14 SEAN

14 Sean

‘Tell you what,’ Sean said as he held the cafe door open for Amelia, ‘on a chilly day, the smell from this place rivals the best perfume.’

One of the girls waved from behind the counter. ‘I’ll be out in two secs, Sean. Just got to finish putting the cakes in the cabinet. Grab a seat, if you can find one.’ She disappeared behind a wide, refrigerated glass cabinet that almost matched her for height.

‘Wow, this place is packed,’ Amelia murmured, her quick eyes observing the people and diner decor in one swift, curious glance.

‘You’ve not been in before? It’s always busy … though maybe not so much as today,’ he said. An unusual air of excitement filled the crowded cafe.

‘Must be a student-free day at the school?’ Amelia nodded toward a group of preteens giggling over tall milkshakes in the corner. Her mouth tightened and she quickly looked away.

Odd. Her interactions with the RAG hadn’t given him the impression that she didn’t like kids. He directed her to a window seat on the opposite side of the shop.

‘There’s table service?’ she asked.

‘No, but—’ As he spoke, a waitress appeared from behind the counter. Sean grinned. It usually worked out this way. ‘Chrissie,’ he said, half-standing to greet her.

‘Christine,’ the woman corrected, as though they didn’t do this dance regularly. Humour glinted in her dark eyes, although she kept her mouth a rigid line. He’d be willing to put money down that she didn’t have any problems with kids acting up in the cafe. ‘Twice in one week, Sean? We’re overwhelmed.’

‘Can’t stay away from you, Chrissie. You know Amelia, from the RAG, don’t you?’

Christine favoured Amelia with one of her appraising glances. ‘If you mean have I met Amelia, yes. Can’t only be the part-time job that brought you here, Amelia, surely?’

Christine was never backward in coming forward. He interrupted before poor Amelia had to explain or excuse her existence.

‘Chrissie, I’m going to put myself in your capable hands. I think I’ve sampled everything on the menu over the last few weeks, so whatever you want to give me, I’ll take. And an iced coffee, of course. Unsweetened though. Except for the ice cream. Gotta live a little, you know.’

‘I’m certainly going to surprise you, then,’ Christine said with the tiniest smile. She tapped her order pad against the back of her wrist. ‘Amelia?’ It sounded more like a demand than an invitation to order.

‘The same will be fine. Thank you. But table water, please.’ She waited until the older woman was out of earshot. ‘Thanks for heading her off.’

‘It’ll only be temporary. I don’t have superpowers.’

‘It’s something of a small-town talent, isn’t it? The unashamed prying, I mean, not the superpowers.’

‘Here you are, Sean. And …?’ The young waitress balancing three cane baskets on one arm cocked an eyebrow, proving Amelia right. ‘Christine’s trialling a new menu. Every table gets a complimentary basket of King of Rock ’n’ Rolls.’ She added in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘They’re just banana and jam toasties, but don’t tell Christine I let on.’

‘But they’re so good, right, Tara?’ A tall guy in his thirties slid one arm around the waitress’s waist, snaffling a finger sandwich from her basket with his other hand.

‘Juzzy, you’ve already had two basketfuls!’ Tara looked nervously toward the counter. Apparently the second basket hadn’t been with Christine’s approval. ‘Where do you put it all?’

Juzzy winked. ‘Lot of me to fill.’ Tara turned pink and he chuckled. ‘See you tomorrow, Tars. See ya, Christine,’ he called, departing in a cloud of wood-infused fragrance.

Tara stared after him. ‘Oh my God, isn’t he too good to be true?’

‘Certainly smells good,’ Amelia said. ‘What is that, pine?’

‘Just him.’ Tara sighed. ‘Well, and pine, and probably red gum and some other stuff,’ she added more practically. ‘Justin is a wood carver. Like, an artist for real. He sculpts stuff for wineries and places like that. He’s amazing.’

‘These toasties look pretty amazing, too,’ Amelia said, bringing Tara’s attention back to bowl she still hovered over the table.

‘Mmm,’ Tara said dreamily. ‘Sprinkled with rock salt and dusted with icing sugar. Powdered sugar, I mean,’ she corrected with an eyeroll. ‘Enjoy.’

Sean nodded at the basket, encouraging Amelia to sample one of the golden fried sandwich fingers. She picked one up and tapped it on the side of the basket to remove the excess salt and sugar. As soon as she bit into it, she turned pale.

‘That bad?’

Amelia shook her head, her throat working as she swallowed the sandwich without chewing. ‘Peanut butter.’

‘You’re allergic?’ He half-rose, ready to start yelling for an EpiPen.

She waved him back down. ‘No, no. Just … not my favourite.’

‘Feel that way about Brussels sprouts, myself.’ Though he’d never reacted that extremely.

Amelia nudged the basket across the table with a trembling hand.

‘Tara reminds me of our Charlee.’

‘Charlee? Sorry, I mean …’

He knew what she meant. Made up to the nines, bouncy and cheerful, Tara was about as far from the Charlee Amelia had met—sullen, uncommunicative, sallow and miserable—as it was possible to get.

‘Charlee’s had it tough the last couple of years,’ he explained simply. ‘We all have.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Amelia’s cognac-shaded eyes softened. She hesitated. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

It surprised him to realise that he did. For the last two years, he’d respected Heath’s wishes, which meant basically ignoring their loss. Ignoring how it was tearing their family apart. Ignoring how both Heath and Charlee blamed themselves. Ignoring how the whole damn tragedy of it was every day driving him back toward drink, tempting him with the oblivion to be found at the bottom of a bottle. And ignoring the fact that he really should share this latest development—the one he refused to let his mind dwell on—with Heath. But not until he’d spoken with Doc Hartmann again this afternoon. Though, with two messages from her service pushing his appointment back, catching up today was beginning to look unlikely. Which was fine. It meant he didn’t have to face the truth of what he’d done to himself just yet.

‘Charlee lives with Ethan?’ Amelia prompted gently.

Sean nodded, picking up one of the finger sandwiches. He snapped it in half, watching the liquid ooze of jam and peanut butter. ‘Well, I’m saying yes, but I’m not actually sure. Heath’s set Charlee up in her own place. Student digs across the road from Adelaide Uni, nothing flash. I’m not sure where Ethan’s based. He’s a bit of a dark horse, that one.’

‘Looks like he might have been a wild child, too.’

He noted the ‘too’ and knew that Amelia was asking just how wild Charlee was. ‘Hopefully he’s grown out of it. Maybe he’ll have a calming influence on Charlee; show her that this is something she can walk through, that she can get to the other side.’

‘May the best day of her past be the worst day of her future?’

Amelia’s use of the Irish blessing surprised him. ‘Wish I could believe there was any possibility of that being the truth. It’s enough of an ask just pinning my hopes on Ethan digging her out of this pit. And really there’s precious little chance of that happening. He won’t know her full story, so how’s he supposed to connect with her?’

Amelia was silent, watching him. Nice technique, he had to acknowledge. He was generally good at getting people to talk—other than Charlee and Heath, that is—but he did it with overt friendliness. No one would ever recognise the effort it cost him to be so outgoing when he’d rather be sitting alone in a room making love to a non-judgemental, pain-dulling, grief-easing bottle. And, because he chatted so much to them—about them—no one ever asked his story. At least not until Amelia’s silence demanded his answer.

‘Charlee lost her mum in a car accident a while back.’ It felt good to say the words. He’d kept them locked up, as though he’d betray Heath and Charlee by admitting the depth of their loss. That was part of the reason they’d relocated: there was no one here they had to explain their circumstances to. Yet wasn’t that what was eating him alive? The fact that there was no one to share with, no one to understand that he also grieved. Not only for the daughter-in-law he’d lost—they hadn’t been all that close. But he mourned the loss of all their lives. His son. His granddaughter. Because the twisted metal and dancing flames that had turned the rainswept bitumen into a version of hell had stolen them, just as surely as it had taken Sophie’s life.

‘Heath’s wife?’

Interesting that was the connection Amelia made.

‘Indeed. Charlee’s not been the same since. She was the perfect kid, you know? Not saying she’s not perfect now, but …’ He trailed off, realising the irrationality of that statement. He loved his only granddaughter, but no one else except Heath would now recognise in her the effervescent high achiever whose greatest fault had been such unflagging enthusiasm for life that she could be exhausting.

‘So, six years?’ Amelia rubbed at the sticking plaster covering her left knuckle. An angry redness surrounded the bandage. She’d evidently had time to process his disclosure about sobriety. It often went like that. People would either come around to asking questions or avoid bringing up the subject.

He set aside his food. ‘Yep. Sophie died two years ago, though, if that’s what you’re asking.’ His need to distance himself from association with his daughter-in-law’s death gave him a little insight into why Heath and Charlee took their avoidance of the subject to near-aggression. ‘But I didn’t quit soon enough to save my own wife.’

Amelia stiffened, her gaze horrified, and he shook his head.

‘Or I should say, I didn’t quit soon enough to save my own marriage. God knows, I gave Jill enough reason to up and leave. I’d say the woman was a saint, even with the temper of a devil. My biggest regret, though, is that she died eighteen months after finally leaving me. She should have had longer, should have found more joy.’

‘But at least she had Heath and Charlee?’

‘Jill was twelve years younger than me. Heath is my first wife’s son.’ He suspected his grin was more of a grimace. ‘Can’t expect any woman to put up with me for too long.’ That wouldn’t be a problem going forward, though. ‘Jill never had children. Always said there is no greater sadness for a woman than not being able to have their own babai . Guess I was doing her something of a favour in trying to make her miserable enough to forget it.’

Amelia’s chin wobbled and he could have bitten his bloody tongue; he was talking to a childless woman in, he guessed, her mid-thirties as though he could understand the demands of her biological clock. Maybe if he’d listened to Jill, rather than had the florist send a bouquet that he didn’t even bother to select each time she’d lost a pregnancy, he’d have more insight. But back then, only work had been important. Work and the bottle.

‘Do you believe in God, Sean?’ Amelia kept her gaze on the table, her voice low.

‘That’s a heavy question, mo mhuirnin .’ He grasped the Irish endearment, hoping his signature quirkiness would lighten the conversation, which was far too focused on him.

But Amelia only settled her gaze on him, waiting for a reply as though it was important.

He thought about it for a second. ‘I don’t know that I do. Seems to me He would have treated Jill and Sophie better. Neither of them ever hurt anyone. And if there was some kind of divine entity, wouldn’t He care more about Heath and Charlee? What kind of God would think it fair to load so much sorrow and grief on a kid?’

Amelia observed him so intently, he got the impression her question hadn’t been a polite throwaway inquiry, but that she was searching for an answer to his response. And suddenly he needed it. Because if Amelia could find that answer, perhaps she could help what remained of his family. ‘Do you believe?’

Amelia sucked in a tremulous breath. ‘I have to believe there’s a God of some sort, a heaven. Because I cannot accept that there’s nothing after this.’ She gestured broadly, encompassing the cafe and, beyond that, the world. ‘If there is nothing more, then our lives, our pain, our grief, our effort, our joy are all pointless. We’re the briefest flash of light in the darkness, just like fireflies. And for what purpose?’ She took a drink, then dipped a finger in the glass, absently drizzling water over the bruise on her knuckle. ‘The problem is, believing in a God or an afterlife or whatever doesn’t mean that I’m willing to hand over control and simply accept whatever happens. Believing doesn’t mean blind acquiescence, at least not for me. Like you, I still want to know why. What is the purpose behind our suffering?’

He could sense that there was more to her statement. Something that went beyond general compassion and the age-old question of the meaning of life. ‘Because of Gavin?’ he asked gently.

Amelia looked up, as though she was gazing at the heavens she needed to believe spread above them. Tears threatened to spill, turning her eyes to liquid amber. ‘Gavin. And because if I can’t work out why any God would be cruel enough to steal my four-year-old son, if I can’t persuade myself that Noah’s up there happily playing with my favourite old kelpie, then I’m not sure I can find any reason to carry on.’