Page 61 of When Lemons Give You Life

I smile. I love it when he writes. “Ah well, may as well give the kookaburra a show,” I say, motioning to the brown-and-white bird perched on a branch nearby.

He tunes the viola by ear with an instinctive little tilt of his head, then he starts to play.

I watch his bow drift across the strings like it was born in his hand. There’s something unguarded in him when he plays, like the rest of the world falls away, and all that’s left is joy. I don’t know how he still has it in him. That light. But I’d sit through a hundred sweltering picnics just to see him like this.

I stare at him, spellbound, as the last note settles into the heat. He lowers the viola and looks at me, waiting for the usual sarcasm. But I’m momentarily lost for words. I glance at the gum tree where the kookaburra is still watching.

Beau follows my gaze.

“He didn’t flinch,” I murmur. “Not once. In fact, I think he loved it.”

“Did he just?” says Beau, moving closer.

“In fact, he thinks you are extraordinary.”

Another pause.

“What else does ‘he’ think?”

I swallow. “That he’s a very lucky bird to have you. And grateful that you put up with his rough feathers.” A flush creeps up my neck.

Beau’s expression softens, his gaze holding mine. “Well,” he says, brushing a hand through my hair, “I happen to love his rough feathers.”

Our lips meet. And I know he heard every word I didn’t say.

He straightens, rubs the back of his neck. “I think I might be getting burnt after all. Might need the . . .” He waves a hand toward the basket.

“The sunscreen?”

“Yeah, that.” He grins.

“What would you do without me,” I say, pulling out a bottle and liberally applying it to his neck. A bright red bump peeks out from under his collar. “Have you shown the doctor this mole yet, Beau?”

“Don’t be a nervous Nellie. Got an appointment next week. I’m sure it will be benign like all the others.” He hands me some lemon tart, taking in my frown. “Don’t worry, handsome, you are going to have to put up with me for a long time yet.”

36

Griff

The cold air creeps up the sleeves of my flannel pajamas as I sit on the wooden step of the house next door. Should’ve brought a robe, something to read and more willpower.

It’s 9:55 p.m. Still no sign of the groceries. Both my legs are asleep, lucky buggers. Something scurries around me, and I flinch. Headlights sweep across the yard, illuminating the eyes of a previously invisible possum way too close for comfort. I spring to my feet, pins and needles shooting up my calves.

The stocky driver leaves the engine running as he unloads the paper bags from the boot. He squints at me through the glare of the high beams, looks me up and down, then beyond me to the shoddy house with its broken roof, half-hung door, and crumbling veranda. “Er . . . shopping for Griff Barlow?”

“That’s me,” I confirm.

“Where do you want it? I can take it in the . . . house, if you like?” He glances behind me again with a grimace.

I briefly consider asking him to carry it through the fence to my nursing-home room. He’s half my age and probably twice as strong. But I can’t risk it. “Here’s fine. I’ll take it in.”

“You sure? It’s pretty dark out.”

“Yeah, all good. Just have a blackout. Power should be back on soon.”

He shrugs, finishes unloading the bags and hops back in the car. “Alright, have a good night.”

I wave, expecting him to leave, but he sits there scrolling his phone. How long is it socially acceptable for me to stand here and wave? I fear I’ve crossed the line; I’m actually going to have to take the shopping into the house. Grabbing the two closest bags, I walk to the front door, muttering under my breath. I glance back; he’s watching me like he’s daring me to go inside. Is he staying to see if I’m okay or waiting for his next delivery?