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She pointed at Bridie. ‘Bridie owns the strawberry farm and makes the berries.’
Caleb glanced at her across the table and watched her sit up taller in her chair. His eyes moved to the large berry on her breast. It made sense now. His gaze lingered on her chest (it was quite happy there) but he forced his gaze back to her face. ‘These are good. So, you’re a strawberry farmer?’
‘My father owns the farm. I’ve left you plenty for later.’ She nodded towards the counter where trays of berries were lined up.
‘Plenty for breakfast,’ he commented.
‘I have eggs for breakfast,’ Sybella said. Caleb should know that. Lesson number two. Instead of wallowing in his pathetic life he needed to focus on this kid who’d lost her mother. What a twat.
‘Guess what ingredients I’ve brought for dinner?’ Bridie addressed Sybella.
‘Is it for pizza? Tacos? Fish and chips?’ the girl asked but only received shakes of the head.
‘Spaghetti bolognaise!’
‘My favourite!’ Sybella shrieked. ‘Thank you, Bridie.’
The kid had impeccable manners.
‘Why don’t we get started and Uncle Caleb can rest.’
Caleb made to object, but Bridie has risen ending the conversation. Damn, he’d been resting all day. Well, after downing the bottle of whiskey, that is, it had sort of knocked him out. And that had been exactly the intention.
‘Caleb, I have some chicken soup for you because it seems you’ve been under the weather.’ She pottered in the kitchen with her back to him.
Sybella turned on him. ‘Are you sick? Is that why you’ve been laying around so much and always tired and your eyes have been so red?’
Bridie turned and leaned back against the bench, smirking. The grin lit up her face, something he hadn’t seen before. It made her eyes sparkle and her appear even more beautiful. So, she had a sense of humour, either that, or she was having a dig at him, too.
‘Sybella, why don’t you tuck Uncle Caleb up on the couch with the television remote. I’ll get the chicken soup ready and we’ll fix dinner.’ It was a ridiculous scenario, but it seemed easier to go along with the idea.
Sybella raced into action and offered her hand to escort him. On the couch, she placed a blanket across his legs and positioned a cushion behind his back. With Bridie’s help, she delivered a tray of steaming soup with toast and turned the TV on to a games show.
‘Family Feud! That’s one of my favourites. Tell me what happens,’ his niece said and together she and Bridie whisked out of the room.
He stared at the TV. Family Feud had been one of his sister’s favourite programs too. The kid was coping better than he was. He watched the contestants race to beat the buzzer of their opponent and he realised this was the first time he could remember being sober with nothing to do: no rushing to collect fresh produce, no meal prep, no dinner planning. At least drunk he forgot. He could forget that he’d lost his sister and his career in the same week. In only a few short days he’d made the most terrible mistake of his professional life and become a single dad.
Sybella was in bed; tucked up by Bridie, of course. Now she handed him a cup of tea. ‘Didn’t think you’d sleep if you had coffee.’
‘You think of everything, don’t you?’ he replied.
‘I try.’ She paused before continuing, ‘I am very sorry about Abagail. The whole community loved her, it’s such a dreadful loss. You must be going through a hard time adjusting to everything. Please, if there is anyway I can help, let me know.’
He stared. Hadn’t she already helped in every way possible?
‘You know with caring for Sybella, making meals, housework, whatever.’
‘I’m a chef,’ he joked.
She didn’t laugh. ‘Have you been able to get away from work? You run a restaurant, don’t you?’
He looked across the room at the blazing fire. The room was warm and suddenly too small. Bridie had lit the fire too, she was exceptionally capable, he’d give her that.
When he didn’t reply, she said, ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do? Are you staying here or taking Sybella to Sydney?’
He shook his head. Caleb was lucky to get through each day at present. When he chanced a glance back at her, he read pity in her eyes. This woman felt sorry for him. Had he become such a pathetic mess that he needed do-gooders helping him out? He’d always been self-sufficient and had prided himself on it. Things had simply got on top of him, that’s all. And it would seem in this little backwater it was hard to hide.
She was a damn fine bleeding heart, he had to admit. He thought country chicks wore checked flannelette shirts with dirty jeans and those ghastly workman’s boots. Bridie’s boots were rather stylish, and she appeared more from the pages of a fashion magazine than off the land. But then, she did say her father was the farmer.
