Page 88 of That Island Feeling

I might grab myself painkillers at the chemist too, I think as I open the driver door. Surely a brain aided by ibuprofen is more productive than one that feels overwhelmed and underwater.

Chapter Thirty-six

JACK

One of the downsides of living on a car-free island is the absence of removalists. During the period of uncertainty following the closure of the oyster farm, and before he decided to leave the island, there were a few weeks where Keith tried his hand at a removalist business using golf carts. He called it Carted Away. Unfortunately, the venture didn’t take off and his services were soon monopolised by Arthur, who would transport junk back from the mainland tip and pay in IOUs.

Fortunately, I don’t have much stuff to move out of Moorings, and certainly no clawfoot bathtubs. That’s one of my favourites of Mum’s stories.

Before Clara left yesterday morning, she helped me load up the tinnie with some of my smaller items – pillows, fishing rods, my frypan – and some of her belongings too. There had been no tears when she’d boarded the river boat for her one-way journey. It was like sending a PhD student off on their first day of school; she was more than ready – life was well overdue.

Once the shop is closed, Charlie is coming around to help me slow-shuffle my couch, mattress and bed frame over to the other side of the island. We’ll be stopping for a ‘breather beer’ at Charlie Farleys, he reckons. Good thing Keith is still up north, otherwise he’d insist on helping too, and probably end up being Clam Cove’s very first occupational health and safety claim. Not amazing for Keith’s frail bones, but potentially a way of taking Alec Ogilvy down.

But I didn’t agree to a job at the resort just to bankrupt it.

The lessons from the last few years have been plentiful. Only dead fish swim with the current, that’s what Mum tells me, but now I know it’s better to give in to the flow, to let go and hope that eventually the river brings you back home.

Taking up residence in the farm’s old oyster shed, which conveniently occupied too small a footprint and failed all of the minimum setback requirements to warrant demolition when Clam Cove Resort opened, is my way of forcing that homecoming.

ISLAND LIFE

Chapter Thirty-seven

JACK

She doesn’t know how exceptional she is. Why doesn’t anyone tell her how exceptional she is? The words play on a loop as I kiss down her neck.

The sand is rough against my bare skin and I can feel it finding its way into all the wrong places, but in this moment, I’m totally okay with it. We couldn’t wait until we got back to the island, not when there was a perfectly quiet vacant strip of sand down the side of The Oyster House – well away from any breakables – so I grabbed a spare tablecloth and laid it out on the sand.

She’s warm, the breeze is cool, the moon is full overhead, and the scent of salt from the river fills the air.

We’re only a metre from the water’s edge, and I wonder if we wake any of the fish as we finish.

‘Well, that was like ants at a picnic.’ Andie grins goofily as she pulls her underwear back on.

My brow furrows. Ants have never been welcome at any picnic I’ve attended.

‘Not you! The sand,’ she clarifies as she brushes it from her legs. I watch, mesmerised, as her hand delicately grazes her inner thighs, and I feel a surge of energy, almost ready to go again.

‘Thank God.’ I laugh. ‘I wasn’t a fan of you comparing our mind-blowing sex to something as, um – ah – as small as ants . . .’

She doesn’t indulge me with a response, turning instead to face the wall of The Oyster House. At first I assume she wants privacy to do up the buttons of her blouse – ironic, considering what we’ve just done – but then I realise that she’s running a hand over the smooth brick.

‘You know, this would be so perfect for a projector.’

I zip up my shorts and move behind her, pretending to admire the wall. It looks like an ordinary wall to me.

‘They should so do movie nights here. People could bring their boats and watch from the river,’ she continues enthusiastically.

I reach for her waist and spin her around to face me. Her cheeks are still flushed from orgasm and her skirt flares out around her.

‘That’s a great idea,’ I murmur, so captivated by her heavenly expression that I lean in to dot a soft kiss on her forehead. ‘So, tell me more about this infatuation with movies.’

I wait as she takes a deep breath, a fleeting shadow crossing her face.

‘We used to have family movie nights when I was a kid, and we started the tradition again when Dad was diagnosed with dementia. It became a nightly thing. Mum would wear these T-shirts she got custom-made for her classes. A different movie quote on each T-shirt. She had an entire drawer full of them.’

‘So, watching movies helps you feel closer to your mum?’ I ask, my attention focused on her.

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