Page 13 of That Island Feeling

Sender: Tom Devine

Recipient: Jack Cooper

Subject: Re: Another double booking

Mate! Farrrrrrrrk! Shit, sorry. I assumed Moorings would be avail since it normally is. I bet you have it handled like a pro tho.

I have the day off on Tuesday so I’m going to island hop over to see Richie and the boys – relive our uni days. We should have a beer.

P.S. I removed Clara as cc ’cause I don’t need her commentary on my life.

P.P.S. Our pearl oysters taste so much better than the rock oysters here. Let’s just say The Oyster House has some bloody good marketing.

A strange feeling flits across my chest. As much as I’ll never quite understand how they could leave the island, it’s nice to hear them both happy. Even the tension between them, I know, is just silly sibling squabbles. I may be dealing with the fallout right now, but they’ll come back together once they’ve processed their grief. Their lives had been on hold for such a long time – all of ours had.

It’s time to distract myself from my own tough decisions – I reach for my phone to send Andie her parrot.

I’ll hold off sharing the good news about the bucks’ new accommodation for now until I’ve confirmed it with them. I can’t stand the thought of letting her down.

Chapter Eight

ANDIE

Fresh island fruit for breakfast it is, I decide, plucking a pineapple from a farm stand on the road back to Moorings and turning it over in my hands. I asked, and the island breakfast Gods delivered! Ouch – I forgot about the spiky skin.

I set the pineapple down and reach for a punnet of plump strawberries. Not in the least bit yellow, but nothing a thick slathering of mango yoghurt can’t disguise. I’m the one who insisted on this strict colour-coded theme, so surely I can be the one to break it. I was so quick to go all-in on this event that I didn’t stop to think through the practicalities. There’s no way we can sustain this for an entire week.

My eyes search the unmanned counter for instructions on what to do next. I’ve only seen these sorts of set-ups in movies; I’ve never encountered one in real life. It’s an honour system, that much is clear, but where are the prices? All I see is butterflies drunk on nectar headbutting the medley of fruit on offer. If there was an honour box set-up where I live in Sydney, it would be syringes left in place of cash. That’s if the rats hadn’t gotten there first.

I don’t suppose they take payWave. Ah, yes! I remember, reaching into my purse, that Lizzie paid me in cash for her share of the accommodation rather than transferring it as requested. I stuff a wad of cash into the honour box. Surely fifty bucks will do. Then I scoop up a selection of colourful fruits – basically as much as I can carry. I should have grabbed a wheelbarrow from the river dock, but then again, I thought I’d be returning with a bag of fancy cardboard cartons from the brasserie.

My arms are already overflowing when I spot a watermelon the size of my head. Could I also carry a watermelon? I can’t help smiling to myself. I’m already feeling very Baby-like, what with my peek behind the curtain of local life at Charlie Farleys. When you go on holiday it’s easy to overlook the people who live there, clean your accommodation, serve up brunch and drive your boats. Or as it turns out, don’t drive your boats.

My mind slowly replays Jack’s parting words and the warmth that coursed through me when he effectively asked me on a date – at least, I think that’s what that was.

Leaves rustle above and I look up into the trees for a parrot. If my hands weren’t so full, I’d get some more footage for the short video I’m planning to make for Dad. It will be the first project of its kind I’ve attempted in years.

‘Hello there, dear!’ someone above me chirps, nearly causing me to drop my fruit.

It’s coming from the shorter tree, not the sky-high one with the rope swing that childhood dreams are made of.

‘Offft, you’ve made a fine selection there,’ the voice says. I tilt my head back to see a woman in her mid-sixties or so, wearing a hat decorated with a red silk scarf, perched at the top of a ladder. ‘Don’t mind me. I’m just liberating the last of my lemons! I can’t believe they held on this long – it’s already been a hotter-than-normal summer.’

‘Do you need any help?’ It doesn’t look particularly safe. One of her hands holds secateurs, the other is wrapped around the tree trunk.

‘I was just finishing up,’ she says. There’s a soft thud as a lemon drops on top of a towering pile of yellow at the foot of the tree. She climbs down after it, her hat floating to the ground in her wake. ‘Would you like some fresh mint from my garden to go with those strawberries? Perfect for mojitos.’

It seems rude to refuse her offer, even though I need to get back to the house. Who knows what might have unfolded in my absence?

‘Sounds lovely, thank you. Only if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘I need to get a basket for these lemons anyway.’ She pauses. ‘You look like you could do with a basket too.’

I leave my fruit by the lemon pile and follow the woman through an Alice in Wonderland-esque painted wooden door complete with a cast-iron knocker and a sign that reads: TRESPASSERS WILL BE COMPOSTED.

The garden is every bit as magical as the painted door. It’s unruly and overgrown, with gnomes guarding the wonky path. The woman’s hand trails over leaves and she murmurs to herself as we weave our way deep into the greenery, praising some plants for how well they’re doing and scolding others. But she doesn’t stop. She’s on a mission – like a child leading me to treasure she’s buried, her imagination the only map required.

‘Oh! Did you hear that?’ The woman slows and cups a hand behind an ear. ‘It’s a sharp-tailed sandpiper. One of the rarest birds on the island. I’ve been trying to capture it for weeks.’

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