The Maxwell Sisters (14 page)

As her sister left the room, coffee in hand, her father had looked up from his newspaper. ‘What shall you do now, Eve?'

She shoved a spoonful of oats, nuts and fruit into her mouth and replied in muffled tones, ‘Go to the restaurant.'

‘
I mean
,' her father said, ‘with regards to the fact that you lied. It
is
going to be awkward.'

She shoved more food in her mouth so she wouldn't have to speak.

Her father cleared his throat impatiently. ‘I know you have feelings for that boy. Though why you haven't told him yet is beyond my comprehension.'

‘I don't have feelings for him,' she protested, though she could feel tears welling in her eyes.

He sighed, folding his newspaper closed and then in half. He was one of the few people she knew who still read a physical paper daily. It wasn't a very convenient thing to do in the country given papers could not be delivered. He had to drive into Yallingup every morning to buy one.

‘You know, Eve, when I first bought Tawny Brooks back in the eighties, I knew I had the land to plant at least eight varieties of grapes. I had to choose carefully what I was going to plant. Thriving of the vine was important, of course, but I also wanted uniqueness in my crop, so that I might differentiate myself from the dozens of other grape-growers in this country. Firstly, I chose chardonnay because at the time that was the most successful grape in the South-West. And I knew if all else failed, it would make me money. Then I chose cabernet, because it was strong, robust and flourished here easily. And then I settled on semillon, merlot, sauvignon blanc, shiraz and so forth and so forth. I won't go into the details of my decisions because I swear to you, Eve, it was like being given the opportunity to decide the DNA of my children. But when it came to that eighth and final variety, I was at a loss. I had no idea what to choose. I wanted it to be special. I wanted it to be different. Something that had never been grown here before. Something that had the “wow” factor. But everything in that category was risky and I was scared to invest myself so completely in something that may not turn out successfully.' He gave her a long look at that point, and she began to realise this story not only applied to him but to her as well.

‘Due to my indecision and need to protect myself against failure, the land stayed vacant for many years. Compared to my other seven blocks of land, the eighth block was barren and fruitless because I was procrastinating over the risk. Eventually, your mother decided that she wanted a garden and then a cellar door. And you came along and said you wanted a restaurant. Over the years, my dream became replaced with that of everyone else's. I had waited too long.'

‘I see.'

In hindsight, perhaps Eve had not fully appreciated his warning because she continued to stay quiet about her real feelings. She didn't tell Phoebe. She didn't tell Spider. Her full confession remained hidden in that jar of tea that no one ever drank. She hadn't removed it because she thought she'd get it out again one day because surely Spider would discover how unsuited he was to her flighty younger sister. Or she would tire of him. Phoebe was a free spirit, ungrounded and unfettered. She went with the flow, followed her heart and enjoyed taking chances. Spider was a homebody. Like Eve, he had been driven by the same passion since an early age – cooking. He was a planner, a steady soul with a clear compass. How could these two ever make it work?

But they did.

They had.

It was strange, almost like two lost socks coming together to make a pair. Their differences enhanced their own strengths. They really
did
bring out the best in each other and even some aspects of Spider's personality Eve had never glimpsed before. It was Phoebe who had first come up with the idea that Spider should be more involved in marketing the restaurant. He was so wonderfully fast on his feet and seemed to have a knack for engaging people, even the sternest of critics. Through a friend of a friend, she got him that first interview on regional radio, about food and wine in the South-West. That first interview had led to a permanent radio spot and eventually his own television show. The interviewer had loved the way Spider talked about his passion. Spider had thrived in the media. And while Eve was pleased for him, she was also surprised.

Spider began talking about writing his own cookbook. With all the publicity he was getting, writing a book seemed like another way to connect with people. He grew less interested in the restaurant, though he still continued to help out.

‘The restaurant was always your baby, Eve,' he told her one day. ‘Your father gave it to you, not to me.'

Eve began to realise that she was losing him as a business partner as well. It became particularly apparent when he drove up to Perth to do a couple of TV appearances for a breakfast show. As he became more successful in the media, the restaurant began to lose business.

Six months after Phee and Spider started dating, Eve realised the game was up. There was no turning around from this. The epiphany hit when she was standing by the window one day chopping zucchini while Spider took a break outside. She could see him chatting to her sister on the edge of the lake while Eric raked the leaves in the foreground. Phoebe was breaking the news that Eve had already heard at breakfast. She'd scored her first teaching job at a primary school in Busselton, a nearby town. They were talking and laughing excitedly, sporadically kissing as they made plans for the future. A single tear rolled down Eve's cheek.

She just wanted out. She didn't want to have to watch them every day. Kissing, holding hands. She didn't want to listen to their hopes and dreams for the future. She didn't want to work with Spider any more while she had these feelings for him and while he was in love with her sister.

She just wanted to be gone from this place. Back to the city. Away from Spider, away from them both, so that she might find the space to get over it all.

The fire in the restaurant had been the perfect excuse to pack up and leave. It released Spider from his obligations to her. And her father had let her use the excuse to leave. She hadn't had to explain herself to anyone.

Not even Tash.

She knew her sister had been furious at her for abandoning ship but she just wasn't in the right frame of mind to do what Tash was asking. The main thing was that nobody knew about her feelings for Spider. And nobody ever would. She'd taken the tea jar and put it in the back of the storeroom. That note she had written had never come out of the jar. It had never –

Oh shit. The note!
The sudden thought made her bolt up in bed like a jack-in-a-box.
It's still there!

She had never removed it. She'd forgotten all about it when she'd made her dash out of town after the fire. The kitchen wasn't damaged in the blaze, so it might still be there. Her only consolation was that nobody went in the restaurant kitchen any more. Nobody had for months.

But people are going to be going in there a lot now
, she reminded herself.
Everybody's going to be in there tomorrow. Crap.

She flung off the covers and turned on the light. A quick glance at the clock told her it was three am. She could go get it now while everyone was sleeping. Destroy the bloody thing before anyone was the wiser.

She jumped out of bed and grabbed Tash's dressing gown from where it lay draped over her suitcase. She knew as a modesty enhancement it was rather useless but at least it had long sleeves and was certainly better than nothing. Throwing it on, she slipped her car keys into the spacious pocket and quietly let herself out into the hall. She crept down the long passage to the laundry, hoping her mother still kept copies of all the keys in the cabinet there.

She reached under the laundry sink first and grabbed her father's torch. She shined it on the small white cupboard on the wall. Inside, still hanging on all their hooks, were keys to every nook and cranny in Tawny Brooks. Some she didn't even know about. She knew exactly, however, where the keys to the restaurant were because when she'd worked there, she'd opened up first thing every morning.

Grabbing the keys off the hook, she let herself out the laundry door. The night air was fresh and fruity but not in the least bit cold. She caught a couple of eyes glowing in the scrub behind the house, before she heard the rustle and muffled thump of large hind legs on dirt.

Roos! Damn it.

She'd forgotten how many of them were about at night. The night breeze whipped the flaps of her robe around her thighs as she ran towards her car, which was parked quite a distance from the house. If it wasn't pitch-black she might have considered walking down the road to where the restaurant and cellar door were. But the last thing she wanted was to run into a kangaroo. Some of the greys were as big as she was. They liked grapes almost as much as the birds did and had a similar reputation as pests around here. Some winemakers even hired snipers to cull their numbers when they got too high. But not her father. No, he loved ‘all creatures great and small'. As a result, they had a bigger kangaroo problem than most. She nodded to herself. Yes, better to just hop in the car so she didn't meet one. That would also cut ten minutes off this little adventure which, to be honest, she wasn't really enjoying all that much.

In the end, she reached the restaurant quite easily with her little car, a secondhand Barina she'd had for years. As soon as she switched her headlights off, she reached for the torch on the front seat and turned it back on. The light wasn't as good as the lights on her car, but it got her to the front door and showed her where the keyhole was. A few seconds later, she was inside. She knew the electricity was back on but didn't want to flick the light switch in case someone from the house saw and wondered who was up to no good.

She nearly screamed herself silly when a crackling of leaves in the corner indicated that she had disturbed a small marsupial of some kind. Her torchlight streaked back and forth across the room but missed illuminating the animal completely. She merely caught a shadow as it disappeared into one of the holes in the floor. As her racing heart stilled, she finally had a chance to take in the rest of the room. The dull torchlight glanced off the furniture stacked in the corners, the bare walls, devoid of the artwork that had once hung there, and across the seemingly fathomless pits in the central floor, like portals to hell. The place looked terrible and quite hard to imagine full of smiling, chatty diners.

She crossed the room to the back where the doors to the kitchen lay. Surprisingly, these were unlocked, which she thought was rather irresponsible. There was a lot of expensive equipment in this kitchen. She realised her mother had been the last person here because the stainless steel counter in the centre of the room was covered in shopping bags. As her torch ran over them she could see that they appeared to contain a lot of snack food. Bags of chips, fresh fruit, a couple of boxes of biscuits. Some buns and salad items for lunch. Further inspection of the fridge showed her mother had also left a carton of beer and one of soft drink and a few other items. Obviously, she intended these for the family of renovators that were to descend upon the restaurant tomorrow.

Eve moved away from the fridge, surprised at her preoccupation with food, even in this moment. Then to her horror, she saw it – the tea jar under the windowsill again. It was right there next to the other earthenware jars as though it had never left. Someone must have found it in the storeroom and taken it out again. Her mother, perhaps?

Biting her lip, she pulled it towards her, its clay lid gritty and dusty to touch. She shone her torch inside.

Tea, nothing but tea.

She tipped all the bags out onto the counter.

Still nothing but tea.

Desperately, she pulled forward the other jars on the counter top. They were both empty.
Damn.
She sat down on the stool, slowly scooping up the tea bags and putting them back in the jar. Who had taken her note out, and when?

She tapped her fingers indecisively on the counter. Perhaps it was silly to worry about something that had probably been seen and discarded a year ago. There was no knowing how long the tea jar had been back on the counter. Thank goodness she hadn't put her name on it because she had intended to give it to him in person. If the letter hadn't caught up with her yet, then why should it catch up with her now? All the same, it was good to be sure that it wasn't lying around for someone to find. She looked across the windowsill and into the garden, lit by the reflection of the moon on the lake. Did her mother still have her vegie patch? What about the fresh herbs she'd plucked every day for use in the restaurant? Did Eric still tend them or had he replaced them with yet another bed of flowers?

A sense of longing suddenly assailed her. She hadn't even realised it but she'd missed this place, missed her sense of self here.

Being master of her own domain.

Sure, there was a lot of heartache too. But how many times had she cooked it off here, in this very kitchen? She turned around, picking up her torch, running the light over the tiled walls, over the high shelves where rows of wine glasses stood proudly next to a collection of candles still in their holders.

Suddenly, a strange desire overtook her. Half nostalgic, half rebellious. She wanted to cook in this kitchen again. Not in the morning. Not next week. But now. Right now, in the middle of the night, while no one was watching. No Spider, no Phoebe, no Tash, no Heath, no parents wondering if this was the prelude to her return to the fold.

She wanted to cook, just to enjoy the experience – to relish it. Before she changed her mind she went back to the fridge to see what was on offer. What about an early breakfast?

A cheesy omelette or some crepes laden with fruit and drizzled with raspberry jus. A feeling of naughtiness rippled through her body and a grin lit up her face. How was it that such a simple process could make her feel so wicked? She still did not want to turn on the lights. So instead she went to the shelves along the wall and brought down some candles. It was tempting fate a little as it was candles that had got her into trouble in the first place. But she would remember to put these ones out. She lit them with the gas stove lighter and set them on the island benchtop.