The Maxwell Sisters

by Loretta Hill

  Natasha rubbed her temple. ‘You know Mum, she calls at completely the wrong time and tells you some weird trivia that you really just don’t care about. Last time she wanted to know if I knew pineapples were in season.’

  ‘Well, do you?’ Phoebe demanded, but she could hear the smile in her sister’s tone.

  ‘Not till she told me.’

  ‘But they’re so good for your immune system and metabolism,’ Phoebe responded in mock protest.

  ‘I see you got the phone call too.’ Natasha grinned. ‘Yes,’ Phoebe returned. ‘She is adamant that I pass solids regularly.’

  Natasha laughed. ‘So can you blame me for being vague?’

  ‘I guess not. Mum does worry far too much.’ To Natasha’s relief her sister dropped the subject and they talked more on other less touchy topics before she rang off.

  Since that day most of Phoebe’s phone calls had been about how stressed she was. And Natasha had harboured the slight hope that the wedding planning, in all its overwhelming and time-consuming glory, had made Phoebe’s idea of a short engagement wither and die. But now she was staring at this white card, realising that she had four months to come clean or invent a story.

  She chewed nervously on her lower lip, trying to imagine an out.

  Perhaps she could go home. She could just slip her wedding ring back on and say Heath was too busy in Melbourne and he couldn’t get away. Then there would be no awkward questions. She wouldn’t have to provide any difficult answers. And she’d get a break from all this – walking round and round in circles wishing her life was something other than it was. She could just enjoy being a big sister. Maybe she and Eve could even reconnect.

  It would be a relief.

  A single tear drew a wet path down her cheek. Could she lie to her family?

  What sort of coward behaved like that?

  Resolutely, Natasha put the invitation on the coffee table. She needed some time to think about this.

  Because once she started lying … it would be very hard to go back.

  Chapter 2

  Eve Maxwell had a lot on her plate.

  Tender scallops and smoked trout picked from the bones were scattered on a bed of pasta, infused with baby spinach leaves, dill and shallots. Glossy with olive oil and generously seasoned with sea salt and cracked pepper. The warm buttery smell of seafood filled the air. She had always thought this dish would work better with marron instead of scallops but unfortunately her father’s dam, more commonly termed ‘Crazy Man’s Lake’, was not on hand as a source. At least some of Tawny Brooks’ oak-matured chardonnay would be. It was one of the reasons she’d applied for work as sous chef at this restaurant – they kept a cellar full of her father’s wine. She had reasoned this was at least one way she could give back after everything she’d taken from him. It was also perhaps the only good reason she kept on at Margareta’s.

  The owner, May, was a bitch. And the head chef, Sam, took all the credit for Eve’s work. Even now as the plates went out she could hear them talking by the double door exit to the kitchen.

  ‘Wow, Sam! How did you come up with this combination? It’s brilliant – our most popular addition to the menu yet. Subtle but elegant. Simple but delicious. Scrumptious but minimalistic. You’re a genius.’

  Sam only nodded. His bald sweaty head was shiny under the bright kitchen lights. He didn’t even cast a cautious glance in her direction to make sure she wasn’t listening but said, ‘Thank you,’ with all the graciousness of a bona fide artist.

  And why shouldn’t he? her inner voice demanded. It’s not like you give him a reason to respect you. You never stand up for yourself. You never tell him where to shove it.

  She ignored her inner voice and pushed a dishcloth across the stainless steel bench. That was the voice of the woman who had put her father’s restaurant out of business.

  I told you you weren’t ready for a responsibility like that! And that was the voice of her older sister, Natasha. A university-educated, startlingly successful executive marketer and the only person who had warned her not to dream too big.

  Failure sucked. Living with failure sucked even more. Because you couldn’t trust your first instinct with anything.

  ‘I can’t wait to see what you come up with next,’ May continued to coo, her flirtatious smile resting briefly on Sam before shifting across to where Eve stood, observing them.

  ‘See?’ the owner smirked. ‘Even Eve’s looking to you for inspiration.’ Her gaze shifted to the apprentice chef, Peter, who was laying out plates and wisely keeping his back to them. ‘But we don’t have time for slacking off, do we?’

  Heat filled Eve’s cheeks. Neither she nor Peter were slacking off, having both participated in every single dish plated tonight while Sam swanned about the room flirting with the wait staff. Eve was now taking a meagre second to catch her breath between courses.

  It was at times like this that she wished she smoked. What a great excuse to go outside and regroup. As May’s eyes returned to her, her right eyebrow arched menacingly and Eve swallowed. She realised that she was actually expected to respond to the accusation.

  Eve hated confrontation in all its forms and wished she’d had the good sense, like Peter, to keep her eyes averted. By general rule she practised avoidance or withdrawal at any cost. She had only had one serious fight in her life, the results of which continued to exact revenge on her even to this day.

  ‘Er … sorry,’ she mumbled quickly to May and turned back to the bench where Lisa, the dessert chef de partie, was bringing all their prep from earlier in the day over from the walk-in fridge to add the finishing touches.

  Gutless wonder, you are, her inner voice lashed out.

  Better safe than fired, she responded and firmly shut the door on anything else her conscience had to say. She needed to focus on providing guidance for the dessert tasting plate. Besides, there was no use arguing with herself or with May, especially when the purpose of having this job was just to keep herself horrendously busy for the next few years so she had no time to think of anything else. Her gaze took in the unfinished crème brûlée, passionfruit sorbet, chocolate soufflé and mango crumble presented in four shot glasses on a white tray – another bright idea of hers she was yet to receive credit for. She breathed in the sweet and tangy combination of aromas deeply. Dessert always calmed her down. It was her favourite course, both to eat and to make.

  As she directed Lisa to get the blow torch for the crème brûlée, she felt Clive, the chef de partie who did entrées and starters, looming behind her.

  Not again.

  She already knew what he was going to ask even before he opened his mouth.

  ‘Eve, can you work tomorrow? I’m looking to swap my shift with someone.’

  She sighed. Tomorrow was her first full day off in over a week. She had agreed to meet her sister briefly at a bridal shop in the city to give her a second opinion on a couple of dresses. But otherwise, she was hoping for a little bit of time to herself.

  She quickly seized upon her appointment with Phoebe. ‘I’m meeting my sister in the morning to help her with wedding shopping.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ he nodded. ‘It’s an afternoon and evening shift. You see, my wife has bought tickets to a show at the Crown for our anniversary.’ He gave her a wink. ‘I feel like I should play along and pretend like I remembered.’

  She laughed, if somewhat nervously. Say no, say no, say no.

  But he put his serious expression back on. ‘Sam has already said he can’t.’

  Of course.

  ‘And neither can Lisa or any of the other chefs. I mean,’ his face dropped, ‘I suppose I could cancel on my wife but she’ll be gutted. Is there any way –’

  ‘Okay, okay. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Great, Eve!’ he beamed at her. ‘I know I can always count on you.’

  Sucker.

  The dinner rush passed as it always did – in a mad panic. And Eve went home exhausted.

  She woke around n
ine the next morning and was having a lazy breakfast of her favourite cheese and chive omelette on toast when a text message came through on her phone. She hoped it was Phoebe cancelling. But it wasn’t. It was her best friend, Spider. The man she’d secretly been in love with for the last eight years.

  Her belly did a little somersault before resettling. She pushed her plate away from her.

  She and Spider had gone through TAFE together. They worked as apprentices together at that quiet restaurant in Northbridge called The Grove. She still remembered the day they first met. He’d walked in, tall and gangly, and banged his head on a pot dangling from a hook above his head. As he’d rubbed his temple and stepped out of danger, he’d thrown her a big goofy smile. ‘Is it just me,’ he winked, ‘or should this bench be higher?’

  Given she was a mere five foot three, in her view the bench could be a few inches lower. She smiled wryly as he took the offending pan off its hook. ‘I don’t think I’m the best person to ask.’

  ‘And you are?’ He held out his hand.

  ‘Eve.’ She shook it shyly.

  ‘Call me Spider.’

  She returned his cheeky grin. ‘That’s a rather odd name.’

  ‘Not if you’re all arms and legs.’

  Their friendship had grown from there. Being in exactly the same boat in almost every aspect of life, it was difficult not to relate. They covered for each other at work, studied together, exchanged shifts and notes all the time. He was so easygoing. So easy to talk to and confide in. She had known all along that she was falling in love with him and took no precautions to protect her heart. In fact, she was almost certain that he felt the same. He had dated other people but the relationships had been so fleeting that she had actually taken heart from his lack of commitment to them. Sometimes when he looked at her she thought she could see something there, like he was on the cusp of declaring himself. Every time they spoke, it was like being suspended over a giant glass of champagne. She felt fizzy with the force of her feelings. In her mind, it was only a matter of time before he stopped being the perfect gentleman and made a move. They were just so perfectly matched. They’d laughed together, stressed out together, even dreamed of owning their own restaurant together.

  She remembered sitting in a café with him one night when he had urged her to take the plunge. He’d grabbed her hand. ‘Come on, Eve, I know we can do this. Don’t be afraid. I’ll be right there with you.’

  She would have given him anything.

  He had made her feel so confident – with him by her side, the world was her oyster. For the first time in her life she’d campaigned strongly for something, begged her father to give them a chance. And he had. It was insane. Two barely qualified apprentices and he’d given them Tawny Brooks restaurant to cut their teeth on.

  The stupidity. The faith!

  It was a mad Maxwell move for sure.

  Her bones ached with the memories. But the disillusion was mostly her own. While she had lost all confidence when their venture failed, Spider had branched out. He wrote books now. Recipes. He even had his own cooking show. He was practically a celebrity. Not that she begrudged him his success, which he had often tried to share with her – asking her to contribute a recipe or guest star on the show with him. But everything had changed.

  Everything.

  They were never going to be a couple. She was twenty-seven years old, in the prime of life. She had to stop hoping. Stop moping. Put some real distance between them. If only he wasn’t making it well nigh impossible for her to do so. Although he no longer lived in Perth, he came to town often to do a radio spot, interview or presentation. And he always insisted on catching up. Every meeting was like sweet, gratifying torture.

  She opened the message he had sent her. It included a photo – a succulent image of a lamb shank on a bed of potatoes, asparagus, carrots and chickpeas covered in a gorgeous chunky-looking gravy. The text read, ‘I think I finally got the gravy right. Can’t wait for you to taste it.’

  She both recoiled and revelled in his need for her opinion. It would be great if she could just cut all connection with him. That at least would give her some head room and maybe even a chance to find someone else. But it was impossible. So she hurriedly texted him back, keeping up the pretence. ‘No worries. Would love to. Was it the tomato? Too much, too little?’

  She put her phone in her handbag and went to get dressed. She had to leave soon if she was going to make that appointment with her sister.

  The car ride to the bridal boutique was short and unplagued by peak-hour traffic. She was a little early and waited on one of the stylish lounges right next door to the generous-sized change rooms, which weren’t very soundproof.

  ‘Oh my goodness, you’re tiny! I’ve never seen such a minuscule waist.’

  ‘Really?’ responded the insecure bride.

  ‘I swear it on my mother’s grave,’ the sales assistant assured her. ‘You’re the smallest girl I’ve seen today. That dress looks great on you!’

  When the curtain was pulled back, a pleased bride-to-be stepped out to show the floor-length satin number to her teary mother. Eve squinted suspiciously at her waist, which looked about the same size as her own.

  While she was mentally trying to measure it, someone pressed a kiss to her cheek. ‘What are you thinking about so seriously?’

  She glanced up to find her flawlessly stunning sister smiling down at her. Phoebe was dressed in a silk sleeveless dress that gathered at a low waist. Her glossy black hair, very similar to their other sister’s, Natasha, was falling immaculately across her shoulders. Natasha and Phoebe had never suffered the fuzz that constantly framed Eve’s face – the only Maxwell sister blessed, or should she say cursed, with curls.

  Also, unlike her sisters, Eve had not inherited her father’s metabolism. While she wouldn’t call herself fat, she definitely had the more fuller figure of the three girls. Unlike her sisters, who carried off their slim perfection like Cosmpolitan models, she spent hours at the mirror agonising over which dress made her boobs look smaller or her hips and bum not quite so generous.

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ Phoebe grimaced as she sat down beside her, holding out one of the two glasses of champagne she had received upon arrival for her appointment. She whispered, ‘Not as good as Dad’s but drinkable, I suppose.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Eve’s lips twitched as she took the glass.

  Phoebe blew her fringe out of her eyes. ‘Anyway, the reason I’m late is I got bailed up by my future M.I.L.’ She mouthed the initials as though they represented a covert operation she was handling.

  Eve squinted. ‘Are you talking about your mother-in-law?’

  ‘Patricia Fitzwilliam.’ Phoebe sighed, fortifying herself with champagne. ‘She wants to be involved with the wedding planning. As in fully involved. This morning she wouldn’t let me leave the breakfast table without discussing the bombonieres first.’

  Phoebe and her fiancé lived in Dunsborough, a town not too far from the Maxwell winery in Yallingup. But they were in Perth for the week and staying with his parents for the visit.

  Eve smiled. ‘Just the other day you were complaining to me about how you wished you had more help with the wedding planning.’

  ‘From my bridesmaids, from my fiancé. Not from her,’ Phoebe retorted, making Eve instantly wish she’d held her tongue.

  ‘Explain to me, will you?’ Phoebe demanded. ‘Why is it that I’m getting more help from my mother-in-law than my own sister? Come on, Eve. I thought you’d be right into this.’

  ‘I am right into this,’ Eve protested, trying to inject as much colour into her voice as possible.

  ‘I’m not dumb.’ Her sister folded her arms. ‘You’ve been almost as silent as Tash these past few months. Is everything okay at work?’

  Eve coughed, trying to squash the sudden ache in her heart. She needed a believable excuse and work seemed as good as any. ‘I don’t really get on with the owner … or the head chef. I’ve been thinking lately may
be I should apply for a job somewhere else.’

  ‘Maybe you should. Although,’ Phoebe rolled her eyes, ‘I don’t know why you don’t just go home. I would if I could. The last five days in Perth have been enough.’ She sliced the air with her hand as she said it. ‘Do you know what Patricia suggested would make the perfect take-home gift?’

  Eve smiled. ‘I’m afraid to ask.’

  ‘A silver love-heart key ring with our photo on the front and our names and wedding date inscribed on the back.’ Eve giggled as Phoebe put a hand to her forehead. ‘Can you imagine it?’

  ‘We-ll,’ Eve drew out the word, trying to find something positive to say, ‘it’s definitely commemorative. I’d put it on my car keys.’

  ‘Yes, because you’re sweet,’ Phoebe groaned. ‘And possibly our mother would as well. But I think everyone else would think it’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you? I mean, I wouldn’t want to hang someone else’s wedding photo on my car keys.’

  ‘They don’t have to hang it on their car keys,’ Eve shrugged. ‘They could just keep it.’

  ‘Then why make it a key ring at all?’ Phoebe shrugged. ‘Personally I’d rather go with something a little more traditional, like wedding cake in a nice box or even sugared almonds wrapped up in lace.’

  Eve stuck out her tongue. ‘Those things are disgusting.’

  ‘Aren’t they though?’ Phoebe giggled. ‘Well, I really don’t see what the problem is,’ Eve said. ‘Just tell her you don’t want them.’

  Phoebe laughed. ‘This coming from the girl who can’t say no.’

  Eve blushed but Phoebe didn’t tease her further. ‘The thing is, I’m supposed to be doing the whole bonding thing with her. You know, like trying to get to know her and win her approval, so to speak,’ she winced. ‘And I am trying. I just didn’t think it would be this much work. I mean, it’s supposed to be our wedding, but I feel like I’m jumping through hoops just trying to please her.’

  ‘So what did you tell her about the bombonieres?’

  ‘I said I’d like to keep my options open for now.’