One Summer Between Friends

by Trish Morey

  ‘Are you serious? Whatever happened between Sarah and me, she’s still human. She’s still got feelings and deserves respect. And I thought you were best friends. But you go and do this heinous thing—’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I thought I knew you, Jules. But it turns out I don’t know you at all.’

  ‘Floss—’

  ‘No. I don’t want to hear it. Nothing you can say is going to make me change my mind. I hate that you’ve done this. I hate what you’ve done to us. I’m sorry, Jules, but I don’t think I can be friends with someone who could do something so low to someone who’s supposed to be their best friend.’

  Jules wrestled with her quilt some more before giving up on sleep. It was still dark outside as, gingerly, she pulled her dressing gown up her arm and over her shoulder and headed to the kitchen to make herbal tea. She stopped at Della’s door on the way, saw her daughter sprawled face down on the bed, and stood there, watching her breathe a while, feeling swamped by a sudden sadness. If the stars had lined up and all had gone right in the world, Della would be Sarah’s child. But the world had tilted like a chess board, upending and mixing up all the pieces, and it was Jules who’d ended up with a child, along with a stifling burden of guilt for the hurt she’d caused and the friendships she’d destroyed.

  With a sigh, she pushed herself from the door frame. Curse these sleepless nights and this endless soul searching. What point was there in rehashing the past—of remembering what had gone wrong in your world—when you couldn’t see a way to fix it? How could you ever make things right, when there were simply some things you couldn’t undo?

  ‘You look tired,’ Pru said when she dropped in with a basket of clean washing at eleven the following morning and found Jules huddled over a coffee pot at the kitchen table, her knitting pushed to one side. Della was sitting at her table, playing with her Duplo, an empty cereal bowl and spoon at her elbow. Both were still in their pyjamas.

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ Jules said, pushing the coffee pot her mother’s way. ‘Help yourself. I’m all caffeinated out.’

  ‘Thanks, I could do with a coffee.’ Pru found herself a mug and poured. She pulled a pack of Panadol from her purse and popped a couple of blisters, tossing them back with a swig of coffee.

  Jules watched, bleary eyed. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine. It’s you we need to worry about. Is your wound hurting?’

  ‘No, it’s tender and the stitches are pulling, but it’s okay. It’s my brain that won’t switch off.’ She sighed, her gaze falling on the basket. ‘Thanks for the washing, by the way.’

  Her mother waved her gratitude away. ‘Least I could do.’ Her hands cradled her mug. ‘How’s the knitting going? Lost interest already?’ Jules had shown her the pattern Molly had helped her find on the knitting website Ravelry, a simple striped scarf on which to practise her stitches before launching into the jumper she wanted to knit for Della.

  Jules gave her mug a swirl, before thinking better of it. ‘Can’t concentrate.’

  Pru nodded. Neither said anything for a while, until Pru put her mug down with a decisive rap, and said, ‘Did you hear about Dot?’

  ‘What about Dot?’

  Pru gave her a quick run-down of Dot’s broken hip and her arrival home a few days ago.

  ‘Really?’ Jules said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I could have visited.’

  ‘You were busy with your own issues,’ her mother said. ‘Besides, I wasn’t sure it was wise. The last thing you needed when you were already emotionally vulnerable was to run into Sarah while you were going through all that.’

  Not for the first time, Jules thanked whatever gods or powers that be that had given her Pru for a mother. Sure, no mother was perfect, but a girl could do a lot worse. Because Pru was right, Jules would have worried about Dot. She would have tried to visit if she could fit it in. There was something about knowing another islander was in trouble, that country town thing that tied them all together—until those ties were irrevocably broken, of course.

  Dot had never broken ties. They’d never exactly been close—Dot had always been a bit overpowering for Jules—but Dot hadn’t frozen her out like some.

  ‘I’ll have to take her some flowers.’

  Her mother shifted in her seat. ‘Jules,’ she said, ‘before you do, there’s something else you should know.’

  ‘What?’

  Pru hesitated a moment. Just enough for Jules to feel like she really didn’t want to know. But still she had to ask. ‘Tell me.’

  Her mother’s expression turned bleak. ‘I hear Sarah’s back.’

  The seismic jolt that zapped down her spine and left her quaking deserved more of a response than Jules was capable of delivering. ‘Oh.’

  ‘She’s come home for six months to look after the shop.’

  Jules reached for the plunger, poured what liquid was left from the dark depths of the pot into her mug, took a swig of the bitter dregs, and sat back. ‘Right.’

  ‘I thought you should know. Save you from getting a shock if you bumped into her somewhere around the traps.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’ First Floss, now Sarah. What were the chances? She looked at her mother. ‘Does Dot know I was in Sydney? Would Sarah know?’

  Pru shook her head. ‘I didn’t tell anyone.’

  Jules sighed. ‘Floss was at the airport when I came in.’

  ‘Was she? I didn’t see her.’

  ‘She was surrounded by a group that had just come in and you were busy with Della. But she saw me, all right.’

  ‘Well,’ Pru said, getting to her feet. ‘I really should be going. You’ll let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you, won’t you?’

  ‘I will,’ Jules said.

  It was only after Pru had gone, with the caffeine buzzing in her blood, that Jules realised it wasn’t just dumb luck that was seeing her toss and turn at night—and it wasn’t just dumb luck that had chosen this particular point in time for her present and her past to collide.

  It was a sign.

  17

  The tops of Mounts Lidgbird and Gower were hidden under a big donut cloud when Floss went to pick up the solo guest checking into Beached, some journalist doing a piece on the island. While it was part of every islander’s DNA to make guests feel welcome, Floss had mixed feelings about journos. This one had been treated to free flights and four nights’ accommodation and he’d no doubt sample the best the island had to offer.

  Lord Howe had a constant stream of return visitors but you couldn’t afford to stand still in the world of hospitality so the island needed to keep the positive articles and good reviews coming. She knew Lord Howe would provide a jewel of a holiday on any day, rain or shine, but you never knew when somebody had a chip on their shoulder or would blow some tiny mishap out of proportion and into a major blight on their stay. They’d had one such reviewer who’d called Beached’s accommodation ‘rustic at best, outdated in a world expecting five-star’, said that the fresh hibiscus left in the room to welcome the guests were ‘twee’ and that high-speed internet would be more useful. Reviewers like that completely missed the point of Lord Howe and what it offered. There was five-star accommodation on the island for those who craved it, and Floss had got the impression that he was just sour he hadn’t been offered it.

  They didn’t need bad reviews though. There was already so much competition out there, so many much cheaper holidays to the likes of Bali or Fiji, and people didn’t need another reason to look elsewhere.

  All of which was in the back of her mind when she picked out the only single man disembarking the plane among the couples and family groups, and saw that he was heading towards her Beached sign. With long legs clad in red skinny jeans and lace-up shoes, a check shirt under a brown leather bomber jacket and a carry-on bag slung over his shoulder, he looked more like some hipster film star than any journalist she’d ever met. The ponytail that captured the long hair from the top of his head and curved over short back and sides and
a short, squared-off beard just sealed the deal. She’d bet there was a tattoo or three emblazoned on a well-honed shoulder.

  Red jeans. Floss sniffed as she waited inside the arrivals area, feeling drabber than usual in her khaki work pants and stone-coloured top embroidered with the Beached logo, her blonde hair that hadn’t seen a hairdresser in forever tied back in a real ponytail. Annie would no doubt think their visitor looked hot, but Floss wasn’t a fan of hipsters, even if half the itinerant workers who worked in the restaurant kitchens or behind the espresso machines seemed to be held hostage by the same lumbersexual fashion. Give her a man decked out in denim jeans and work boots with windblown, collar-length hair any day. Someone like Andy. Even if he hadn’t been much good in the bedroom department lately.

  She sighed. Ah well, better not to go there when she had work to do.

  ‘Floss Miller?’ the visitor said as he approached, treating Floss to a broad smile under piercing blue eyes. Eyes older by a decade than she’d thought at first glance. Intelligent eyes. And Floss thought that maybe he wasn’t all bad. At least he looked genuine.

  ‘You must be Matt Caruso. Welcome to Lord Howe Island,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Do you have luggage to collect?’

  ‘Nope,’ he said, shaking her hand warmly as he swung his bag off his shoulder. ‘Got everything I need right here.’

  ‘Great. Let’s get going.’ She waved to a couple of locals as she led him through the tiny airport to the mini-van. ‘Your first time on Lord Howe?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘But I can already tell it won’t be my last. What a view coming in. Just spectacular.’

  She felt a zing of pride then. She never got sick of hearing visitors’ first impressions, and for a moment she forgave him for being a journalist. ‘It is pretty special.’

  ‘Although are the mountains always hidden by clouds? I’d like to see what they look like underneath.’

  She changed gears as she pulled out onto the main road that curved in a loop around the runway. ‘It’s a bit tricky this time of year, but I’ll see what we can arrange. No promises, mind.’

  He turned to her, gave her one of his smiles again and said, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t hold you to it.’

  Floss felt a disarming burst of warmth. She turned her attention back to the road. Okay, so maybe she could give her paranoia about unfavourable articles a miss this time. He didn’t look like the cynical type who might be carrying a chip on his shoulder.

  She drove slowly along the lagoon road, sticking to the maximum of twenty-five kilometres an hour, so there was plenty of time to point out the local landmarks, the bowling club that put on a good feed (just make sure you book well in advance), the local school, the hospital where the GP ran a surgery until two in the afternoon if needed, and the museum that boasted a café and internet access as well. She showed him where to pick up the hire bike that had been arranged for his stay, and the shops and store that formed the centre of the tiny town, and Halfway Café, which did a great line in burgers and pizza if you wanted something quick.

  He looked at her. ‘Halfway Café?’

  She smiled. ‘Because that’s what Lord Howe Island is: halfway to heaven.’

  ‘I like it.’

  Floss turned inland from the lagoon towards Ned’s Beach. ‘Unmissable,’ she told him. ‘Feed the fish, snorkel over coral or go for a paddle on a board. You’ll love it.’

  He nodded. ‘Thanks. It’s on the list.’

  Minutes later they arrived at Beached. She led him to unit eight and stopped at the foot of the steps. ‘Here we are. I’ll leave you to settle in, Mr Caruso, and I’ll see you at six to take you to your restaurant.’

  ‘Thanks, but, um.’ He put his hand out. ‘The key?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said with a smile. ‘There are no keys. We don’t lock anything here on the island.’

  He looked a bit taken aback. ‘For real? I’d read that, but I wasn’t sure whether to believe it.’

  ‘Believe it. We don’t have a theft problem, mostly because there’s nowhere for a thief to run to,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t need to lock up anything here.’

  ‘But my laptop?’

  ‘I’ve never lost one yet and I certainly don’t plan to start with yours.’

  He gave her such a wide and genuine smile with his thank you that she was doubly determined not to start with his, and left him to settle in.

  Her father was in the office when she got there. ‘Six queries about summer bookings already today, Flossie,’ he said in his gruff voice. ‘It’s looking good.’

  ‘Excellent,’ she said, heading to the small kitchenette to fill up the kettle. ‘Coffee?’

  Neill Beckinsale’s eyebrows shot up appreciatively. ‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’

  Floss smiled at her father’s chronic inability to say, ‘Yes, please.’ He’d retired and handed over the running of Beached to his daughter four years ago on his sixty-fifth birthday, but that didn’t stop him turning up to work every other day. Floss wasn’t about to object because it had always been a family business and it meant there was always another person to share the load. But most of all she knew her dad needed a break from being with Sue, her mum, who’d been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis three years earlier. She had good days, and then not-so-good periods, and there’d come a time when her dad would be needed to care for his wife twenty-four-seven, but until that day, Floss wasn’t going to deny him something productive to balance the load he was increasingly having to take on.

  ‘So how’s our guest?’ he asked. ‘Any first impressions?’

  ‘Okay, I think. He seems happy enough to be here. I think he’s going to be positive.’

  ‘Excellent. We need to keep the punters coming.’

  The kettle boiled and Floss filled their cups, fishing the milk from the fridge.

  ‘Did Andy get off okay?’ Neill asked when she put his coffee down beside him.

  ‘He did,’ she said, sitting at the desk alongside his and blowing on her coffee. Andy and two of his colleagues had left that morning on a flight to Norfolk Island to help out a cargo company that was short staffed after a flu outbreak. He’d actually volunteered to go and it had almost seemed to Floss like he’d welcomed the chance to get away.

  When it all came down to it, Floss couldn’t say she was sorry to see him go. Already she felt the tension in her shoulders dissipating, the tightness in her chest loosening. A couple of days of clear air would do them both good. A couple of days when she could stop trying to put some spark back into their marriage, only to see her attempts end in tears.

  ‘Lovey?’

  She looked around to see her dad standing behind her, holding the tin of chocolate chip biscuits. ‘I asked if you wanted a biscuit.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, Dad,’ she said, reaching for one, ‘I was lost in thought.’

  It was around midday the next day when Floss came upon their journalist guest sitting on his veranda, tapping busily into his laptop, his ponytail jiggling with every keystroke. He looked up before she’d reached him, tossing her a smile that landed in the pit of her belly and warmed her from the inside out.

  ‘Hello,’ he said with a wave.

  ‘Hi, yourself,’ she said, slowing her steps. ‘How are you enjoying your stay? I thought you’d be out and about.’

  ‘It’s amazing,’ he said. ‘I’ve already been up to Kim’s Lookout this morning—just writing it all up now. Hey, do you fancy a coffee? I just made a pot. I figure I owe you something after the one-on-one tour you gave me when I arrived.’

  ‘It was no trouble,’ she said. ‘Besides, you look pretty busy. I don’t want to interrupt you.’

  ‘I promise, you won’t. To be honest, it’d just be nice to talk to another human for five minutes or so. I mean, it’s nice going to cafés and stuff, but when you’re in a place like this, it’s a bit weird having no-one to share it with and say, hey, check that out. I’m so full of stuff I’ve seen if I don’t downlo
ad to someone, I’ll burst.’

  She smiled, feeling tempted. She’d sat with guests before, shared a coffee or tea or even a glass of wine on their veranda while they talked about their day and all the discoveries they’d made. So why was she hesitating now? Maybe because it wasn’t a couple or even a group asking her. It was a single man who smiled at her like she wasn’t invisible and whose eyes twinkled when he laughed. And whose lumbersexual get-up, complete with ponytail, was becoming more appealing by the minute.

  But most of all because she so wanted to say yes.

  She smiled. ‘Thanks, but I’ve got to make up a couple of rooms before the next flight comes in. Maybe next time?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Was that a flicker of disappointment skating over his eyes or just resignation that once again he would be stuck with his own company?

  She’d lied about the rooms needing to be made over, she’d finished them early today. And she wasn’t entirely sure why she’d lied except she’d remembered the way she’d surprised herself the other day by ogling the new policeman. She’d never looked twice at another man, but now it seemed she was not only noticing other men but wondering what they made of her.

  Call it a hunch, Floss told herself as the screen door swung shut behind her, or maybe a sneaking suspicion, but she really shouldn’t want to be alone with a man who seemed to have an uncanny knack of generating such warmth in her with just one smile. Given the attention deficit she was experiencing, she wasn’t sure that she was up to dealing with that kind of superpower. Shame, because he seemed like a nice guy.

  The office was empty when she entered, her dad home with her mum today. Floss headed through the office to the bathroom where there was a mirror above the sink. She flicked on the light and stood there looking at her reflection, appraising it. From the time she was a toddler she’d recognised the word cute and had figured out early that was the way people described her. Not pretty—her nose hovered too long at the end and she liked photos where the photographer captured her from the front rather than in profile, when she looked how she wanted people to see her. Andy had almost divorced her when she’d nixed three-quarters of their wedding photos because she’d been caught in profile. So, pretty? No. Never pretty.