The Lost Summers of Driftwood Page 4

  It was strange that this woman was Jez’s wife. Phoebe wasn’t sure why, but there was a softness in him that she couldn’t detect in Asha. She shook the thought away. She was here as the neighbour for dinner, that was all. What right did she have to analyse their relationship?

  The interior was largely as she remembered it—an open-plan living room that looked out of more French doors to the trees and the river beyond. Further along there was a window seat that stretched almost the width of the room. She and Jez had passed whole afternoons lying foot to foot reading, playing cards, napping. The adjoining kitchen was flanked by a long, floating bar. The sofas looked newer, their white cotton brighter, and there was more of a hippy vibe than Phoebe remembered. She guessed the Moroccan cushions, throws and rugs were probably Asha’s influence, but the pieces of driftwood still sat over the stone fireplace, namesakes that had been there forever. Candles burned on the coffee table and in the heavy iron candelabra above the dining table, filling the air with a vanilla scent.

  ‘You must be Phoebe. Come grab a glass of wine.’ A tall man with a wild head of grey hair gestured with a wooden spoon from the kitchen.

  She smiled. ‘You must be the Texan.’

  ‘I am indeed. Call me Tex. Straight out of the American south and into the New South Wales south coast.’

  ‘I see you haven’t lost your accent though.’

  ‘And that gorgeous woman outside is my Wendy.’

  The way he said it made Phoebe’s heart ache, reminding her of what she had recently lost. She turned to see a woman with a grey bob and glasses talking animatedly with Jez on the veranda.

  ‘Those two are always talking, talking, talking, making me jealous,’ he said, shaking his head with mock exasperation and spooning a morsel of whatever he was cooking into his mouth.

  Asha took a seat on one of the high stools along the kitchen bench. ‘Well, she can’t have him,’ she said, banging an arm full of silver bracelets on the bench.

  Phoebe winced and smiled awkwardly. ‘Do you and Wendy live here?’ she asked.

  ‘I do. But Wendy lives up the road. You’re probably only a few doors away from her. She’s on the river side.’

  ‘They have the perfect relationship,’ Asha chimed in. ‘They see each other every second or third day.’

  ‘We don’t overcrowd each other. She has her space, I have mine,’ the Texan said.

  ‘So you live in the studio out the back?’ asked Phoebe.

  ‘No, I’m in one of the rooms at the back, Flick’s in the studio, lucky duck. We all came through Airbnb and then got comfortable and refused to leave.’

  ‘Do you still even pay us rent?’ Asha asked, smiling. She had dimples in her cheeks when she smiled.

  The Texan took a swig of wine. ‘I’ve been told I’m a half decent cook so I get . . . what do you call it here? Mates rates, because I slave over this stove every night.’

  ‘You love it,’ said Asha, reaching for the bottle of white Phoebe had brought. The bracelets adorning her wrists jangled as she moved.

  ‘I love your jewellery,’ Phoebe said. ‘Do you make it?’ Asha had the air of a bohemian artist about her. Camilla and their mother would probably adore her.

  Asha laughed. It was deep and rich, a smoker’s laugh. ‘No. My market stall’s right next to a local jewellery maker and I pretty much keep her in business.’

  Phoebe smiled. ‘You seem like you’re a creative person, too?’

  She waited for Asha to elaborate but instead she got up and went into the kitchen and pulled a glass from the cupboard. She snapped the top, poured the wine, looked Phoebe right in the eyes and took a sip. Who opens a guest’s wine in front of them without offering them any? Phoebe thought.

  Asha leaned against the bench. ‘What’s cooking tonight, Tex?’

  Phoebe felt a pull in her stomach. She wasn’t imagining it, Asha was sending her a clear message. She pressed her lips together. Maybe it was just an ‘every man for themselves’ kind of house. Maybe Asha hadn’t heard her. Maybe she didn’t want to talk about what she did at the market. She told herself to stop overthinking things and relax. Isn’t this what she’d done with Nathaniel? Overthought everything, taken the spontaneity out of their holiday, out of the proposal? He’d implied she had stifled him. If she’d just let things happen she wouldn’t be standing here expecting things from strangers.

  ‘Lamb roast with freshly picked rosemary and lemons, and a vegetable medley straight from the vegie patch,’ said the Texan.

  ‘Cheers to that,’ Asha held her glass up and clinked it with his.

  ‘Grab yourself a glass, Phoebe; my food is to be consumed with wine. That’s the only rule in this house.’

  Phoebe felt the muscles of her jaw relax. She had been reading too much into things. It was a free-for-all kind of household.

  Jez and Wendy came in through the French doors. The cool air off the river came with them, laced with the smell of wood fire.

  ‘Phoebe, hi.’ Jez dusted his hands on the front of his shorts and reached for her shoulder, pecking her softly on the cheek. ‘You’ve met everyone? Wendy, this is Phoebe Price. Her family has a holiday place up near you.’

  Wendy was a thin woman with warm eyes behind her glasses and a sprightly manner that made her seem younger than she probably was. ‘Lovely to meet you, Phoebe. Are you on the river side of the street?’

  Phoebe nodded. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m about halfway up the road. I’m surprised I haven’t crossed paths with your family on holiday before.’

  There was something kind about Wendy’s face that made Phoebe want to tell her the truth. She snuck a look at Jez. His forehead was crinkled, his thumb resting against his closed lips. It was so hard to talk about death. It was a puddle to be avoided on the side of the road, a place no one wanted to see their own reflection.

  Jez shot her a look loaded with meaning. ‘You guys don’t come down much anymore, do you?’ He was giving her an out.

  ‘No.’ Phoebe glanced at him gratefully.

  ‘It’s a glorious part of the world,’ Wendy said, sighing. ‘I used to live in Canberra and one day I just woke up and thought, no, I want to die somewhere more beautiful than suburbia.’

  Jez shot her another look, this time openly apologetic. Phoebe smiled at Wendy and tried to look sympathetic.

  ‘And then she met me and realised she had another twenty years of bliss left in her life,’ said the Texan.

  ‘I take it you’ve met my lover,’ Wendy said. ‘He insists on being referred to as that. Doesn’t want husband, or boyfriend, it has to be lover.’

  ‘What can I say, I’m a sensualist,’ the Texan said, coming out of the kitchen to hand Wendy his wineglass.

  ‘Can I have my own, please?’ she asked, flicking him away with playful disdain.

  ‘That’s what she said when I wanted to move in with her.’ He stuck out his lip in feigned hurt.

  ‘Best of both worlds,’ Wendy said, winking and taking a sip.

  Phoebe couldn’t have imagined a set-up like this with Nathaniel. Wasn’t that the whole point of living together? To have a cocoon for two, shored against the outside world? They had been cocooned. One of their favourite things had been to make coffee in their Italian coffee pot and sit in the sun on their tiny balcony. Phoebe would read the paper and Nathaniel would close his eyes and tilt his face towards the sun. Now she wondered if he’d been dreaming of another life.

  How had she been so blind? They lived close to the beach—one of his greatest loves—and he got to surf every weekend, he ran on the beach, they ordered Thai takeout and watched movies. Wasn’t that what contented couples did? He had seemed happy enough. Phoebe searched for a moment where she might have caught a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Sure, they’d had times when work stress or domestic frustrations made them short with one another, but she’d always been relieved that they didn’t have big arguments. She thought that had meant they worked. But maybe that had been the problem—t
oo much was left unsaid.

  The Texan’s booming laugh broke through her thoughts. She could actually see why Jez was content to live this way. There was a warmth here that Phoebe could feel herself drawn into already. Jez would never admit it, but Wendy and the Texan were clearly parent substitutes. He’d grown up with an absent father and Pauline had died in his early twenties. Phoebe supposed the board from the Texan and Flick also helped with the running of the house. She wondered how Tommy felt about these parent figures. Even when they were seventeen, before Pauline had become sick, Tommy had been fiercely protective of his younger brother.

  ‘Sit, everyone. Feast,’ said the Texan, gesturing to the food-laden table.

  Phoebe was used to incredible food—it was a perk of working for a luxury goods company. But this was simplicity in its most luxurious form. There were no fancy tablecloths or starched napkins and expensive chinaware. The plates were piled in the middle of the table, the cutlery sat in a wooden box, and it was clear this food had been grown and cooked with love.

  ‘I’ll call Flick,’ said Asha, leaving the room.

  Jez handed Phoebe the glass of wine she’d been craving. ‘Felicity’s got chronic fatigue,’ he said. ‘Well, recovering from it. She’s a lot better since she got here.’

  ‘Must be my food,’ said the Texan, passing Phoebe a bowl of steaming whole baby potatoes flecked with basil.

  ‘Oh, not everything’s about you,’ chided Wendy. ‘There are still days where it’s hard for her to make it to the dinner table.’

  ‘Does she need a lot of looking after?’ asked Phoebe, spooning potatoes onto her plate.

  ‘She’s pretty self-sufficient unless she has a bad day,’ said Jez. ‘She’s only had one really bad episode, right when she first got here. She and Asha have become pretty close.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Phoebe, her estimation of Asha shifting slightly.

  Flick was nothing like Phoebe had imagined. There was no hint of illness about her. She was tall and tanned with a wide, friendly face.

  ‘Hello, family,’ she said as she took up a place at the head of the table. The only clue that she was unwell was the slowness with which she eased herself into the chair. She gave Phoebe a wave. ‘Hi, I’m Flick. Otherwise known as The Invalid.’

  The Texan carried a platter of lamb to the table. ‘So, Phoebe as you can see, we’ve got The Invalid, The Marrieds, The Lover, and Wendy the Ruthless Independent. You’re going to need a name to sit at this table.’

  Phoebe was about to suggest ‘The Neighbour’.

  ‘The First Love?’ said Asha, reaching for a plate.

  Phoebe felt her face go hot and her heart begin to pound. Jez’s hand stilled while pouring a glass of wine, the muscles in his jaw working hard. Their eyes met and there was a seriousness in his look that did nothing to calm her.

  Phoebe glanced at Asha but her eyes conveyed no emotion at all. The tension hung thick in the air, making her sweat.

  The Texan cocked his head and his mouth scrunched to one side. ‘First Love, hey. You only get one of those.’

  Wendy elbowed him in the ribs and he yelped.

  Phoebe swallowed a piece of potato with difficulty, wondering, with horror, if she was going to have to elaborate.

  Jez squared his shoulders and took a sip of wine. He looked from Phoebe to Asha and back again. ‘Yeah, it was a long time ago. We were kids, really.’

  ‘Yeah, totally. We . . .’ Phoebe shrugged, trying to look casual, indifferent.

  ‘Kinda grew up together,’ Jez finished her sentence.

  She looked at Asha, bracing herself, but she was passing the vegetables to Flick, a nonchalant look on her smooth, even features.

  ‘It must have been a really lovely place to grow up,’ said Wendy, steering the conversation into safer territory. ‘The dam, the river, all that grass beneath your feet.’

  ‘It was,’ Phoebe said, taking a large sip of her wine.

  ‘So, you’ve got a place just up the road? What brings you back here?’ Flick asked. She sounded curious rather than accusatory, which was a relief.

  The collapse of my life, Phoebe thought. ‘Ah, just . . .’ She searched for the socially appropriate words. ‘I needed some time out from all the business of stuff . . . life,’ she said, her voice breaking very slightly, mortifying her further.

  She took a deep breath. She was not going to lose it here, not now. She looked around the table. Everyone belonged here. A guy from the southern states of America, a girl with a chronic illness. They fitted. Phoebe tried to think of the last place she’d felt she belonged. It wasn’t with her family. Sometimes her mother and Camilla felt like people you read about in high-end magazines, sailing through life effortlessly, stylish and distant. They had never felt completely real to her, as though they were shiny Instagram images she could upload and marvel at. She had wanted to belong with Nathaniel, make a life together, but that hadn’t worked out either. She was an intruder at work, too. All the girls seemed to love their job, and Phoebe had made a good pretence of loving hers, too.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve had a bit of a tough time of it,’ said Flick.

  ‘We’ve all been through some tough times,’ Wendy said, passing Phoebe the salad. ‘That’s life. It goes up and it goes down.’

  ‘Sure does,’ said the Texan. ‘That’s why we have wine.’

  Phoebe took a grateful sip of the red in front of her. She glanced up to see Asha widen her eyes at Jez. They seemed to have the perfect life here, surrounded by friends, eating food they grew themselves. Phoebe was a ring-in. Her life was second-floor apartment living, with twelve-hour days and checking emails on her phone at night. She still felt slightly sick to be out in the world without her phone. The only place with reception was in the Bay. She’d bought an iPhone charger on her shopping expedition but still hadn’t been able to check her messages.

  ‘You guys don’t have reception here, do you?’ she asked.

  ‘Not a bar,’ said Wendy triumphantly. ‘Well, maybe one. But that’s the way we like it.’

  ‘Walk to the top of the hill just before the highway and you can get it,’ said Jez. ‘Or borrow Tommy’s reception stick.’

  Phoebe looked at him quizzically.

  ‘He was getting all crazy not being able to check messages, so he worked out that the end of the jetty has the best reception. And if you tape your phone onto this wooden pole he made and stick it out further, your messages come in.’

  ‘Which defeats the purpose of being here,’ said Asha, rolling her eyes.

  ‘You know Tommy though,’ said Jez.

  ‘How’s his little boy?’ Phoebe asked.

  ‘Yeah, Harry’s doing okay,’ Jez said brightly. ‘I mean, it’s hard for them. Autism, you know.’

  Phoebe nodded. She’d heard somewhere along the way that they had an autistic child. It was the sort of information that got passed on in a similar way to suicide, with hushed voices and sympathetic brows. It was the sort of thing that only happened to Other People.

  ‘He’s five now. He’s improved heaps since he’s been in a special program. You’ll meet him this weekend.’

  Phoebe glanced at Asha. ‘Oh, I’m not sure I’ll be around that long,’ she said casually.

  ‘Well, if you’re still around, I know Tommy would love to see you,’ said Jez, his silver wedding ring catching in the candlelight.

  ‘And you must come and pick the new-season white nectarines,’ said Wendy.

  Phoebe remembered the sweetness of the flesh, the honeyed scent, the sticky hands after they had gorged themselves. The way they had laid on the grass looking up through the branches holding their full, aching stomachs. The warmth of Jez’s hand on her bare thigh. This place was so infused with the past, with the rawness and simplicity of something that she couldn’t quite articulate but that she recognised was now lost.

  She wanted to stay more than anything. She couldn’t face the thought of going back to the city, to the apartment filled with remind
ers of Nathaniel, to a job selling happiness and celebrating milestones that would not come for her. She would be thirty-eight soon. Camilla ran a business, had married and had two children and she was only thirty-five. All Phoebe had done was catch up to Karin. Karin, who at thirty-eight supposedly walked into the river. But she would rather be here with Karin’s ghosts than back home with her own.

  She looked up to see Asha’s eyes on her, burning into her flesh, willing her to leave.

  CHAPTER 6

  Phoebe woke with a throbbing head. She’d slept on the sofa again, and she sat up and looked out the window. The clouds moved fast across a low sky. A good day for driving. She pressed her forehead into her palms to stem the throb and wished she hadn’t had so much wine the night before. Her whole body felt heavy as she shuffled into the kitchen. The jar of instant coffee was out of date but she didn’t care. She switched on the kettle and poured herself a glass of water from the fridge. She took her coffee onto the deck and felt the hairs on her arms respond to the cool air. The weather had turned.

  It was too soon to be leaving. She still had another week of holidays and the last thing she wanted was to spend it cleaning out the apartment and finding another place to live. She didn’t want to face her family; she hadn’t even told them where she was and there was a self-indulgent freedom in that, which she was enjoying. But the truth was, after last night she didn’t trust herself here. The more wine she’d had the more her body had loosened. She’d found herself staring at Jez, remembering small things about him. It was like a snare, like a rip, the pull of him. The way his fingers flexed when he talked, the rub of his hands beneath his chin when he was listening. But then Asha would speak, or the familiar ache of Nathaniel would press on her, and the spell would be broken. She was clearly in a very strange place, needy and alone. The easy familiarity of Jez, the warmth of nostalgia and the wine had combined to intoxicate her. Her life was already in ruins, the last thing she wanted was to cause more wreckage.