Page 65 of That Island Feeling

‘Taylor!’ Andie says sharply.

Our eyes meet and a jolt of electricity zaps through me.

‘Sorry, she doesn’t do gluten, remember?’ Her voice is halfway between a question and a plea.

‘Of course,’ I say, quiet. How did I forget that?

‘Sorry,’ Taylor sings, sounding anything but. ‘I was just hoping for oysters.’

I hate that I visibly bristle.

‘There are no oysters available on the island,’ Andie informs her friend, her gentle gaze still fixed on me. She’s not even aware of the weight of her words, and how grateful I am for them. ‘Why don’t we get the table sorted?’ She tears her eyes from mine and hops off her stool.

When I step into the formal dining room ten minutes later, carrying the platter of bruschetta – one ‘piece’ sans the bread, leaving only a sad pile of diced tomato chunks – I’m amazed by the transformation. The curtains have been pulled opened and billow gently in the breeze. Someone has found Hannah’s fine china, sterling silver cutlery and crystal glassware, curated from decades of island estate sales frequented by her and Mum, and it’s neatly set out on the table. Each place setting has two sets of knives, forks and spoons – wishful thinking given the trail of destruction I’ve just left behind in the kitchen.

‘Hey, isn’t this the same pearl artwork your mum has?’ Andie asks me, pointing to the yin–yang framed pearl above the chair at the head of the table. ‘But wait – the design is flipped. Your mum has the black version with the white pearl, and this one is white with a black pearl!’

I place my platter on the table. They’ve obviously been spending a lot of time together.

‘Yes, they’re a pair. I made them to match.’

Curiosity sparks in her eyes. ‘You made this? And Hazel’s?’

‘Yup.’ My voice is tinged with a hint of pride, perhaps even hope, as memories fill my mind of the day eighteen months or so ago, not long before Hannah passed, when I found the wild oyster with the rare black pearl. With Clara’s help I came up with the yin–yang pieces.

It was the perfect gift to honour their thirty years of friendship, and a small triumph after the pain we’d all endured in the years prior. The artworks became a symbol, a beacon of possibility amid the darkness. We dared to believe that there was still hope for our island, even with no oyster industry.

Andie’s forehead wrinkles. ‘But I don’t understand. Why does Hannah have one if it was a gift for Hazel and Billy’s wedding anniversary?’

‘Billy?’ I groan. ‘Oh God, no. He was just the most recent of Mum’s husbands. They were only married for a few years before he passed – but nothing compares to the enduring love Mum and Hannah shared. That’s her true love story.’

I watch Andie’s expression shift from confusion to surprise, then finally settle into delight as the puzzle pieces click into place. I wonder if I’ve said too much, especially if part of my appeal lies in my seemingly simple island life . . . I realise I may be starting to reveal that it’s anything but.

‘Boys! Tools down.’ Tom’s booming voice interrupts us as he enters the dining room. His face softens as he takes in the transformed dining room. ‘Oh, wow. I haven’t seen it look like this in forever.’

‘Right?’ I reply, turning to grin at him. ‘She’d love it.’

I’m not entirely sure Clara would agree, so I’m relieved it’s Tom who’s here tonight, not her.

The bucks barrel in one by one in various states of disarray. Garth has flour smeared across his face and in his hair; Richie, who has been bragging loudly about his famous lasagne, has tomato sauce splattered down his apron; and Ben, who’s roasting a whole shoulder of lamb, looks downright flustered, with sweaty hair slicked against his glazed red forehead.

They slide into their chairs, aprons slipping down to expose more of their bare chests, and we crunch into the bruschetta. The dining room fills with satisfying murmurs of ‘Mm,’ and ‘This is going to be tough to beat’.

But I find myself caring about only one set of tastebuds.

As I watch her take a bite, her lips enveloping the bread, everyone else in the room seems to fade away. It’s as if we’re the only ones at Hannah’s table.

Then, her foot grazes mine. At first I assume it’s unintentional, but she does it again. Yup, that’s definitely deliberate contact. I’m wearing thongs and she was in sandals but it feels like she’s now barefoot, so it’s our skin that’s touching. I gently wriggle my toes, and she responds by brushing the pillowy sole of her foot over my ankle, sending goosebumps across my skin.

‘It’s very simple though, isn’t it?’ Richie remarks, returning for another bite of bruschetta.

‘Simple is often best,’ I reply, glancing down at my own plate. I’m having difficulty focusing on anything other than her soft, suggestive feet. ‘Speaking of, how are you finding Keith’s place?’ I ask, continuing our footsies dance by slipping my foot out of its thong and wrapping it around her naked calf. ‘Have everything you need?’

‘Yeah, good mate. Thanks for sorting that,’ Richie says. ‘Although you may want to look at getting the place exorcised. There’s something real suss spirit-wise going on there.’

‘Oh, how so?’ My foot-rubbing picks up pace.

‘Lots of spooky noises and shit.’

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