Page 58 of That Island Feeling

‘That’s not the issue, Alec,’ I say, pressing my lips together and trying to keep my insides from exploding outside.

‘I still don’t understand this Pacific oyster vendetta . . .’

I sigh. ‘It’s pretty simple. Pacific oysters aren’t native to this estuary. They’re an introduced species and have caused absolute havoc.’

‘But they’re here now. And that’s the whole point, they grow so much faster – we’d have stock to harvest in eighteen months. And they’re bigger and creamier – everyone loves them!’ Excitement bubbles in his voice. ‘I could get the brasserie reopened, sell them to the bowlo and Charlie Farleys. He’s a mate of yours, right? I’m sure you’d love to see him back on his feet?’

‘Mm,’ I say, not giving anything away. As if I’m not already having a hell of a time with this very dilemma. I want out of this conversation.

‘Everything would be done above board and according to the biosecurity laws. I mean, how can it not, with the bloody Department of Primary Industries breathing down our necks?’

Nothing less than a flat-out no would be a betrayal to Keith and everything he’s taught me about how his people have farmed the river for thousands of years. One of my earliest memories of working with Keith is seeing him taking golf clubs to a patch of wild Pacific oysters and smashing them to smithereens. Still, I’d do almost anything to help Charlie and breathe life back into this island.

‘I’ll get back to you,’ I tell Alec, grabbing my bucket.

‘Remember, three more days, Cooper.’

‘Yup, got it.’

Bloody Alec has kept me so long that I’m still wiping down the shower screens when I hear a key slide into the door.

‘Sorry, I’m just finishing up in here,’ I call out, my words bouncing off the sparkling tiles. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to buff and shine. ‘I’ll only be a few more minutes.’

‘Oh, right. Okay.’ I can tell I’ve startled him. ‘No problems, mate. You do your thing.’

I slip into autopilot while I work with speed, channelling the same mindset I used to deploy while hauling up the oyster cages from the river and scrubbing vigorously to clean off the barnacles and debris before lowering them back into the water.

I emerge five minutes later, smiling like a professional, even though I can feel sweat running down my back. I’ve remembered to wear my uniform (thank God, or that would have been another thing for Alec to go at me for): a navy linen short and shirt set printed with hibiscus flowers, despite no hibiscus growing on the island.

‘Hey, mate, sorry again about the delay. High season,’ I say to the stocky man standing in the doorway with his luggage. There’s something about his face that is vaguely familiar. ‘Let me help you with that.’ I swing his suitcase up onto the luggage rack, even though his sturdy stature tells me he could have managed it just fine. No one can ever accuse me of not trying with the guests.

‘All good, mate,’ he says, reassuring me that no negative reviews will be left on Tripadvisor. It’s an odd position to find myself in – simultaneously wanting the place to succeed and fail.

‘So, what brings you to Pearl Island?’ Yes, it’s small talk, but also important research insights.

‘A girl, actually. I’m here to win my ex back.’

‘Ni-ice.’ I let out a low whistle. ‘Well, best of luck to you, mate. Hit me up if you want to impress her with a boat ride or a paddle. I’m normally floating around here somewhere. I’m Jack, by the way.’ I extend a hand to him.

‘Mitch.’

Chapter Twenty-six

ANDIE

There’s splashing outside my window early this morning as the girls trial a new hangover cure. Between shrieks, Grace is passionately lecturing the others about the benefits of the Wim Hof method – ignoring the fact that it’s meant to involve two-degree ice water, not a balmy twenty-six-degree pool. I pretend to be asleep as she calls out for me to join them, remaining snuggled under my doona while I savour every last tasty morsel of my Jack sex-dream. In it, his scarred hands deftly shucked oysters before feeding them to me, his touch sending heat crawling over my skin as his lips trailed over my body.

I wait until the house settles into silence before finishing what dream-induced Jack started, eventually rising from bed and gliding down the stairs.

A neat brown package sits on the floor in front of the dog door. I’m grateful for a morning without insatiable thirst, a throbbing headache or dry mouth – thanks to my delayed drinking start and Jack’s wholesome thermos of hot chocolate.

I search for a message on the oily bag before tearing it open. Surprisingly, the absence of a note doesn’t disappoint me; instead, I smile at the memory of the text from Jack that was waiting on my phone as soon as I opened my eyes.

Looks like I’m crashing dinner tonight. x

Yet again, I’m astounded by how swiftly news travels on this island. We made loose plans with the boys when they departed around midnight last night. It all started as a joke about who the better cooks were – initiated by me after Richie complained again about Charlie’s dry burgers. I challenged him to do better, sparking a boys-versus-girls cooking competition in which we would each contribute a dish. So tonight, we’ll dine on a seven-course (likely of varying standards) meal. Perhaps eight, if Jack is coming. At this point, we’ve strayed so far away from my itinerary that I can’t even remember what I originally planned for day five’s activities. My mind is consumed with thoughts of Jack.

I finish my bap (it’s the most delicious one yet) and get ready for the day. Before leaving to meet Jack yesterday, I promised Hazel that I’d return in the morning to help her finish filming.

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