Page 26 of When Lemons Give You Life

“But you still visit. That says a lot about you.” His gaze lingers, gentle and warm.

Guilt rises, and I force a smile. “His husband, Beau, was my best friend before they met. He was a wonderful musician too—a violist. He brought Griff and me back together for a time, but things got . . . complicated.” I swallow hard and tell him about Beau’s illness and untimely passing, wondering how much I should share.

“Gosh. How awful. That’s a rare kind too. Was it really quick?”

“Slow and quick all at the same time, if that makes sense?”

Frank nods, his face awash with sympathy.

“Griff is all alone now, so I visit. I sense he still finds me annoying, though, like he has his whole life.”

“I don’t know how anyone could find you annoying.” Frank’s eyes flicker over mine, and my whole body tingles. “So you and Griff have the same mum?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you close with her?”

I instinctively twist the silver ring on my right index finger. It had been there ever since Mum got sick and her hands became too puffy to wear it. “I was. She passed away when I was twenty-five; she was only fifty-nine. Mum was everything to me, so her loss hit me hard.”

Frank’s expression softens. “Lisa, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how difficult that must’ve been.” He pauses, giving me a moment. “And your dad?”

I hesitate. “He left when I was six, moved away for work somewhere. It’s funny, but I don’t remember him saying goodbye, and after that I never heard from him again. I asked about him all the time when I was younger. Mum would always say he was fine and very busy. Eventually I stopped asking.”

“Gosh. Did you ever try to find him?”

“Yep. When I was a teenager I went looking, but found out he’d died in a motorbike accident a couple of years before. So I never got the chance to know him properly.” I swallow. “What I do remember of him, though . . . they’re good memories. Playing make-believe, spinning me in his arms, sneaking me lollies. I held on to those.” I shuffle in my seat. “I still wonder how he could leave his family. Griff was always so mad at him. He lost his own father when he was little, and I suppose the idea of anyone replacing him was too much. He was almost thirteen when mum remarried. A tricky age for anyone: Griff was still figuring out who he was. Throw in a new stepfather and a baby sister . . . it can’t have been easy. I came to the conclusion that Griff must have become too much. That Dad just couldn’t handle an angry teenage stepson who never accepted him. That also explains why Griff never talked about him. Probably felt guilty, deep down, that he pushed him away and took away my chance to have a father . . . though he was too stubborn to ever admit that.”

Frank tilts his head. “Funny things, families. Some siblings grow up under the same roof but come away with completely different memories of their parents.”

“Yeah. I wish Mum had opened up more, especially when I was older. She was always protective of Griff. I assume she didn’t want me to believe he was the reason Dad left, so she kept quiet about it.”

I down the rest of my rosé and pierce two ravioli with my fork.

Frank finishes a mouthful of pasta and dabs his forehead, now beaded with perspiration.

“You okay, Frank? Is it too spicy?”

“It’s all good.”

“Do you actually like chilli?”

His nodding head says yes, but his watering eyes say no.

“Frank! You shouldn’t have done that!”

“Truly, it’s okay. This is the only way to build up my tolerance if I’m to achieve my lifelong dream of winning a chilli-eating contest. And hey, now I truly am a musician with a spicy tongue!”

So he may not be a Hemsworth, but he’s kind, and that’s worth infinitely more in my book. Add to that a quick wit and the kind of easy charm that doesn’t feel rehearsed, and it’s a world away from the self-absorbed, phone-checking bores I’ve wasted evenings on before.

The waiter soon returns to take our plates. “And are we having any desserts?”

Frank and I look at each other, hopeful expressions on our faces. “Tiramisu?” we say in unison. The waiter nods and heads to the kitchen.

“Do you like cooking, Lisa?” asks Frank.

I pause. “Well, if you’re asking if I can cook, the answer is no. Apart from Anzac biscuits. Mum was great at bread and cakes, but it was really Griff who had all the talent. I always wanted to learn, but he refused to teach me.”

Frank’s hand rests lightly on his water glass, fingers tapping. “I’d love to cook with you.”