Falling Away (3 page)

The night closes in. Forks of light flare on the horizon where a storm is striking the sea. The sand loses warmth and the breeze holds bitterness but I sit with him because he needs to be here. He glances across, flicking errant hair away from his forehead.

“Hey. Thanks,” he says.

I lean back, nestling my elbows into the sand. “What for?”

He shrugs abruptly. “I don’t know. Getting me, I s’pose. Knowing me too well.”

I sit up and give him a sisterly shove, toppling him over sideways. He laughs hollowly, a sound I haven’t heard from him before now. “Come on, it’s getting late.”

I stand and haul him to his feet, wondering whether one short week will be enough to rescue him from the misery of his heartbreak.

CHAPTER THREE

My room has windows like portholes onto the river. Some days I peer like a peeping Tom on the river-life passing by. Today it’s quiet and replicate of glass. I throw on a tight black mini-skirt and standard Café Blue shirt, and force a brush through my muddled hair. I slide mascara densely over my lashes and grab my handbag from the antique chair lodging beside my bed.

Ben’s at the car throwing his board in next to the wet tub. His face is lighter and the shadows have left him. “Want a lift to the wharf, Sis?” he asks as I emerge.

“That’d be great.” I stand there gauging him for a moment. “So why were you so dark over breakfast this morning? Or is that a question that perhaps I shouldn’t ask?” I pull open the door of the old Subaru and slide into the seat, clanging the heavy door closed.

Ben drops into the seat beside me and kicks over the engine. He revs the accelerator, ramming it into reverse and backing rather swiftly out of the driveway. “Yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t mean to be so surly. I had the unfortunate experience of another morale-boosting conversation with Mum.”

I roll my eyes. “O-kay. Say no more.”

“She thinks I need to get back to Sydney to reclaim my relationship. That I’m giving up too easily. She was damn insistent about it, too.”

I raise my eyes to look at him, tightening my gaze. “Typical. And what do you think?”

“That it would be pointless.” The pain on his face lies right on the surface. Even his eyes are harder, unbreakable, as if he’s only just holding it together.

“So have you heard anything from her?”

He exhales heavily. “Just a text, saying she’s moving out tomorrow.”

“Wow. That’s really harsh.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it,” he says without removing his eyes from the road.

He’s driving fast but I’m late. We pull in beside the old Boatshed Café and I drag myself reluctantly from the seat. “Enjoy your surf.”

“Yeah, I’ll give it a go. I’m hoping to flush out some cobwebs.”

I push out of the car and bang the door closed behind me, watching as he scorches off toward the Singing Bridge.

***

The wind hits me when we enter the bay, the ferry slapping across the water. With the cold biting at my bones, I wish I’d brought a hoodie for the breeze. In the headwind the ferry’s slower, struggling through waves that are running across the bay. Dark cloud looms and seabirds hover weightlessly. Even the tip of Tomaree is disappearing into grey. Jack’s at the helm skippering the boat like a pro. I could watch Jack all day. Literally, all day.

We’re half way across the bay when he glances back, catching me gawking at him. Thankfully it doesn’t seem to faze him. Nothing seems to faze him. “So how’s the job? Been there a few weeks now, right?” he calls over a pressed white shoulder.

“Three weeks, to be exact. And I like it,” I call back over the breeze.

He inches the oversized wheel to the left. “So is that where you met him?”

I furrow my brow, tucking wayward strands of hair behind my ear. “Who?” I ask, feeling honestly confused. Searching for relevance it eventually twigs. Last time I saw Jack was with Ben on the beach. The day he’d arrived all miserable over Lil. “Oh,
Ben
?” I reply. “Ben’s my
brother
.”

He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh,” he says like the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. “You never said.”

“I didn’t think to,” I say, feeling a little heart flutter as I wonder what this means.

He turns to watch as the bay opens up, cold in the wind blowing wildly off the sea. He inches the wheel slightly to the right now, staring vacantly into the horizon. Conversation halts and immediately I feel awkward. Tortured, even.

After a few moments I summon something to say. “So where did you move from, Jack?” I call out.

He turns back. “Sydney.”

“Whereabouts in Sydney?”

“Up at Palm Beach. We used to run the Palm Beach ferries, over to the Basin and north to the Central Coast. It was a choice job, before ...” he trails off, shifting focus. We’re coming in to Nelson and it’s busy in the bay.

Before what?
I want to ask, but resist the pressing urge. “Do you like it here?”

He nods. “Yeah, I do. This is a beautiful place.”

I smile, agreeing with him. “Yeah, it is pretty nice. But only if you like quiet.”

“Quiet’s good,” he says. “Quiet’s
very
good.”

A haunted expression moves across his face, passing almost immediately so that I wonder if I imagined it. I want to ask why he moved here, why he’s running ferries back and forth across the bay from our tiny coastal town, but instead ask, “So how long have you been doing this?” It’s an easier question to ask, and far less intrusive.

“I don’t know,” he says, shrugging a shoulder. “For quite a while. When something’s your life, you don’t sit around counting days.”

“No, I guess not,” I say, recognising my own tendency for this.

He negotiates the marina-filled bay to bring us skilfully into the wharf, where I appear to be forgotten amid the buzz of disembarking passengers.

I step from the ferry under a melancholy sky, my thoughts fixed firmly on Jack.

CHAPTER FOUR

Café Blue is busy. Riley’s in the kitchen and his relief is palpable when I walk through the door.

“I thought you’d never get here, Sam,” he says with a tight smile.

I shoot him a defensive glare, tossing my bag into my locker. “I’m not late.”

“Well you’re not exactly early.”

I scowl at him. “Who says I have to get here early?”

“I do,” he says, rather curtly.

And just who does he think
he
is? Before I can respond with a satisfying rejoinder, Gemma brushes through on her long tanned legs, pinning orders haphazardly to the wall. She doesn’t acknowledge me, just silently exits through the swing-doors with a grim expression plastered across her face. Emily crashes plates onto the bench, piling them toward the ceiling like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The tension’s layered nervously through the room. I suspect it’s because we’re busy and George won’t hire more staff.

Riley looks tired. Strain tightens the gaze in his amber-coloured eyes. He walks with a cocky swagger across the room and hangs an arm across my shoulder.

“We’re
bu-sy
today, Sammy.” He draws the words out. I feel the weight of his arm and wonder what on earth he’s doing. He looks closely into my face.
Really
closely. I shift uncomfortably and he quickly drops the offending arm. “Can you cook another risotto for me, Sammy? Prawn and olive.”

I move away, relieved to have something to focus on, other than Riley invading my personal space. “Sure.”

Sniffing an acknowledgement he returns to the stove, fiddling with a huge tray of lasagne. He layers the pasta sheets like blankets over a baby while stirring up a béchamel for the top.

I haul down a heavy-based pan and melt the butter, watching it ooze toward the outside edge of the pan. Tossing in some finely minced garlic, a pungent aroma immediately fills the room. I throw in some more, worried there won’t be enough flavour, but when the wine goes in I’m satisfied. It smells so good my stomach growls with ungratified expectation.

“Sam,” George says, walking past. “We need to talk shifts.”

“Okay,” I say.

He looks back. “Later, okay? When we’re not so stretched.” He closes the office door kind of abruptly, like always. I imagine him sitting behind his desk with the papers that cover it, coffee mug staining the timber with dark rings from beneath its base.

“Come on, Sam. How’s that risotto coming?” Riley’s impatient. He either slow-drawls his words or fires them at me like an automatic weapon.

“Getting there,” I say, pouring in the rice and watching the butter soak the grains. It’s strangely satisfying. Mesmerising even.

“Well, maybe it could get there a bit faster?”

“Yes, Sarg. I’m onto it.”

He rolls his eyes, flashing me a contagious grin right along with it, so I can’t help but smile.

In another pan I fry the prawns, morphing them from greyish-green to pink, their edges burnished with colour. I add olives to the rice, pouring in the liquid and stirring till it’s nicely swelled. I fold through the spinach, crumbling fetta through last.

An ominous pile of tangled dishes is calling from the counter. Emily takes orders and clears the plates, bussing in the busy room. I open the dishwasher and the steam hits me full in the face, hissing like a volcano. I shake it away and pull a tray of gleaming plates from inside. I grab another and quickly fill it, rinsing the muck from the plates in the sink.

“Hey, honey,” Emily says with stacks of glasses teetering precariously in her hands.

I look up from the sink. “Are you doing the day shift again?” Emily’s been rostered onto nights for the last three weeks so I’m surprised to see her here.

“Doing a double,” she calls over a tanned shoulder, exiting the kitchen again. Her shorts are so short beneath the Café Blue top that I wonder if she’s wearing any. With legs like that she totally gets away with it.

Bloody George,
I curse.
We need more staff.

“Do you need any help?” I ask as she reappears, braving a sharp frown from Riley. “The plates are done, as is the risotto,” I justify, hoping he’ll relent.

“If Sam could clear tables, I’ll love you forever,” Emily pleads, blinking her blue eyes dramatically at Riley.

“Oh, okay,” he groans, shaking his head. “I’ll let you know when I need you back, Sam.”

“Thanks, Riley,” says Emily, tugging me out by the arm.

Gemma’s at the coffee machine, flirting. Something she’s profoundly good at. She makes love-heart and four-leaf-clover swirls in the milk froth, giggling like she’s thirteen.

“More milk please, Sam!” she calls, so I’m back in the kitchen to retrieve it from the fridge.

“Thank you, Sammy,” she purrs as I hand it over. She returns her gaze to the long line of males queuing for their fix. Her face seems sharper, thinner if possible; her skin pulled taut across her bones.

Later I’m at the dishwasher when I feel Riley right up behind me. He’s way too close and I want him away. I swivel abruptly, finding myself nose to nose with his broody good looks.

He inches even closer. “So what are you doing later, Sam?”

His chiselled face is way too close for comfort so I edge away, feeling the kitchen bench pressed hard up behind me. He mirrors my movement.

“Do you want to go out when we finish? Just for a drink?” And the guy is brash.

I inch further away. “Umm ... I can’t tonight, Riley. I already made plans.”

“Oh yeah? Cancel them,” he demands, his amber eyes scrutinising mine.

I smile nervously, leaning further back. “Uh, I can’t Riley. But maybe some other time?” And I don’t know why I say this. I curse myself silently.

He leans forward like a predator, caging me with his hands placed either side on the counter. My heart races just a little, because if he wasn’t my boss ...

“Do you mean it, Sammy? Okay then. I’ll definitely hold you to that.” He pushes away and saunters off to the other side of the swiftly diminishing kitchen. Pulling lasagne out of the oven, he places it on the bench with a loud sizzle. He cuts it into equal sized portions.

George emerges from his office. Like a crab in the sand at night time he peers from his hole to see if it’s safe to come out, and now there’s a lull he does. He gestures for me to follow him, closing the door firmly when I do. I thank him silently for his gloriously impeccable timing.

He gives an unusual smile. “Well, Sam. To state the bleeding obvious, we’ve been pretty busy lately. I need everyone to do some extra shifts. It’s the only way we’re gonna cope.”

My heart sinks. “I’m already doing five,” I say defensively. “That’s almost full-time work George, spread over the week.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, the cogs audibly whirring. “Could you manage a double shift once a week? What do you think? Is it possible?”

I shake my head decisively, trying to buy some time. “I’m really sorry, George. But along with my other commitments, I just wouldn’t have the time.”

He removes his glasses, tapping a finger on the desk. “Other commitments, hey? Well, we’ll leave it for the moment. But I
am
going to need you to take on some more at some stage over the next few weeks.” I watch him restrain obvious frustration before he waves me from the room. “At least think about it,” he says, as I duck hastily around the doorframe.

The storm hits about a half hour later. We drag in umbrellas and secure windows in the wind. It sweeps low across the bay, the whitecaps spewing spray across the darkening water. The ferry pulls out wide from the wharf and I wish I was on it, heading home and finally finished for the day. I push the thought swiftly away. The line at the coffee machine disperses and Gemma’s left with no-one to giggle with. The café empties too, the rain pelting the roof so hard I can hardly hear thoughts floating by in my head.

Riley comes out and stands behind me. He watches the water fall, running in rivulets downhill toward the bay. Feeling his closeness, I twist to face him.

I eyeball him, in intimate proximity. “What do you want, Riley?”