Page 11 of When Lemons Give You Life

Relief floods me. “Beau,” I say, my voice rougher than the stubble on my jaw. “I’m grumpy, I mess things up, and I’ve got all the subtlety of a freight train. But you, for some reason I’ll never quite understand, see something in me no one else ever has. If you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to live up to the man you already think I am. Whatever’s ahead, I’m yours. Will you marry me?”

He nods, eyes glassy, and I slide the ring onto his finger.

“Always knew you’re a pain in the neck,” he says, grinning. “Now I know you are one in the tooth too.”

He folds me into his arms and, in that moment, I feel unbroken.

6

Griff

It’s no surprise I can’t find a rolling pin—they undoubtedly use the pre-made pastry sheets here. My brain scans for alternatives. A can of tinned spaghetti, perhaps? They serve them at least thrice a week, but a can is too short. Ideally, I need something wooden. Solid. That doesn’t contain mush.

Then I remember a broken walking frame I’d spotted in the Goodwill pile when I was helping Gladys search for her missing phone charger.

She moved in a couple of months ago, and aside from the residents with Alzheimer’s, she’s one of the few people I still talk to when I see her in the hall—but only if no one’s around. Being blind, she’s hardly a risk to my secret; it’s not as if she could point me out in a police lineup.

I pad back down the hall and sneak into the storage room; the aluminum walker is still there next to some old books, clothes and tattered linens.

The legs are badly dented, but the crossbar’s unscathed. Two tiny screws hang onto it. I grab the screwdriver from my room and presto—the bar slides out, smooth and straight, leaving an even cylinder that’s perfect for rolling.

Back in the kitchen I give it a thorough wash and begin to roll out the dough. As the circle grows larger, so does my appetite. I line the tart tin, the buttery edges giving way beneath my fingers, warm and pliant. I push them against the side of the pan, like a lover being pressed up against a wall for a stolen kiss. Using rice as baking weights, I blind bake the pastry then pour in the lavish yellow curd and slide it into the oven.

The glass of the door clouds over, reflecting everything I’ve lost: my soulmate, my restaurant, my hairline, my damn sense of purpose. But for the first time in a long while, the air smells like something worth staying for. Baked butter. Lemon. Life.

I’m transported to the French pâtisserie where I first learned the secret of perfect pastry. Who knew that food could be as good as a plane ticket?

A high-pitched timer breaks through the haze, and I remove my yellow circle of sunshine. I should let it cool and refrigerate it, but I don’t want to wait. Taking a knife, I cut the steaming golden delight into eighths. I grab two pieces, caring little for burnt fingers. The hot curd liquefies in my mouth, the lemony tang containing more memories than it does sugar. Emotion winds me, and I sink to the floor as I swallow my last meal.

The kitchen door creaks open, a voice reverberating across the steel countertop.

Shit.

7

Griff

“Hello?”

I freeze. Maybe they’ll think I’m a possum. A large, emotionally unstable possum in a hairnet.

The footsteps pause just past the threshold. Whoever it is inhales deep and slow. They’ve caught the scent.

My fingers inch toward the oven tray behind me. I consider throwing it at the intruder and bolting.

Then the voice comes again, this time softer, more uncertain. “You there, Mum? My nose told me to come find you!”

Relief floods my body. Thought I’d been busted by one of the nurses. “G’day, Rob, how’s it going?” I call from the floor. Must’ve left the door open.

I poke my head out from behind the countertop, and the old man smiles. “I’m looking for my mum. Is she here?” Poor Rob, his mind anchored seventy-odd years in the past.

“Not in here, I’m afraid.”

“Where is she?”

“Having a lie-down, mate.” A long, long lie-down.

The old man’s face scrunches, and he bursts into tears. He latches onto the countertop with a trembling hand, causing the metal tart tin to rattle. The noise grabs his attention. His nose twitches, picking up the bright citrus aroma. When his eyes finally land on the tart, the sobs stop.