Page 9 of When Lemons Give You Life

A tear lands on the yellow pastry, but a bit of extra salt won’t hurt. I wipe my eyes with my sleeves and chuck the ball in the fridge.

Returning to the countertop, I cut the lemons in half and juice them. A drop squirts in my right eye, and I press my palm against it. At least I have an excuse for any more tears now. I never used to cry. Am I still grieving the loss of Beau’s life or my own, or are they one and the same?

I distract myself by adding the rest of the ingredients for the curd, gulping down a mouthful of sugar for the hell of it. Perhaps I’ll take another tonight to pair with my Death Menu selection. A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, after all.

I turn on the smallest of the twelve burners, a click, a whoosh, and the fire springs to life. The blue-and-orange glow ignites memories. The thrill of service, the gratitude of diners. The satisfaction of a beautiful plate of food that someone’s given a damn about. I haven’t cooked in so long, but it’s like riding a bicycle. Only far more fun, though arguably less good for your thighs and buttocks, especially if you cooked irresistible food like I did. Life is far too short to avoid butter.

The curd comes to a simmer, thickening as it coats the back of the spoon. A faint hiss rises from the pot, and it takes on a velvety texture, swirling like liquid gold as its bright citrus scent fills the air. Heat blooms from the stovetop, the lemon growing richer, deepening into something smooth and indulgent.

Something perfect for hiding a ring in.

5

Griff (age 42)

December 2002

The sun dips low over the Sorrento foreshore, painting the world in colors too soft and warm for someone like me. We pull up to the beach car park, Beau’s classic navy MG convertible standing in contrast to the pastel sweep of sky and sea. The top’s down, the breeze knotting his curls, salt settling on our skin.

I check my hair in the passenger mirror. Beau’s car keys jingle as he pockets them—the set he’s had forever, with the faded Pooh Bear keychain that’s missing an ear but still somehow clings to joy. He does that: brings joy to everything.

Sand crunches under our feet as we walk along the shoreline. It’s like a scene from a sappy movie, but I’m not the romantic type. My edges are too blunt and my scowl so perpetual it has carved downward wrinkles in my forty-two-year-old face.

Beau is chatting animatedly, something to do with his Year Nine trigonometry exam, his voice lilting and warm, but I’m barely listening. My mind is stuck on the Tupperware container I hid in his backpack and the lemon tart it contains.

“You’re doing it again,” Beau says, bumping my shoulder.

“Doing what?”

“Brooding,” he teases.

I snort. “Not brooding. Thinking.”

“Are you upset the cafe ran out of chocolate croissant cake this morning? I know it’s your favorite.”

“No.” Today I only wanted his favorite foods.

“What is it then, Griffy? And what’s for lunch?”

I hesitate. I’m like a clam, not great at opening up. But Beau is my steam, making me feel like maybe it’s okay to let someone in, that I’m not too much trouble to love.

“As a very wise man once said, ‘Life’s a box of chocolates,’” I say in my flawless Forrest Gump accent that always makes him laugh. “You never—”

“Yes, yes, I never know what I’m going to get!” Beau grins as I tug him toward a small patch of sand near the Moonah trees. He follows without protest, and I pull out two Tupperware bowls of the salad I made that morning: pearl couscous, charred zucchini, crumbled goat’s cheese, toasted dukkah with an orange vinaigrette.

He removes the lid and grins. “I knew it would pay off, dating a chef!”

I give him a playful push, taking out two spoons and handing one to him.

We eat in a comfortable silence, until a small sound pulls my attention—a soft, shaky whimper. A small boy, who can’t be more than three, stands near a half-built sandcastle. Bare feet. Messy auburn ringlets. Clutching the handle of a yellow spade that’s just snapped. His mum’s nearby, digging through a beach bag with visibly rising panic. The little tyke is trying not to cry and losing.

Beau’s eyes fill with sympathy.

I glance down at my spoon, wipe it clean with a serviette and haul myself up with a huff. Crouching beside the boy, I offer it. “Trade you,” I say. “This one’s stronger than that plastic junk.”

He looks up, lashes clumped with tears, still holding the snapped handle. I’ve done this before—different face, same wobbly lip.

“Really?” squeaks the kid.