?’ she said with a nod at Hamish’s right hand, the nails painted alternately red and white.
He snorted. ‘Hardly.’
‘Ah. A daughter?’ she guessed. Only a child would do such a dodgy manicure.
A slow grin curved Hamish’s mouth. ‘You know, if you want to find out my marital status, you only have to ask.’
Laughter rippled around the table. ‘And I assure you, had I wanted to know, I would have asked,’ Jemma snapped back. This was why she didn’t socialise: she didn’t have full control of the situation and that left her vulnerable to judgement.
Unfazed, Hamish tore off another wedge of pide. The garlic of the fava beans wafted across the table as he scooped up bakla ezmesi. ‘Time to sing for my supper.’
‘You’re on tonight, Ham?’ called a girl from the far end of the table. Jemma had noticed her casting longing glances their way for the last twenty minutes.
‘Don’t think Mutfagim Askim is quite ready for that, Tara,’ Hamish said. ‘Just mood music. Any requests?’
‘Brilliant idea, Rik,’ Dad said to the owner, who was replacing mezze dishes as fast as they emptied. He lowered his voice and leaned closer to Sam. ‘Maybe we should look into live music for Pelicanet?’
Hamish had made his way to the far corner of the room, reaching behind a stool to retrieve a guitar. He took the stool, settling the instrument across his lap, and Jemma steeled herself for some country music favourite interrupting what could have been a decent meal, despite the socialising aspect.
Thanks to Nonno’s passion for classical music—generally played stirringly loud—she immediately recognised the opening chords: Mozart’s Rondo Alla Turca, the Turkish march.
The classical guitar explained Hamish’s long nails, Jemma thought as she watched his fingers fly over the strings.
She was irritated that her first assessment had been incorrect, but plucking guitar strings was still no excuse for his bizarre manicure.
Nail polish in the colours of the Turkish flag, she realised with a silent groan.
Her father’s amused gaze met hers across the top of his glass. ‘Civilised, right?’
‘Yeah, I get it. Life in the sticks is idyllic. But still not for me, okay?’
‘Never say never,’ one of the teachers chimed in. ‘I thought that, not so long ago. Then I met Hamish’s brother.’
‘His brother?’
‘Lachlan,’ a guy further down the table said, raising a hand.
She might have noticed his red-gold similarity to Hamish if she’d not been avoiding eye contact and, by extension, interaction. But, thanks to Mum, she knew that unless she had control of the situation, it was safer to go unnoticed.