Page 50 of When Lemons Give You Life

“Hi, Lisa.” He leans down for a kiss on the cheek, then pulls back slightly. “Oooh. That’s a nice . . . perfume. It kind of smells familiar.” His nose twitches as if he’s trying to place it.

If my face was pink before, it must be crimson now.

“Sort of florally?” He tilts his head, blinking a little too much.

“Oh! It’s the first time I’ve worn it, actually. It’s called . . . Chanel No. 20. Please come in.”

“This is a nice place,” he says, setting the shopping bags on the countertop.

I reach into the cupboard and take out a bottle of wine I ordered a couple of days ago. “Would you like a drink? It’s cab sav.”

He leans in for a closer look at the gold label. His eyebrows lift. “Hey, this is from that amazing vineyard I was telling you about . . . Did you get it especially for me?”

I shrug, but my smile gives me away.

“That’s so kind, thank you!”

Taking two wineglasses from the cabinet, my hand brushes the frame beneath, Beau’s lovely face greeting whoever walks into my life.

“Now, please take a seat and relax,” Frank says, pouring the wine. “I don’t want you to lift a finger.”

“Oh, I don’t mind helping. I’m not a great cook, but I do know how to peel a carrot.” I wink. Then overthink. Does he think I’m making a sexual innuendo? Is “peeling a carrot” what they’re calling it these days?

He lets out a soft laugh and places his hand gently on my shoulder. His touch is brief but warm. “You have looked after so many people. Now let me look after you.”

“Okay.” I reluctantly take a seat on the couch.

“So, do you have any hobbies, Lisa?” he asks, as the sizzle of garlic wafts from the kitchen.

Does mindlessly binge-watching Netflix on my phone in bed count?

“I love TV and movies. Oh, and craft. I like making things for people.”

“Awesome. Oh, I forgot to ask, are you one of the coriander soap people?”

“Coriander soap people . . . ?” I giggle. “Are they a cult?”

“Some people have a gene that makes coriander taste like soap.”

“Ohhh . . . no, not me. I love the stuff, but Griff detests it. Does that mean soap tastes like coriander for those people?”

He tosses his head back and laughs. “Maybe we need to do an experiment?”

I picture myself using a fancy cheese grater to shave some flakes of soap onto Griff’s dinner.

Frank and I chat for some time about our favorite music, shows and films, the smell from the kitchen becoming increasingly intoxicating. Just when I think my tastebuds can’t hold out any longer, the laksa is ready.

The soup is as delightful as the conversation. He’s so easy to talk to. I tell him about my work, about Beau and Griff, and he shares what it was like caring for his dad. I don’t interrupt; I just sit with him in it.

When his voice falters, I touch his hand without thinking. Finally, I feel like there is someone who truly understands me. And maybe, just maybe, he feels the same.

My mobile rings. “Sorry, it’s the nursing home, so I better answer.”

“No worries, I’ll start on dessert!”

I step into the bedroom. It’s Dayna the nurse, asking about some new pants for Griff, as his brown cords have gone missing. I tell her I’ll buy some when I’m next at the shops, then I take the chance to freshen up in the ensuite.

“Oh dear!” A yell comes from the kitchen.