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"He's really affected me, too, you know."
"He has a way of doing that. I just…"
"What is it?" I ask. "You can tell me, and I promise it won't go any further."
She stops washing the dishes and rests her hands on the tap. "I just want you both to be happy. Wilby has some severe trust issues that he's going to have to deal with." She turns to me, her expression the picture of grandmotherly concern. "And what about you? How do you know that living here will make you happy?"
"I have no way of knowing that," I answer. "No one can predict the future, right? But what I do know is that what Wilby and I have is real. When I'm with him, I feel the way I want to feel every day for the rest of my life. And I hope that, in turn, I make him feel even a fraction as good."
"Oh, you do, my love. Believe me. That boy was practically walking on air when he came back from Sydney and talked about you. And then he crashed to earth and was the most miserable I've ever seen him when you left. There's missing someone and then there's reallymissing someone, and believe me, he fucking missed you."
We finish washing up in silence. Once we're done, Polly takes the scones out of the oven and places them on two plates. Eight scones for the kids, her, Wilby, and Emma. And eight for me.
"Please don't tell Wilby, but I'm secretly falling in love with you, too."
"Take a number. Bazza will probably want to fight you on that one."
"Remind me who Bazza is again?"
"The butcher."
"Ah-ha."
Polly walks over to the refrigerator, opens the freezer compartment, and triumphantly points to the contents inside, waving her arm like a game show hostess. It's packed to the brim with meat. "Gave me all of this for a nice discount."
She closes the fridge and grabs one breast. "Thank you." She grabs the other one. "And thank you."
I burst out laughing. "Oh my god, Polly! You're the fucking best."
"I am. Don't be jealous."
My eyes widen. "Sothat'swhere Wilby got it from."
She nods. "He gets all his best things from me."
We pop in to see the kids on their morning tea break. Bridge skipped breakfast so she scoffs down her scone, head buried in her modern history book, while Kolby asks me to look over his math homework. He's gone from hating math to discovering he's actually really good at it. Not that I'd necessarily wish a careerin finance on anyone, but hey, if it's something he ever wants to pursue in the future, I'll support him all the way.
And, wow, I'm thinking so far ahead that I'm imagining possible future careers for a six-year-old. I really am in this for the long haul. I mean, I've already done something big and crazy and so out of my comfort zone by moving to the other side of the world. But how do I break through the last of Wilby's walls and get him to believe me that this is what I want?
With the kids' break over, we leave them to it.
"Want an iced tea, my love?"
"I'd love one."
"Go sit out on the front verandah, and I'll bring it out. And, yes, I'll bring the scones, too. Cream and jam okay?"
"Cream and jam sounds perfect."
It really is because it's not the store-bought stuff. Well, it was bought at a store, the general store in Scuttlebutt, but both the cream and strawberry jam are homemade. You have not lived until you've experienced homemade cream and jam.
She comes out with a tray and places it on the small table between us. I take a sip of iced tea before demolishing the plate of scones. Polly stays silent, not interrupting the wild American during feeding time.
But this wild American can multitask, and as I'm stuffing my face full of strawberry and creamy baked goodness, something Polly said earlier drifts to the surface of my thoughts. And, yes, thinking while eating counts as multitasking.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then ask, "How do I get through to him?"
"Who, Wilby?"
