Page 83 of When Lemons Give You Life

“I’m glad.”

Beau busies himself folding a tea towel that’s already folded.

Griff grips the sink, shoulders hunched like the weight of the day is pressing down hard. And I can see it, clear as anything: my brother is about to break.

“Where is everyone?” I ask. “Shouldn’t the staff be here helping?”

“I told them to leave. This is my mess. I’ll clean it up.”

“Is it true?” My voice is soft.

Griff doesn’t look up. “Ten diners. Saturday night. There’s an eighty-year-old man who is critical. They all had the beef roulade.” He tosses the beef into a disposal bin and ticks something on the clipboard. “I can’t believe that days ago we were celebrating three hats. The authorities think it was a bad batch from the supplier, contaminated before it even got here.” His voice is quiet. “But I approved the meat during the daily inspection. I should have picked something up, stopped it being served. I could swear there was no smell or discoloration, but what if I missed something? I was so damn tired.” He glances at Beau then back at the bin.

“You’ll get through this,” I say quietly. “You’re not to blame.”

He slams the clipboard down. “That’s easy for you to say. It’s my bloody name on the door.”

“Then let me help protect it,” I offer.

Beau gives me the faintest smile. It’s tired but grateful.

“You’ll only get in the way.” Griff’s words land with a heavy familiarity, but I don’t leave. He exhales and points to a slip on the counter. “Wine delivery’s due in an hour. Keep them around the back—I don’t want a branded van out the front while journos are sniffing around.”

“Got it,” I say.

He turns to the walk-in fridge. I follow him in, the cold air hitting my skin. I start sorting tubs, not asking which ones stay or go—just waiting for him to nod. We work in silence. Then he stops mid-reach, fingers hovering over a sealed container of stock. His hand drops to the metal shelf, palm flat, steadying himself. He stares at it for a long moment. “Beau’s getting worse. He found the car keys and backed into the neighbor’s mailbox while the carer was in the bathroom. The car was fine, but . . .”

I pause, tub in hand.

“I’m going to have to sell it. The MG. I should have done it months ago when he lost his licence. The registration’s already expired.”

My eyes sting as I picture Beau’s beloved convertible that he was no longer safe to drive. “You can’t just hide it?”

“I’ve tried. He always finds it. He . . . he yells at me.”

Beau’s still perched on the stool outside, humming faintly, one finger tracing slow, deliberate circles into the countertop like he’s trying to write something he’s forgotten.

“Oh, Griff,” I whisper.

He closes the walk-in with more force than needed and presses his back to it like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes stay fixed on the floor. Jaw tight. Then his breath catches, and for the briefest second I see the crack before he sets it all back in place.

I reach for his arm but stop short, fingers hover near his sleeve, unsure if they’re welcome.

“I haven’t told the staff about him yet. I just told them he was unwell the night of the Three Hats party. Don’t want this place turning into some bloody sympathy project, and of course they all love him more than they do me.” He sighs. “But the time has come. I’m holding a meeting tomorrow to tell them about his diagnosis and that I’ll eventually be taking early retirement to care for him.”

“Retirement?” I’ve always imagined Griff being one of those chefs who cook into their eighties.

“I’ll work as long as I can and do a proper handover. But when the time comes, I have to step down to become his full-time carer.”

I steady the bin lid as he dumps another labeled tray. “You’re not alone in this.”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t push me away either. We keep working, side by side, pretending that cleaning hard enough might rewind time or stop the clock altogether.

50

Lisa

My heart roars in my ears as I enter the ultrasound clinic. I thought that if I was ever here again it would be because I was pregnant. Déjà vu slaps me in the face, and yet deep down I know this time will end differently. Today I will not hear “Still no signs of the disease, Lisa, your kidneys look great.” There will be no good-news smile or thumbs-up of the sonographer.