Page 76 of When Lemons Give You Life

“You too, Scotty.” She settles into the chair and fishes a container of Anzacs from her handbag. As she sets them on her lap, I catch the dark shadows under her eyes. Shame I can’t ask how she’s really going. “Scotty’s such a lovely guy.” She gazes out the window. “Speaking of nice guys, I’ve been seeing someone, Griff. You’ve met him—you know Frank the guitarist?” Her face lights up like someone plugged a light into her soul. “He’s a good one. He has Beau’s kindness. I just hope I can stick around long enough.” A familiar look crosses her face: hope, tinged with doubt. She has always struggled to make it past the three-month mark of a relationship.

She stands and pats my shoulder, and with a quick goodbye, she’s gone.

Five minutes later, Scotty returns. “That was close,” he mutters, rubbing his temples.

“So, how did you meet Lisa?” I ask.

“We met here at the home, then she hooked me up with some extra work walking dogs at the salon, which I’ve done a couple of times.”

I nod slowly. This is going to be complicated.

“Sorry about the snail—I panicked!” He glances toward the door then back at me. “Was what Lisa said true, about someone dying from food poisoning at your restaurant?”

“Yeah. An elderly man.”

Scotty stills. Then slowly picks up his phone and opens Google. “Hang on . . .” His thumbs move fast. “What was it called again . . . Lorraine?”

I shift in my seat, suddenly colder.

“Kitchen scandal . . . food poisoning—one casualty . . . bloody hell,” he mutters, his eyes scanning the screen. “That was you?”

“Yes.”

He scrolls further. “Griff Barlow diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.” His gaze snaps up. “Oh my god. Is that why you faked dementia, to avoid charges?”

I stare at him. For a second, I can’t speak. Of all the things I expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them. “No. I never faked dementia while I was at Lorraine. The faking started long after I retired.”

He frowns. “Those articles are almost two years apart. So you didn’t leave the restaurant because of the scandal?”

I shake my head. “I stayed. Faced the music. Officially, the source was traced to a bad batch from a supplier—however, I was the one who approved the meat in the inspection. But I was overtired. I was making silly mistakes. Maybe I missed something. Maybe I could have prevented it.”

“I guess it must take a lot to run a top restaurant like that.”

“I was burning the candle at both ends at home and at work. And when that happens . . . you start making mistakes. But I didn’t leave, not then.” I turn to the window, where the last light is sinking into shadow.

Scotty’s face softens slightly. “So if you didn’t leave to protect your name, then why did you?”

“To honor the only name that ever really meant anything to me, that ever made me feel I was worth something, one that we fought hard for—husband. We vowed in sickness and in health. So, when Beau deteriorated, I stepped down to become his full-time carer, a few months after his diagnosis.” I pause. “Did Lisa tell you what Beau died of?”

“No, I just assumed it was cancer or something.”

I take a deep breath and stare at the floor. “It wasn’t cancer.”

44

Griff (age 61)

June 2022

The glass jug throws dappled patterns across the kitchen table, the room bathed in the syrupy glaze of late afternoon sun. I glance up from Beau’s National Geographic magazine as he slides a teacup toward me. Peering suspiciously at the ghostly pale liquid within, I stick out my tongue. “What’s this, mate? You planning to poison me?”

He laughs, sheepish, running a hand through his curls. “Oops! Did I forget the tea bag?” He glances at the cup, bewildered. “What a duffer! Here, have a biscuit.” He plonks himself down opposite me and slides a plate across the table. Two unused tea bags sit in the center—no biscuits in sight.

“Pull the other one!” I laugh, but disquiet passes over me. Practical jokes are not Beau’s thing.

He blinks at the tea bags, and for the briefest moment something flickers across his face. Confusion. Worry. The tiniest crack. But then he chuckles, the sound a little rushed, like he’s trying to outrun his own unease. He folds his long limbs under the table, smiling so widely it almost feels normal.

“Don’t worry,” I say, remaking the tea and fetching the macarons.