“What, rather than just chef and chief bottle washer to an overgrown bunch of lads?” she said as she walked out with him to take Bramble down the hill. “I hope so.”
“Don’t talk like that,” said Charlie, rubbing Bramble on top of his head. “There you go, lad. It’s important what you’re doing. Food. Bringing your family together. I almost saw your dad smile.”
Flora rolled her eyes.
“Not at me.”
“It’s a skill. A gift. You should be proud of yourself. Anyone would want to do something as well as you can.”
“It’s all from my mother really,” said Flora, feeling she didn’t deserve this. “She taught me.”
“She taught you very well. Hang on. Fintan!”
Fintan was crossing the courtyard, heading back to his beloved dairy.
“Yeah?” he said.
“I need two pounds of that cheese. For the catering. Can you sell me some? It’s tremendous.”
Fintan colored.
“Well, I don’t know . . . I mean, it hasn’t been passed by the cheese council or anything . . .”
“The cheese council?”
“To sell it. You need to make sure it won’t poison anyone.”
“You just fed it to us.”
“Yeah, well, that’s just us. I mean, if you’ve got clients and stuff . . .”
“You could leave yourself wide open,” said Flora self-importantly. “To a civil case. Maybe even criminal, seeing as we’re just discussing that it could poison people.”
Charlie sniffed.
“I let them drink out of mountain streams filled with nineteen different types of cow piss,” he said. “I reckon they can take a little unpasteurization.”
In the end, Fintan agreed to sell it to him on the understanding that he’d make everyone eating it sign a waiver that Flora promised to draw up. Charlie nodded with an amused look on his face.
“Or,” he said, “you could just get the cheese people round to okay it.”
Fintan looked confused, but Flora nodded.
“You should, Fintan.”
Flora and Bramble accompanied Charlie back to the gate.
They stood on either side of it, and looked at each other. The wind had dropped, but the familiar pattern of dark clouds and bright sunshine lit up the side of the hill like an alien landscape. The heather pressed down quietly; the air tasted of spring. Charlie leaned down to scratch Bramble on the neck, which Bramble liked very much.
“So,” he said.
Flora looked up at him. He was so solid. Joel was tall, but he was fine built, lithe. She groaned mentally. When would she stop comparing every other man in the universe to one annoying one? When would she get over her crush and start living in the real world?
Charlie’s handsome, broad face was completely open, but also calm. She could see how safe he must make his charges feel. When she was with him, she just . . . she felt like she was in the moment. Not worrying about the island or what people thought of her; not thinking about work, or missing her mum, or anything other than standing with this slow-talking, solid, comforting man. She smiled at him. He smiled back shyly.
“Well, it was good to run into you,” he said, just at the very second her phone, which could just about get a bar of connection out here, rang. She jumped and turned away.
“Flora.” There was no greeting. “I’ll need to see your notes and who you spoke to today. How the land lies. Can you get them over to me? First thing in the morning? I don’t know how much longer I can stay here.”
“Of course,” said Flora. She looked up at Charlie, but the spell was broken. “That was my boss. I have to—”
“I know, I know,” said Charlie. He smiled. “Your real job.”
He turned to go.
“I’ll see you in a week.”
“Unless it rains!” said Flora, grinning.
“Especially not if it rains.”
And she watched him walk, nimbly for such a big man, all the way down the track, raising his hand briefly in farewell, before she turned back to the farmhouse to shout at the boys to do the dishes.
Chapter Twenty-two
Dr. Philippoussis was the closest Joel got to . . . Well. Whatever. Joel often called him at antisocial hours, and he didn’t bother to call when he didn’t have something on his mind. Dr. Philippoussis was also, fortunately, about the only person on earth who could put up with this behavior. He just wanted to know that the grave little boy he’d gotten to know as he’d bounced in and out of child services—and who had now become a serious, hugely successful highflyer—was okay, or as more or less okay as anyone could be.
In his years as a professional child psychiatrist, Dr. Philippoussis had seen many difficult things, and done his best not to think too much about his clients, beyond how he could help them professionally. But when it came to Joel, who had escaped—in such spectacular fashion—he found it hard not to think about him. Because, as he and his wife often reflected, they were the only people who did.
“Where are you?”
“God knows,” said Joel. “Seriously, it’s the end of the earth.”
He peered out of the window.
“It’s ten o’clock at night, and it’s broad daylight.”
“Yeah? That sounds awesome.”
“Well, it isn’t. I can’t sleep.”
“What are you doing instead? Work?”
“Sure,” said Joel, looking at the files on the rickety desk in his room.
“Can’t you take a walk? Have a look around?”
“It’s an island. There’s nowhere to go, and it’s a bullshit case, and . . . I dunno. I think I might be ready for another move.”
“You haven’t . . . you haven’t met anyone?”
“I’ve told you. I’m not . . . that’s not what I’m about. Work helps me. Work is what I want to do.”
“There’s a whole world out there, Joel.”
“Good. Well, I’ll move to Singapore then. Sydney maybe. See some more of it.”
“Did you try any of those mindfulness exercises?”
Joel snorted.
“I’m not your worried well, Phil.”
Dr. Philippoussis knew better than to try and fix Joel. He just needed to be there to pick up the phone.
“Okay, Joel. Marsha says hi.”
Joel nodded, then hung up and pulled his laptop toward him. He considered drawing the curtains, but there was nothing outside except the waves beating gently against the beach, patiently, forever.
Chapter Twenty-three
Flora had now seen all six members of the island council except for her dad, who she was going to leave to Joel and Colton to tackle. None of it was particularly encouraging, although at least the heavyset vicar had been kind to her and interested in what she was up to. Although that may also have been because she’d taken him a box of jam tarts she’d made that morning.
It was the oddest thing: it felt like now she’d begun, she couldn’t stop. It was as if she’d shut that side of herself down when she’d moved, as surely as she’d suppressed every other bit of her old life. But the simple act of sifting flour, of chopping in butter and one-handedly cracking eggs actually made her feel closer to her mother, rather than giving her sad memories, and she wished she’d thought of it before.
Even with the vicar (possibly) won over, though, there was still some pretty bad news for Colton. And, she remembered, tonight they were having dinner. With Joel.