The Sister's Gift

by Barbara Hannay

  ‘Right,’ Seb said grimly.

  ‘Billie thinks it will take at least another day.’

  ‘Well, we only need to get through two more days this week.’

  This was fortunate, of course, but for Freya, the prospect of successfully negotiating those next two days without a waiter was as daunting as if those days were months.

  ‘Look, you’d better come inside,’ she said. ‘We can hardly conduct a business discussion on the doorstep with me in my dressing gown.’

  ‘It’s a very respectable dressing gown.’ Seb’s eyes betrayed a sudden flash of amusement. Then, more seriously, he added, ‘Sorry to call so early. I didn’t like to bother you last night, but I can come back later.’

  ‘No, we need to sort this out now.’ Freya didn’t add that Seb could have simply phoned her. She was actually pleased that he’d come to the house for a face-to-face chat. It felt like a step in the right direction.

  Although, as he followed her through to the kitchen, she couldn’t help remembering those days when any chance for the two of them to be alone together had automatically fired an inflammable lust fest. Now, she would have preferred to change out of her pyjamas and to try a little harder to tame her messy hair. And then she reminded herself that this new crisis at the bistro was a far bigger problem than any opinion Seb might have about her appearance.

  ‘Would you like coffee?’ she asked him.

  ‘Only if you’re having one.’

  ‘Well, yes, I definitely need one. Is the old-fashioned style in a percolator okay?’

  ‘Best way to make it.’ Seb grinned. ‘Unless you’re an impatient millennial.’

  Which they weren’t, of course. They were well and truly middle-aged, with a buried history they were both ignoring, or pretending to ignore at any rate.

  As Freya scooped ground coffee into the percolator’s basket, Seb perched on a stool at the kitchen bench. ‘Nice place,’ he said, casting an admiring glance around the lovely living area and to the views beyond.

  ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? Pearl and Troy have scrimped and saved and worked damn hard for it, mind you.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that for a minute.’

  She set the percolator on the stovetop at medium heat and wondered if she should offer Seb something to eat. But no, it was best to keep this meeting as simple and businesslike as possible, a brief but necessary practical discussion. If only she could see a ready solution to their current dilemma.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have any suggestions for another waiter?’ she asked as she collected Pearl’s boring grey and white coffee mugs from an overhead cupboard.

  Seb shook his head. ‘I’ve tried calling a few mates, but haven’t had any luck.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t really know anyone on the island these days. I don’t even know people in Townsville.’

  ‘I’m pretty much in the same boat. I come here each year for a couple of months in the winter, but I only have a small circle of contacts. Mostly, I’m here to retreat and to paint.’

  And yet this year Seb was doing exactly the opposite. Freya wanted to ask about him about that and she was desperately curious about his house on the island, but he hadn’t come here to socialise.

  ‘So how many bookings do you have for tonight?’ she asked instead.

  ‘Quite a few already. I’m not sure of the exact number, but we always have walk-ins.’

  ‘And you don’t really want to turn them away.’ Pearl had warned Freya, using an especially lecturing tone, that a welcoming and relaxed flexibility was a vital ingredient for any island business. Freya adjusted the heat beneath the percolator. ‘I could ring Billie to see if she can suggest anyone else, but if she can’t, she’ll only fret and feel guilty.’

  Seb shook his head. ‘Don’t bother her.’

  ‘So there’s really only one solution then.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’ll have to wait tables.’

  His gaze narrowed. ‘You have enough on your hands with the desserts and the orders.’

  ‘I’ll have to do a bit more, though, won’t I?’ She wasn’t looking forward to the extra load, but if she’d managed to cook and serve for dinner parties, while running Brian’s business, she should be able to cope with a couple of nights of waiting in a café.

  Thank heavens plain black trousers and a black T-shirt had been among the op shop staples she’d purchased before leaving the Sunshine Coast. She hadn’t planned on wearing them together or without bright accessories, but they were exactly what Pearl expected of her waitstaff.

  Seb was pulling a face. ‘Are you sure?’

  To her own surprise, she found herself smiling. The situation was verging on the ridiculous. ‘I can’t promise I won’t drop anything.’

  Now Seb was smiling, too. But a smile from him was dangerous. Freya felt unexpectedly uplifted. And then she reminded herself she was getting carried away.

  She forced her thoughts back to practicalities. ‘With luck, Billie will be home tomorrow, so I might only be needed for one night.’ She turned off the stove. The coffee was almost ready, but she would let it sit for a moment. ‘Do you take milk or sugar?’ Strange that she knew almost nothing about him now.

  ‘No, thanks. Just black.’ He paused, before asking, ‘So how’s Billie coping in Cairns?’

  ‘Okay, as far as I can tell.’ Freya poured the coffee carefully. She felt truly sorry for Billie. Such rotten luck to find herself pregnant to a man she clearly adored, but who’d already rejected her. And now this ghastly business. It was too much. She said, ‘Billie’s very concerned for Ebba, the Swedish backpacker.’

  ‘It’s a bad business. Did she talk to you about her time on that yacht?’

  ‘Not until a couple of days ago, when she really had no choice.’

  ‘Just shows,’ Seb said, frowning, ‘you never know the baggage people are carrying.’

  ‘That’s for sure.’

  He looked at her strangely as she said this and Freya might have been imagining things, but she sensed there were questions he wanted to ask her. And she certainly had a thousand queries she wanted to direct his way – about the decades since they’d split.

  Before she could begin, Won Ton trotted into the kitchen, no doubt drawn by the smell of coffee and the possibility of food. The little dog looked from one human to the other with bright, hopeful eyes.

  ‘So what’s your dog’s name?’ Seb asked, and the chance for a deep and meaningful moment seemed to evaporate like the popping of a soap bubble.

  ‘She’s called Won Ton,’ said Freya.

  He looked amused. ‘An interesting choice to name your dog after an Asian dumpling.’

  Freya’s response was an eye-roll. ‘I thought artists were supposed to see beyond the literal. Won Ton suits her perfectly. She’s so little and cute.’

  ‘Of course. And I’m just being a smart-arse.’

  Freya took care with her makeup before heading to work. Actually, she went a little overboard, with eyeliner, mascara and smoky eye shadow, plus her most flattering lipstick, which had, luckily, been in her handbag on the night of the fire. She swept her bright hair up, too, and added a pair of gold hoop earrings. She told herself that a waitress needed to look as classy as possible, but she suspected she also needed to upgrade the messy image she’d presented to Seb this morning. She wasn’t out to impress him. Truly! But as a divorcee who’d been thrown over for a younger model, she did have a dented ego to protect.

  As it turned out, Seb was far too busy in the kitchen, darting from stovetop to counter to yet another stove, to even register Freya’s efforts. Or if he did notice, he made no sign. And Freya was soon too busy to care.

  By the evening’s end, she had a whole new respect for waiters. She’d known she would be on her feet the whole time, rushing about, taking orders and delivering meals, while maintaining an outer impression of assuredness and calm. But she hadn’t quite been ready for the level of interpersonal skills required.
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  More than once, she mentally cursed Pearl for being too stingy to employ more staff. It was exhausting trying to remember exactly what all the menu items involved, and dealing with super fussy customers – the glass that wasn’t quite clean enough, the meat too undercooked, the couple who found the sea breeze too cool and wanted to move from the deck to inside.

  Somehow, Freya managed to remain smiling and polite.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, sir. Let me get you anther glass. Won’t take a moment.’

  ‘I’m sorry the lamb’s not to your satisfaction, madam.’ Clearly, the woman had a unique interpretation of medium rare. ‘I’ll take that back to the kitchen and our chef will prepare another. We’ll be as quick as possible.’

  ‘There’s a table inside, sir. Will that be better for you? Lovely. Come this way, please. I’ll bring your drinks and your meals.’

  Halfway through the evening, Seb gave her a wink and a thumbs up. ‘You’re doing great, Freya.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, and decided not to mention that her feet were killing her.

  On the whole, though, the experience was a rewarding one. It was gratifying to see so many people thoroughly enjoying themselves. Customers raved about Seb’s Spanish-inspired entrées of breaded cod, tiny Iberian ham tarts and peppers stuffed with crab. His mains were also very well received and Freya was chuffed to hear her desserts scoring compliments.

  Bonus, she didn’t drop anything. Not even a wobbly moment. Such a relief.

  By the time the last diners left, however, she was totally exhausted, but then there was all the tidying up. Luckily, Seb attended to the stoves and benchtops and stacked all his cooking gear in the dishwashers, so Freya was left to wipe down the tables in the dining room, fill the laundry bags and tidy the bathrooms.

  As she emerged from dealing with this last task, Seb was waiting for her. ‘That’s enough for one night,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring the deck furniture inside and we don’t need to do anything more till tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ she said. ‘I’m stuffed.’

  His smile was sympathetic. ‘You’ve earned a drink.’

  This was a surprise. If she hadn’t been so tired and aching, she might have been more on her guard. Instead, she returned Seb’s smile. ‘Yes, I’m sure I have.’

  Seb pulled out a couple of chairs from the nearest table, even grabbed spare cushions. ‘Sit and put your feet up. I’ll be right back.’

  The invitation was just too alluring. Freya hadn’t the energy to question it, and as Seb disappeared, she sank with relief onto the nearest chair, stretching her legs out and letting her aching feet rest on a cushion on the opposite chair.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She allowed herself a private moan of pleasure. ‘This feels so good. Better than sex.’

  She gave a tired giggle, quite pleased with her little joke and feeling safe in the knowledge that Seb was out of earshot.

  Until a familiar voice commented, ‘Really?’

  Damn it, he hadn’t been as far away as she’d imagined. And now he was coming around the corner with a bottle of wine and two glasses. ‘Maybe you’ve been having the wrong kind of sex?’

  Freya could feel her face burn bright with embarrassment. Worse, she was awash with memories of their youth when she and Seb had discovered sex together. Oh, my God, the thrills. The obsession. Oh, help. Just thinking about it now sent heat licking deep.

  Stop it.

  Seb was obviously referring to her more recent sex life, and she wasn’t about to tell him how on the money his comment was.

  ‘Scratch that remark,’ he said, adding an apologetic smile, as if he regretted his impulsive quip. ‘Guess I’m still in smart-arse mode. But hold that pose and I’ll be right back.’

  In this he was as good as his word. Setting the bottle and glasses on the table, he quickly returned with a platter of delicious entrées.

  ‘Oh, yum.’ Freya reached for a little ham and cheese tart. ‘I’ve been eyeing these off and dying to try one.’

  Seb was pouring the wine as she took her first bite, so he probably missed the look of bliss that undoubtedly came over her. ‘Wow!’ she said. ‘Oh, that’s sensational, Seb.’

  ‘You can’t beat jamón ibérico.’

  ‘I’m sure you can’t. It’s so full of flavour.’

  ‘Those hams are cured for at least two years. Sometimes four.’

  ‘Well, they’re worth the wait. And what’s this lovely cheese you’ve teamed it with? It’s so soft and mild, but tasty, too.’

  ‘Sheep’s cheese. Manchego.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I remember ordering it for you. Mmmm, it’s so good.’

  ‘In Spain I’m friends with a farmer who makes his own sheep’s cheese. It’s a fascinating process.’

  ‘How wonderful. And I suppose these little offerings are served as tapas in Spain?’

  Seb nodded. ‘Although where I live in the Basque Country, tapas are called pintxos.’

  He handed Freya a glass of wine. ‘Here’s cheers.’ He clinked his glass to hers. ‘And bravo on a champion effort tonight.’

  She smiled. ‘We both deserve a bravo.’ She took a sip and the wine was crisp and cold and tingly on the tongue. She closed her eyes, enjoying a moment of peace and satisfaction, took a deeper sip of wine and let it slide down her throat.

  Perfect.

  As Seb helped himself to a piece of breaded cod and Freya chose a pepper stuffed with crab, she said, ‘So your cooking skills are undeniably impressive, but what can you tell me about your painting career? I don’t mean a blow-by-blow history. But I know you’re hugely famous now.’

  ‘What would you like to know?’

  She paused, searching for the right question. ‘I guess I’m mostly wondering how you feel about your art now, about being an artist as a way of life? I suppose you still love it?’

  Seb drank a deep draught of wine before he answered. He gave a brief shrug. ‘I do still love it. No doubt about that. But if you want a very brief history, in the early days, I guess I painted to please my ego. I tried every style going, all kinds of experiments. But when I headed to America and found myself in an artists’ colony in California, I really pushed the boundaries.’

  Freya recalled photos of Seb in California, and in particular, that he’d been photographed with a different woman on each occasion. She supposed the boundaries had been pushed in all kinds of directions, in his private life as well as his art.

  ‘You never married.’ She couldn’t resist this challenge.

  His eyebrows lifted. ‘I’ve had a couple of near misses.’

  Including me? She did her best to ignore the little stab in her chest. She had absolutely no right to feel any version of envy for the other women in Seb’s life.

  But what was it like for him, she wondered, to have a string of lovers? Serial relationships certainly fitted the popular image of an artist, but was it an ultimately satisfying existence? Was Seb happy?

  She didn’t dare to ask.

  He said, ‘To answer your original question, I guess my breakthrough came once I’d worked at developing a strong and recognisable style.’

  ‘Bold and vigorous landscapes and seascapes?’

  His smile was mildly amused as he acknowledged this with a small nod. ‘And by now, being an artist is how I am wired. I don’t need to work as hard as I used to, but I can’t really stop.’

  ‘Except that you have,’ Freya said, pointing with her wine glass towards the platter. ‘Instead of painting, you’re cooking for us – or, at least, for Gavin.’

  ‘And it feels good to do something for someone else. As you’re no doubt aware.’

  His gaze met hers as he said this, and his grey eyes were fired by a sudden emotion and a complicated expression that sent unexpected shivers through Freya. Was he remembering the nine months she’d given up for her sister? The nine months that had torn the two of them apart?

  If she tried to talk to Seb about that, she would become way too sad and
weepy. And his response, for all she knew, might still be anger. They could end up fighting and spoil the night. Quickly, she forced her thoughts in a different direction.

  ‘So I believe you have a house here on the island?’

  Seb frowned, as if the sudden change of topic had caught him off guard. After a bit, he nodded. ‘Yes, a little place in Nelly Bay.’

  ‘That sounds nice.’

  ‘It is, rather. Very private. I bought it for my mother originally.’

  Freya remembered Seb’s mother. Elise Hudson was an artist, too, but more of a sculptor than a painter. She made wonderful pieces using driftwood and seaglass and anything else that washed up on the island’s shores.

  Like Freya’s own mum, Elise had also been single, and the absence of fathers had been a situation the young Freya and Seb had shared. Just one of the many small connecting threads that contributed to the closeness they’d enjoyed in their youth.

  ‘How is your mother?’ she asked.

  ‘She died last year.’

  ‘Oh, Seb, I’m sorry.’

  ‘She’d always had a weak heart.’

  ‘Did she really?’ Freya remembered Seb’s mum as always being wonderfully sun-browned and slim and super active. ‘She always looked so fit to me.’

  ‘I know. She’d never mentioned anything about her heart. I only found out in later years. In fact it’s actually because of her heart condition that I owe Gavin such a huge favour. About three years ago, he found Mum collapsed on the beach at Cockle Bay. Being a lifesaver, he jumped straight into resuscitation and had a helicopter over here in no time.’

  ‘How wonderful,’ said Freya. And Seb’s willingness to help out at the bistro finally made sense.

  Perhaps it was the second glass of wine and the extra helpings of delicious food that helped to mellow their mood. Freya told Seb about her own mother, who now lived in Broome on the other side of the continent, shacked up with a Japanese pearl farmer, not especially well off, but ridiculously happy. Then they talked about lighter topics, such as Spain and other places they’d travelled to, about Pearl and Troy’s adventure and the whole grey nomad scene.