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Bridie stayed focused on her task until her nails shone with pale pink polish. The colour buoyed her mood immediately. Clean, neat nails could do a lot for your disposition, she agreed.
Taking care not to smudge her handiwork, she sat at her desk ready for a full day of translating. Getting lost in the French conjunctions was exactly what she needed. Her mind was already returning to the last point in the story when her attention was drawn to a sticky note stuck to her computer lid. A reminder – flyers she had written in bright pink swirly writing. Oh yes, of course. She reached over to the four trays piled high at the edge of her desk and extracted the first sheaf of paper. It was a draft brochure advertising the French festival. Bridie collected a pen and poised to write suggestions for improvement. The nib was touching the paper, but she stopped. The brochure was beautiful – all the reds and whites and blues, a kaleidoscope of fireworks, and images of delicious French food. Well, that made her think of Caleb, damnit. Did it matter if the centre was slightly off or the words a tad too small? She was pretty darn sure if she put it to the committee, they’d adore it and approve it without a second thought. Why was she always so finicky? It was hard to admit but she did desire things being perfect, but they were her perfect. It appeared she had high standards. Perhaps good enough was okay. She replaced the lid on the pen and put the flyer to the side. Plus, it meant she could devote herself to the manuscript and be swept back into the beautiful Alps of the south-east coast of France.
But before she’d turned the first page, another message arrived, from Sue this time, needing a donation of cakes for a celebration this weekend. Bridie’d whip those up later but then she noticed social media notifications and flicked open the app. The farm had a feed and she used to manage it meticulously and post every day. Now it didn’t seem worth it. No point driving tourists if you didn’t have the produce to sell.
It opened at the last page she’d searched. Caleb. There were new posts to his feed. Food dishes of a lasagne and some sort of stew and strawberries. Oh, her farm. Against her wishes, her chest flooded with warmth at the sight of bunches of bright red berries. In the corner, only the slightest edge of a bruise was obvious. The shots were after the storm. She slumped back into the chair. There were comments and she couldn’t avoid checking. Poor Caleb, he was trying to do the right thing and get his life back to some semblance of normal with the images, but the comments varied. Vicious trolls couldn’t help themselves, but others were kinder. She touched the heart and clicked open the feed. ‘Thanks so much for visiting Finch Berry Farm, come again soon’ and she used the strawberry emoji, three times. She flicked onto one of her favourite images of Caleb and gazed at it, a flood of emotions spiralling through her, none of which made sense. She remembered the feel of his arms around her, the care at which he held her, gentle yet firm, she had felt safe and cared for. What would his lips feel like against hers? Would they be soft, how would taste? He was right though; she cared for everyone else, but no one cared for her. Her father hardly remembered her existence. No, she was being ridiculous. The entire town cared for each other, and she was one of them.
The phone rang, shocking her back into the present. ‘Oh, hi Maggie. Oh, poor thing. Of course, I can, I’ll come straight away. Tell Rose not to worry I’ll look after Nash until she finishes work. Of course. See you soon.’
With nails dry now, Bridie tidied the pages of the book into a neat pile. She’d tackle that tonight after dinner, maybe pull an all-nighter to finish. Then she could send it away and be ready her next assignment. She retrieved her medical kit with every conceivable item a sick child might require and rushed out the door.
Caleb hadn’t noticed the temperature in the kitchen dip, but when he answered the door, snow flurries fell from the sky and melted upon hitting the earth. Shoving his hands under his armpits for warmth, he registered the couple in front of him.
He’d been deep in soapy suds scrubbing a pan when a knock landed to the front door. He’d startled, certain he’d heard wrong. No one in this town knocked, they only barged in with no regard for his privacy. But there was another rap. Quickly, he checked the oven; the tarts and pies he’d spent the entire morning baking, were not yet ready. Baking was safe; baking wasn’t cooking. Well, that’s what he kept telling himself anyway. And given it wasn’t cooking, he was sober, too. Did he crave a drink? Hell, yes, but he’d resisted. Another triumph, he’d proven to himself again it was possible.
‘Mum. Dad?’ It couldn’t be.
‘Something smells delicious,’ his father said.
Perhaps he was drunk. There was no way his parents could be standing at his door in Bellethorpe, Queensland, Australia. Caleb hadn’t seen them since he was fourteen years old, since the day they left.
It had been a day of reckoning. His parents announced they were moving to the Philippines to be missionaries; to save the world one person at a time. They’d always been God-fearing folk and attendance at church on Sundays had been compulsory during his childhood. Caleb hadn’t minded, the supper afterwards was great. As a kid, he was easy to please. Until he wasn’t. Until there were better things to do with his Sunday and as he grew, he no longer shared the philosophies of his strict and over-bearing parents. The division had been forming for some time before their declaration. Before they’d chosen to care for people that weren’t their family. Before they’d abandoned their children and fled the country.
Abagail was only eighteen, slices of her leftover birthday cake still in the fridge. Maybe they thought having one child obtain adulthood was enough? He wasn’t sure. What he did know though, is that they hadn’t bothered with him over the years, and he had returned the favour.
Not like his sister though; she dedicated her young adult life to him; him who’d repaid her by not only by going off the rails, but out of control until he couldn’t stand the hurt he caused any longer and he took off at sixteen and travelled the world. No high school leaving certificate, unskilled with a mouth to match. In those days it was a matter of doing whatever work he found.
But he would never regret those stacks of dishes out the back of shabby take-aways and restaurants because those places had formed his passion, his passion for food. And once he found it, he never looked back, only forwards. He’d climbed that hierarchy however he could.
There was no regretting his journey; it had made him strong, disciplined and once mature, he realised the pain he’d caused his sister. Upon his return to Australia, only those few short years ago after working in the best restaurants of London, he’d reconnected with her and seen her as often as possible. Now she was dead; but Sybella was here and she needed him.
Did his parents even know he was a chef? His father mentioned the smell…but yes, of course, his sister had kept in contact, as daughters did, he guessed, perhaps out of loyalty.
‘Mum, Dad?’ he repeated needing recognition it was actually them.
‘May we come in?’ his mother spoke.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘We’ve come for Sybella, of course.’
11
The earth titled beneath his feet. ‘What the…’ but he stopped. Not that it mattered, he could swear in front of his parents, couldn’t he? He was an adult and an adult who swore. It was that niggling old thing called respect. He’d honour that niggle, but he wasn’t convinced they deserved any respect.
‘I’m Sybella’s legal guardian. Those were Abagail’s wishes.’
A ripple of laughter trickled out of his mother. His father’s mouth spread into a thin-lipped smile but he didn’t join in the chuckle. It was condescending and patronising and anger swirled in his gut. Without waiting for the invitation that wasn’t coming, they moved past him and into the house and, placed their simple, small two suitcases in the living area.
‘Where is she?’
In an exaggerated move, he checked his wrist, but he wasn’t wearing a watch. ‘She’s at school.’
‘Of course,’ his father nodded.
‘Let’s have a cup of tea, then,’ his mother said and walked into the kitchen.
Caleb remained silent as his father seated himself at the table and his mother put the kettle on to boil and wiped down his kitchen benches covered in flour. He watched them in a daze, as if the scene was playing out in front of him but he wasn’t part of it. He sure wished he wasn’t, this was a nightmare.
