Chapter 18 #3
Spencer shook his head, determined not to think about the void Clem’s absence had left in his life.
The sound of a carving knife being sharpened rang through the kitchen at South Giddi Giddi when they walked inside. He knew he should be soaking up the joy of having his house filled with the people he loved, but he still couldn’t shake his dark mood.
He packed away the groceries, then carried the last of the supplies to his ensuite.
A deodorant can fell to the floor. Crouching on his hands and knees, Spencer crammed his arm between the tiles and the base of the low-set unit. He felt something soft, and drew out a purple velvet scrunchie.
Spencer carried the soft fabric to his nose. The scent of Clem’s rosemary shampoo brought back a rush of memories: the time he’d stood beside her in the shower, soaping her back while she washed her hair, shampooing it twice and then running a comb through the slick of conditioner.
Had Harriet noticed it was missing yet? Clem had scoured the bathroom, the kitchen, and he’d joined the search between kisses, looking underneath the bed and inside the kitchen cabinets, determined to return the treasured scrunchie before Harriet knew Clem had borrowed it.
He shook his head. Clem had crossed the line, clear and simple; he had every reason to cut her from his life. So why the hell did it hurt so much?
A few hours of decent sleep helped Clem power through opening on the Monday before Christmas, and when the large family she’d met the other day returned for brunch three days in a row, Clem forced herself to think about the benefit to her bottom line, not the blow to her heart.
‘This really seems the perfect place for a tree change,’ the older lady told Clem, placing an order for scones.
‘You’ve got beaches, wineries, and lovely little cafes like this humming with character.
After two decades in Roxby Downs, we’re ready for fresh seafood, cooler weather and reliable rainfall,’ she said, looking at her watch.
‘It’s 39 degrees at home all this week, while down here it’s a very pleasant low 30s. Just gorgeous.’
Clem collected the rest of the orders, trying not to stew over an assumption.
‘Have you seen Cockatoo Lane estate?’ Clem said. ‘I hear there are only two lots left. My friend Fergus moved into his new home with his son and they say it’s marvellous.’
The younger couple exchanged a look. ‘We’re not really supposed to say, seeing it’s off-market. But the place we’re looking at is exactly what we’ve been looking for, big enough to fit three generations.’
A small voice in Clem’s head reminded her that dozens of properties changed hands each year, and nobody was any the wiser until after the previous owners had left and the new residents arrived with their moving vans and unfamiliar surnames.
But as she topped up their water jugs and caught snippets of their excited chatter, she was sure they were talking about South Giddi Giddi.
That sick feeling welled again. Had her cruel words prompted Spencer and the Brealys to leave town altogether?
Clem had spent hours agonising over the way they’d left things, and the sliding doors moments that could have prevented such an awful conversation.
What if he’d told her about the finer details of Belle’s death during a calm conversation? Would she have reacted differently if she wasn’t heartsore and raw from sharing her own traumatic experience?
It was too late to retract her words now though, and from the look of the Roxby Downs family, the damage was done; Spencer wouldn’t be sticking around and there’d be no chance of repair.
When she returned with two baklava donuts, three plates of the ever-popular rustic country breakfast and a pile of steaming scones, the oldest child piped up. ‘If we buy the new property, can we sell you our honey?’
Goosebumps ran up and down Clem’s arms. She should have taken Sebastian up on his offer to look after this table. ‘I’m good for a honey supplier at the moment, thanks. The sweet goodness in the donut comes from a local apiarist down the road.’
‘South Giddi Giddi,’ the older lady said with a smile, handing back the empty water jug. ‘We know.’
So it was the property they were looking to buy.
‘We’ll get this nice lady’s business card, in case,’ the older man assured his grandson.
Clem fetched a card from the depths of her apron and handed it across. ‘If you end up producing veggies, micro greens or anything else suitable, I’ll be all ears,’ she said, turning to leave the table.
‘Don’t we get the hives though, if we buy the farm?’
Clem forced herself to keep walking, focusing on the surge of pain from the blister on her foot instead of the hum in her head. Would Spencer stay in the region if these people bought the property?
Clem kept the smile plastered on her face as she swept through the bustling cafe, her mother’s voice echoing in her mind.
‘They always leave, Clem, that’s what men do.’
She dialled her grandfather’s number, craving Arthur’s calm voice and sound advice, and even though the idea of explaining the situation had felt too hard on Saturday, she was devastated when his phone rang out.
Had he said something about a Christmas luncheon …?
She strode through the kitchen, pressing a hand to the wall as the small bathroom seemed to spin. With shaking hands, she closed the toilet lid and sank down onto it.
‘This is a disaster.’
Opposing views on the topic of assisted suicide was one thing, but even if they could overcome that, Spencer would end up resenting her for not being able to give him the children he wanted. And how could she compete with the ghost of his late wife, especially knowing how much he still loved her?
But he loves you too. Clem closed her eyes, realising Spencer had shown more empathy in the props room than her ex-husband Adam Dunkirk ever had.
An unexpected memory flashed through her mind of Harriet’s chubby little hands resting on her enormous belly in the obstetrician’s waiting room, the last appointment before she was due to have Indi.
She’d never forget the terror she felt, knowing she was high risk for post-natal psychosis because of her past history.
Despite the odds of her falling dangerously ill for a second time, Adam had let her down all over again by not showing up to the appointment, or the birth, or checking in during the crucial months afterwards.
Spencer was different in so many ways. He taught Shakespeare and sonnets, he was a gentle lover, a guy who collected other people’s trolleys and returned them to their rightful place.
She’d watched him help Harriet run her lines, seen the patience he’d shown with Lachie on school camp, heard the way Ian and Louisa Brealy spoke about him.
Even though he helped their daughter die.
Mascara stung her eyes, and Clem used the hem of her apron to wipe away the tears, frustrated by the emotional ping pong.
Feed the customers, close the cafe, clean it top to toe and then you can sook all you like, she told her reflection. She used the eyedrops in the vanity, then stared at her blotchy, puffy face.
If I want to keep a roof over our heads, and teach my girls they can be strong and self-sufficient, I need to get back out there and not let a relationship—a secret, barely-even-there one at that—be the reason I let my little girls down.
Spencer walked into the kitchen on Christmas Day to find Louisa on the couch with Addison’s daughter, Genevieve.
Bryce and Addison were at the dining table getting thrashed in Monopoly by their son Flynn, while Ian sat perched on the chair beside him, commandeering a bowl of homemade Nuts and Bolts.
The presents had been shared hours earlier, and all that was left to do now was set the table, turn off the oven and serve lunch.
‘I was wondering where you nicked off to.’ Ian said. ‘Were you picking the rosemary from the Canunda foothills?’
He smiled at Ian, setting down the herbs he’d collected from the garden.
Belle’s garden.
‘Need a hand, Uncle Spence?’
‘All good kiddo,’ he told his niece. Genevieve was taller than Addison, but smart like her mum and, thankfully, more diplomatic, like her dad.
After the offer they’d received yesterday, and the realisation that if Ian and Louisa accepted the generous amount, this would be his last Christmas at South Giddi Giddi, Spencer was in no hurry to rush through the day.
‘Luckily I stocked up on antacids,’ Addison said, cupping Bryce’s cheek.
‘I’ve noticed you ogling the pork crackling, triple-baked potatoes and Chrissy pudding in the kitchen.
I’ll order an ECG for our return too, shall I?
’ She blew a kiss to her husband, whose low-cholesterol diet had been derailed days before Christmas.
‘Love you too, honey.’ Bryce grinned. ‘Spencer’s cooking is irresistible. Such a shame you didn’t learn to cook like him.’
‘You’d have had two heart attacks by now if I had,’ she said. ‘Normal eating resumes after this meal.’
Spencer turned away to serve up, not wanting to see the tenderness beneath Addison and Bryce’s banter.
He pulled out the plates, wondering whether Clem had sworn off cooking while the cafe was closed, or if she was doing the same thing as him right now.
She’d replied to yesterday’s ‘Happy Christmas Eve’ text message with a thumbs up, and if that wasn’t enough of an omen, the lack of return well wishes certainly was.
‘Who’s setting the table?’ Spencer heaped cutlery onto the bench, surveying his niece and nephew. ‘Kids?’
‘Flynn’s on it,’ said Genevieve, reaching across to ruffle her brother’s hair, as if Flynn was still the baby of the family instead of the six-foot young man he’d grown into when they weren’t looking.
Within moments, his niece and nephew were wrestling on the rug, much to Dolly’s delight, who gave a few excited yips and jumped into the melee.
‘Righto, righto. Outside, both of you,’ Addison ordered, shaking her head with an indulgent eye-roll.
Soon they were sitting in the rotunda in the garden, toasting with Addison’s favourite Adelaide Hills wines, and as the conversation flowed around him, Spencer’s mind went back to Clem, Harriet and Indi. How would they have fitted into this tableau?
Would the little girls be shy, or would they slot right in with his niece and nephew, rough and tumbling on the lounge room floor before lunch, cutting deals at the dinner table to trade their least favourite vegetables, and grumbling about the lack of elbow room?
He could picture them chattering about their friends, the play, their summer holiday plans, burrowing their way inside his family’s hearts as quickly as they had his.
‘You’ll slop gravy down your white shirt if you keep doing that,’ Bryce scolded Flynn, who was piling food into his mouth while leaning back on his chair. ‘Where can I find napkins?’
‘I’ll get them,’ Spencer said, pushing back his chair. He went inside and opened the hall cupboard and, in the hunt for the Christmas-themed napkins, found the green- and red-wrapped gifts he’d bought for Clem and her daughters.
Spencer blew out a soft breath and pushed them behind the winter blankets, surprised at how much it hurt to know they wouldn’t get to the sweet little girls or the beautiful woman they’d been intended for.
How could he love someone who had said something so hurtful, who didn’t even try to understand the reasons why he’d helped Belle?
‘Hey Spence, did you find them?’
He grabbed the napkins and turned to face Louisa. ‘Yep, got ’em.’
She smiled, taking the napkins from his hand and returned with him to the table outside.
‘You know, I like kids better when they’re this age.
Little ones are delightful, but all-consuming.
With older ones, you get the switched-on conversations, a proper glimpse into the generation that’ll shape our future. ’
‘You’re not sad you could only have one child, that you never had grandkids?’
Louisa’s smile softened. ‘If I spent my days regretting things outside my control, I’d be in a bad place by now.
I take the joy where I can find it, just as you can get the best of your nieces and nephews when they visit, feel pride as a teacher, or as a play director.
Family isn’t purely your own flesh and blood.
You’ve felt like my son from the moment you swept Belle off her feet. ’
Spencer’s gaze landed on the fluffy white and pink flowers climbing up the rotunda.
This time last week, he’d looked at the climbing Pierre de Ronsard rose, smiling at the unopened buds that would be in full bloom to deliver to Clem with the gifts on Christmas Eve, when her girls were asleep and his guests had turned in for the night.
He thought of Indi and Harriet and their excitement about Christmas, and how much he’d hoped to be part of their celebrations. If he and Clem were together, the girls would become his daughters too.
But if they couldn’t see eye to eye on something he couldn’t change even if he tried, something he knew he’d do again, even with the heartache that followed, was there any point trying?