Chapter 6 #3
Clem followed his gaze to Selina at the far end of the cafe, who was awkwardly stacking plates of slice and cake onto her arm, exactly the way Clem had warned her not to last weekend.
Clem hadn’t worked out if Selina was forgetful or just stubborn, but either way, she suspected there would be more smashed crockery before the end of the shift.
If it was another employee, she would have gently but firmly steered them towards another part-time job.
But every time she came close, she felt that same pang of guilt over the coffee van misunderstanding and her great-aunt’s predicament.
Jean had been unwell the last few times she’d seen her, was it the stress of having inadvertently promised the coffee van to Selina only to sell it to Clem?
What’s a few plates for the sake of family harmony? she told herself. Jean, her grandfather’s sister, had welcomed Clem and Jack with open arms when they’d returned to Penwarra several years back. Giving Selina a job was the least she could do.
‘She’ll come good,’ Clem said. ‘But seriously, you’re okay with the camp idea?’
‘As long as you’re happy leaving the cafe in our hands? Three days is plenty of time for Sebastian and me to make a ham fist of things. Not everyone would put such blind faith in a pair like us.’
Both men had chequered pasts and an uneasy history with the law, but Clem trusted them with her home, her children and her life, as well as her business.
‘Such a pessimist.’ Clem laughed, rolling out the next batch of scone dough. ‘You two work well together, and by the time school camp rolls around you’ll be an old hat at running the show. Can you pass the scone cutter, please?’
Kev twisted to grab a waterglass from the shelf above him and passed it to her.
‘Aha, I’ve found the cause of your sinking scones dilemma, Kev. Cutting scones with a glass is like applying make-up with a cricket bat. I need the cutter over there,’ Clem said, pointing to the sink.
Kev rolled his eyes, but she saw the older man run his finger across the edge of the thin metal scone cutter thoughtfully.
‘Nanna Shirley said the sharp edge is the trick to making good scones. A thick blunt edge, like a drinking glass, presses the scone down and compacts the dough. Dunk the cutter in the bag of flour first, and it’ll glide in and out like silk.’
‘Your grandmother was an excellent cook, and a stickler for process, and I suspect the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree. I’ll give your fancy cutter a shot.’
They worked in companionable silence, the only sounds the hum of the customers, the ovens and the quiet kitchen radio.
The back door opened, and Kev laughed at the sight of Harriet and Indi jostling through the storeroom.
‘Here’s trouble. You must have heard the timer going off for the new blueberry muffins. ’
It was always touching to see the burly old bachelor turn into a soft teddy bear when the girls entered the kitchen. Their eyes widened as he lifted a tea towel to reveal two dozen blue-speckled muffins on a cooling rack.
‘And one for Isobel too, she’s tidying the lounge room,’ Harriet said.
Selina must have heard the comment because the frown on her face deepened as she walked to the dishwasher. ‘Remind me to get a cushy babysitting gig next time,’ she mumbled, slouching irritably as Kev divided a warm muffin into quarters and added a small curl of butter to the steaming middle.
‘Can you come back with us too, Selina?’ Indi said.
‘We’re doing plays and Isobel has to score them out of ten. You can be on Indi’s team, she’s not very good,’ Harriet said.
‘Am too,’ Indi protested, giving her big sister a shove.
‘Hey, none of that in here,’ Clem warned, glancing out to the cafe floor. Nobody even looked in their direction until a cup from Selina’s load crashed to the floor, shattering on impact.
Selina picked up the pieces, along with the cutlery that had followed.
‘I’m rostered on for another hour, sorry,’ Selina said, mustering up a smile for her second cousins. ‘Have you found that guinea pig yet? I hope you’ve been looking.’
‘Nope,’ said Harriet. ‘He’s gone, I know it. And Mum definitely won’t let us get another one.’
Clem opened her mouth, ready to hold her ground, when Kev spoke up. ‘Your mum’s got a lot on her plate already. Go easy on her, you two hooligans.’
The girls went back to their muffins and as Selina headed out to the cafe floor, Clem shot Kev a grateful smile.
The Sunny Cross Farm Gate Cafe mightn’t have the best income to expenses ratio yet, or the most consistent foot traffic, but she knew she had the bones of a darn good team behind her, and an expansion plan that she was implementing, bit by bit, which was more than most businesses could say.
‘Wait a minute, Harri.’
She held open her arms, unsurprised by Harriet’s exasperated look. She hadn’t entirely forgiven Clem for the guinea pig incident, and with the topic fresh in her mind, thanks to Selina, she accepted only the briefest of hugs before returning to the door. ‘They’ll eat the muffins without me.’
Clem laughed. ‘You’re right, I’ll be quick. I was speaking with Miss Lyndall about your camp, and it sounds great. I’d love to come, if that’s still okay with you?’
The delight on her daughter’s face was confirmation enough. ‘Yes!’ She raced back to Clem, throwing her arms around her hips. ‘That’s so cool, Mum, we are going to have SO much fun!’
Clem wasn’t sure if it’d be as fun for her as Harriet imagined, but it had brought them closer together already, and that was worth as many sleepless nights and mountain hikes as the camp organisers could throw at her.
The ringing phone echoed through the quiet house, and Spencer set aside the tennis racquet he was restringing.
‘Get your arse in the car, mate, and join me for Friday night drinks. I reckon you of all people deserve to drown your sorrows,’ Jeff said.
Spencer shrugged. It had been bad enough going into Penwarra and enduring the curious stares and smart-arse comments about the TV show, but in the fortnight since Emily had left, he hadn’t had the energy for anything other than school and the most basic of farmwork.
He certainly didn’t feel like driving half an hour to the coast for a cold beer on an already-cold winter’s night.
‘Not in the mood for it, mate. Every bugger thinks they’re a comedian making cracks about the show, and I’m not the kind of company you’re after. Can’t imagine you’ll be drinking alone, though?’
Jeff’s friendship circles dated back to primary school, and with his fishing connections in Beachport, plus Mia and his extended family living in Penwarra, he knew nearly everyone in both towns.
‘It’ll be my last hurrah before the little tacker comes along. I barely held a beer in the six months after Reggie landed. If Mia drops this freshie early, my Friday night drinking days are done and dusted for the foreseeable future.’
Spencer gave a dry laugh, his gaze on Dolly, who was curled up in a basket by the fire, her legs jerking around in her sleep, probably dreaming of chasing rabbits.
Even sleeping, the beagle dreamed of chasing things, while Spencer’s own shut-eye—when he could manage it—was full of nonsensical nightmares involving dead-end mazes. He envied the dog’s ability to sleep, just like he envied his friend’s most pressing concern of finding a drinking buddy.
‘Tough gig, mate,’ Spencer said, easing out of the dining chair and tipping his cold coffee down the sink. ‘Your liver will probably appreciate the break.’
‘Fat chance of getting any sympathy from you.’ Jeff laughed. ‘You coming to the tournament tomorrow or am I gonna have to chase your arse down and drag you to the courts?’
Spencer’s lip twitched at his friend’s straight shooting. ‘Restringing the racquet as we speak,’ he said.
‘Bet you are. I’ll swing past yours on my way home to check you’re not full of it. We’ve only got two games left of this tournament, I’m not having my doubles partner pull a sickie because he’s moping around like a sad sack.’
‘I’ll play, you don’t need to—’
The phone clicked. It was so like Jeff to hang up before Spencer could tell him not to bother calling around.
With a sigh, he surveyed the kitchen. It was clinically clean, scrubbed until he’d erased almost every memory of Emily and the food they’d made together, the stilted conversations they’d had, the belated getting-to-know you discussions that had been overlooked during the pressure cooker of cameras, crew and other contestants.
Older memories crowded in: the night as newlyweds when Belle had flung a handful of soap bubbles at him, beginning a bubble war that had lasted until their sides ached from laughter. Afterwards, they’d made love on the kitchen table.
A lump grew in his throat and Spencer strode out of the kitchen, not knowing where he was heading until he found himself opening the office cupboards and pulling out the albums he’d banished years earlier.
The album fell open to the page he was after, the one that held their wedding photographs.
Two young, dumb, happy kids in the throes of love, and youth, vowing to be together in sickness and in health.
Neither of them had realised how soon that vow would be tested, or imagined that their marriage would be cut short by a cruel illness.
Spencer felt a sudden and savage fury at his younger self, wishing he’d enjoyed every minute of that blissful ignorance, relished every day with her before they’d had to face one of the toughest decisions on earth, helping grant her last wish for dignity instead of extended pain and suffering.
He turned to photos of the other wedding guests, his father’s bushranger beard, Ian and Louisa’s matching three-piece suit and silk dress, and the much younger Jeff and Mia, fresh-faced, back when the ink on their own wedding certificate was barely dry.
One thing was clear to him now: there wouldn’t be a wedding for him and Emily, and he wasn’t going to phone around to see if any of the other women he’d cut from the show were interested in giving him a second chance.
His gaze slipped back to the framed image of Belle in the white velvet dress that almost blended into the snowy Canadian landscape in the background.
God, I wish you were here.
He shoved the album back in the cupboard, behind the inkjet printer that he should have tossed out years ago, and pulled a ream of printer paper over it for good measure.
Nothing good would come from digging up the past.
In true Jeff style, his friend arrived bearing chilli beef pies, a six-pack of Coopers Sparkling Ale and a swag of stories from the boatyard.
‘Wait till you hear how much my old deckhand spent on cocaine this year. Trust me, I’ve been saving up all the good goss while you’ve been moping, and this sieve of a brain can’t hold onto these pearlers for much longer.
Anyway, this deckie seemed like a safe bet, worked on his brother’s cray boat until the old bloke threw in the towel.
He was doing alright on the job too, no more stuff-ups than the average deckie.
Fast forward to this winter and it turns out he’s spending five grand a month on the nose beers.
And you wouldn’t believe the nerve when I pulled him aside—’
The revolving cast of deckhands on Jeff’s large crayfish boat proved the perfect distraction as they sank a few ales by the fire and polished off the handmade pies from the coastal town’s deli.
And for the first time all winter, the heaviness in Spencer’s chest seemed to ease a little.
He’d had his shot at love, now it was time to put it aside and focus on the friends he had, not the future he’d stupidly thought was possible.