Arms folded across his chest, Dante leaned back against the kitchen bench. Pierce recognised the stance was supposed to be intimidating—his brother’s ‘no nonsense’ look—but all he could think was that the disparity in their height was made more obvious by the fact the steel top on the commercial kitchen bench dug into his brother’s backside, where it would hit his own thighs.
In contrast to Dante’s belligerent posture, Dad was hunched, hands in the pockets of the white chef pants he liked to wear in the trattoria kitchen, his grey hair sticking out at odd angles as he stared down at his shoes. Mum kept both hands clasped in front of her mouth, her knuckles pressed to her lips as though she was holding in tears. Pierce knew better than to make eye contact with her. All his life, he’d kept his head down, done his job and turned a blind eye to his parents’ necessary favouritism, designed to keep Dante on track. But this was too much. ‘Manager?’ he repeated his father’s words incredulously. ‘You said that you wanted to get Dan out front to learn, but manager?’
‘Come on, bro,’ Dante said. ‘You know it’s just a title. It doesn’t mean a thing.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ He pointed at his brother, but yanked his hand down as he realised his finger was trembling with rage. ‘It means every damn thing. And they know it.’ He jerked his head at his parents, who stood beside Dante, the three of them ranged against him. For so long he’d swallowed his anger. But not now. ‘Doesn’t it, Dad?’ As hurt as he was, he couldn’t attack Mum. But Dad? That was a different matter. Dad knew what Dante was, he didn’t blind himself to the facts, merely chose to go along with Mum when she kept trying to pretend that her youngest son wasn’t a steroid-pumped conman. So to find that Dad would now do this was …
Jesus, Pierce knew that he didn’t have it in him to forgive this betrayal.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘You’re making Dante the manager after all the years I’ve put in? Then what the hell am I?’
‘What you’ve always been,’ his dad said, keeping his tone reasonable, though Pierce could read desperation in the way his fingers kept flexing and curling. ‘You know you’re my right-hand man, you always have been.’
‘But not the manager of the Trattoria di Angelis, right? I’m not management material?’
‘Bro, the staff all know you, they know you run this joint,’ Dante wheedled. ‘I’m the new kid in town; I need a title, or they won’t respect me.’
‘Why should they respect you?’ Pierce exploded. ‘Every single one of them has more experience than you. You washed dishes here for all of five minutes before you got jack of that. So you got your mummy—’ he ignored that Rosa was also his mother ‘—to put you on as front-of-house, so you can strut around like you’re running the place. How does that earn respect? Where have you been all the nights Mum’s here baking till three in the morning while Dad scrubs the floors?’ Not to mention the nights, the years, he’d sacrificed. All for Dante to step in and take whatever he damn well wanted. Just like he always had.
‘Cool it, bro,’ Dante said, but the fake brotherliness had dropped from his tone. ‘It’s my family business just as much as it’s yours. You don’t fucking own it.’
‘I don’t own it, but I bloody worked for my place here, Dante. I didn’t take a nice little holiday in jail—’ he ignored Mum’s muffled gasp ‘—then come sniffing around for handouts.’
‘You’ve been living off Mum and Dad your whole life,’ Dante shot back. ‘You’ve never done a damn thing for yourself.’
‘Not if doing a thing means selling drugs to kids. Or stealing from … everyone.’ He backed off, trying to get a grip and take his accusations down a notch as Mum’s sobs cut through his rage. She knew what her youngest son was, there was no point hammering it home.
Pierce tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling for a long moment before he closed his eyes and drew in a massive, slow breath, the air laden with the familiar fragrances of basil and oregano and garlic. ‘You know what? I’m done. I quit.’ He gave a short, mirthless laugh as he tugged free the chequered tea towel he always tucked into the top of his jeans, screwed it into a ball, and tossed it onto the counter. ‘I quit whatever my bloody job is here. And you—’ he eyed his father, his anger laced with sadness at Dad’s betrayal ‘—can clear out your own damn till.’
Dad knew what he meant. Grief flashed across his dark face, but Pierce was done with being the scapegoat, with carrying the weight of his brother only to have his loyalty treated as though it was both expected and worthless.
Dad took a step forward but Pierce was already on the move, letting the kitchen door slam behind him.
Dante’s words, deliberately loud, chased him. ‘Don’t worry, Mum. You know I’m here for you both.’
The warm spring air hit Pierce as he strode away from the trattoria, and he stopped to take a deep breath. His heart was racing, the pulse pounding in his temples with a beat strong enough to make him feel sick. What the hell had he just done? He’d never considered quitting the restaurant before. Not seriously, although there had been periods in his life when he should have. But this time something had snapped inside him; he couldn’t continue bottling up his resentment of Dante, nor his pain at the unfairness of his treatment.
Yet, considering the magnitude of his impulsive decision, how was it that he felt … lighter? Relieved, as though the weight he had shouldered all his life had been lifted. He was no longer responsible for his parents, their restaurant, their employees, their menu, their desserts. For the first time in more than forty years, he was free. He owed no one anything: no loyalty, no time, no obligation.
The notion was terrifying in its breadth and exhilarating in its potential, as though a universe of forbidden possibilities was now spread like a feast before him. But to enjoy it, he’d have to push his parents’ wounded expressions from his mind.
Pierce checked his steps as he drew level with his brunch cafe, his elation dropping as he eyed the darkened window: plus there was that, of course. No matter how he chose to distance himself from his family, they were always going to be, quite literally, right next door.
Maybe he just needed a couple of days’ break. He hadn’t had an actual weekend off since he couldn’t remember when.
He closed his hand around his phone: Gabrielle had invited him to some open garden thing at her inn. Of course, he’d refused the invitation: not only because he had zero interest in plants but because, although his cafe was shut, Saturdays were the restaurant’s busiest day.
But that wasn’t his problem anymore.
He unlocked the cafe, simultaneously flicking Gabrielle and Hayden a message. He was pretty sure the invitation would still stand: Gabrielle had changed a lot in the couple of years she’d lived in the country. She was far more laidback than when she’d barely been able to find time to slot in marketing the trattoria alongside a full schedule of corporate engagements for her company, Small & Sassy. The tree change—even though, in typical Gabrielle style, that involved her owning an entire village—had clearly worked for her.
The glow from the humming drinks fridge was enough to guide him through the cafe to the stairs at the rear, which led to his austere apartment. He pressed a hand against his chest. He could do with a dose of whatever it was that had eased Gabrielle’s stress levels: as the adrenaline from the confrontation and his resulting snap decision receded, reality seeped in. And right now, he hurt so bad he wasn’t sure whether he was having a heart attack, or his heart was breaking.
Pierce pulled the car in against the high gutter edging the Settlers Bridge main street. He must have passed through this town months ago, on his way to Gabrielle’s, but it had been dark so he’d barely noticed. Not that there was much to see even in the sunshine. He didn’t understand how people could live their entire lives going in and out of the same handful of shops, seeing the same people, no doubt having the same conversations, with the choice of only a couple of cafes and pubs to dine at.
He’d never had time to do much dining out himself.
He pulled out his phone, swiped the latest message from Dad off the screen without reading it, and checked the mud map Gabrielle had texted. He wasn’t going to rely on some friendly—or, per previous experience, temporarily friendly—local showing him the way to Gabrielle’s secluded retreat on the banks of the Murray River.
Buggered if he knew how he’d so royally cocked it up: the map looked simple enough to follow. Nothing like the twisting, turning back tracks Sam had led him down last autumn. She had driven aggressively, swapping direction on the loose gravel and slippery dirt with barely a warning flash of her indicator, as though challenging him to catch her. Even now he wasn’t sure what he’d said that had made her flip moods, and it wasn’t until he’d driven out of Wurruldi in the full light of day that he realised sections of the road were little more than a goat track, switchbacks slicing up the edge of a cliff that dropped to the mighty Murray River hundreds of feet below. A cautionary warning from Sam would have been nice, Pierce thought, instinctively checking his rear-view mirror to make sure there was no half-crazy woman following him.
He didn’t need to worry: there was no one around. Despite it being early afternoon, the broad, four-laned main street was completely devoid of life, although four utes were parked nose-to-tail in front of the double-storied building at the end of the street. Almost directly opposite, a burgundy and gold-lettered sign swung back and forth from a horizontal pole protruding from the stone wall of the Overland Hotel, the rhythmic, silent movement adding to the ghost-town feel of the place.
‘Bizarre,’ Pierce muttered, clambering from his sleek black sedan.
His glance ranged the short street, book-ended by the pair of pubs near the bridge and two equally impressive buildings with bank logos at the opposite end of the road. He needed to top up his caffeine: there had been an espresso before an early morning session at the gym, and another two while he packed the car.
The town centre appeared to be caught in some dusty, sleepy time warp that dated back to the fifties, the quaint little shops hiding timidly beneath hooded verandahs. It seemed Settlers Bridge had the necessities covered, though, with a butcher, newsagent, cafes, post office and a supermarket. But no bottleshop, even alongside the pubs, he noted with a grimace. He had packed a couple of bottles of his current favourite wine, God’s Hill Aglianico, along with one of their black olive merlots, into the hamper, but had intended to pick up a few more mid-range bottles. Just in case he stayed longer than the weekend.
Not that he had any plan to. Yet somehow, once he’d made up his mind to escape Adelaide, the Murraylands had begun to beckon with all the promise of a proper holiday. A weekend would be enough, though. He needed a couple of days to get his head straight without the risk of running into his brother around every corner.
Both cafes were dark, clearly closed, and the sandwich board in front of the IGA was the only thing that hinted at a chance of getting customer service. In which case, he’d have to settle for iced coffee. He doubted he’d make it to Gabrielle’s without a shot.
He found the fridges at the back of the small supermarket, then carried his drink to the long wooden checkout.
‘Just that then, lovey?’ the cashier greeted him.
‘That’s the lot, thanks,’ Pierce said, sliding the bottle closer as he realised the counter wasn’t automated.
‘You’re passing through?’ the woman said, keying figures into the register.
‘Headed out to Wurruldi for the weekend.’
‘Oh, Gabby’s place? Well, it has to be Gabby’s, doesn’t it, she owns the entire village. Seems half of Settlers Bridge has gone out there. Deader than a dodo in here today, least until the tennis is finished.’ She took the twenty he handed over, raising an eyebrow. ‘Don’t often get folding from you young ones.’
‘My folks are old-school.’
She nodded consideringly. ‘Good way to be. What the government doesn’t know won’t hurt them, right? I’ll see you out at the Wattle Seed myself, once I close up.’
Pierce grinned, her easy manner reminding him of his mum. Which promptly wiped the smile from his face. ‘Maybe I should hold off and follow you. Got myself all kinds of lost last time I tried to find the place. Though it was pitch black and bucketing down.’ Slight exaggerations, but he didn’t want to sound totally incompetent.
The cashier closed her fingers around his change. ‘Back in autumn? It was you that Sam rescued down near the river then, lovey?’
‘One wrong turn and I’m straight into local legend?’ he said with a rueful grin. He’d heard how small towns worked but wouldn’t have thought his adventure gossipworthy. ‘I lost the GPS signal but thought I had a fair idea where I was going.’ He hiked a thumb towards the shop window. ‘Reckon I took a couple of tracks instead of the dirt roads I was after.’
‘Ah, well there’re dirt roads and then there’re dirt roads,’ the woman responded, releasing his change. He dropped it into a collection tin hand-labelled with Settlers Bridge CFS on an orange Post-it. ‘The ones with a rubble topping are official roads, maintained—if you can call it that—by council. Anything that’s plain dirt are farm tracks or fishing access to the river. I imagine, if you’re not familiar, you could get yourself in a bit of a pickle.’
‘And it was dark,’ he repeated, not entirely sure whether she was taking the mickey out of him. ‘Anyway, last thing I expected was to almost run into some woman out walking in the middle of nowhere. Not sure which one of us got the bigger scare.’
‘Walking?’ the cashier looked momentarily puzzled. ‘Oh, yes, that was before … guess she was out to clear her mind.’ Her gaze moved beyond him, to the faded fly strips hung over the wide doorway. She straightened, her impressive bosom alarmingly thrust out.
He glanced over his shoulder.
‘Afternoon, Lynn.’ The newcomer paused in the cascade of orange vinyl to run a hand over his shining head. Pierce wondered whether it was a habit from when the guy had hair, or if he was checking for sweat. The sun was more than cheerful. ‘We still on for this arvo?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it, Anthony,’ Lynn said with a bright smile.
‘I’ll pick you up at three?’
‘Better make it four, so I can get tizzied up. You’ll be able to get away from the bar?’
‘I’ve got Spence managing for the night. It should be a quiet one anyway. Last time I checked in, Bowhill are killing us, so there’ll only be a few lads in, drowning their sorrows, I suppose.’
‘Shame for the boys. Tara ducked in to tell me the girls won the doubles, but she needs the afternoon off because they’re all getting tarted up to head out to Gabby’s.’
‘Most of the lads will be dragged out there anyway, then,’ Anthony said as he circumnavigated a huge carousel full of postcards, and headed like a guided missile toward the counter. ‘I mean, not dragged … but … y’know … ah, going along to keep the girls happy.’ He looked stricken.
Lynn waved away any misunderstanding. ‘Must say, I’m looking forward to an excuse to get done up myself. An afternoon out will be lovely.’
‘You don’t need to do any tarting up, Lynnie. You always look good.’ Anthony leaned his thighs on the Peters ice-cream freezer that sat horizontally across the end of the checkout. His hands clenched where they rested on the chill-misted glass lid.
‘Get away with you,’ Lynn said, smoothing the maroon apron over her ample curves, managing to make it sound as though ‘getting away’ was the last thing she wanted Anthony to do.
‘Thanks.’ Pierce held up his carton of iced coffee and waggled it in farewell. Though he was well out of flirting practice, even he could see he clearly needed to give them some privacy.
Lynn startled, as though she’d forgotten he was standing there. ‘Oh, yes. Well, we’ll see you out there, then, lovey … if you don’t get lost,’ she added with a teasing grin.
m
He didn’t get lost. Although he did almost miss the right-angled turn from the bitumen onto the dirt road that led to the cliff-edged switchback track.
After the white-knuckled descent, the road threaded between lagoons surrounded by gum trees. Their trunks suggested they’d been there for centuries. He wound down his window and let in a blast of fresh air, rich with a confusing mix of lush growth and sweet decay. A cloud of grey and pink galahs swooped in front of his car, playing chicken before soaring to cackle loudly at him from branches a hundred feet above. On his left, a backdrop of deep orange cliffs across the water framed stands of lime green willows. Diamonds sparkled as though cast by the handful onto the river’s surface.
Wurruldi was only a couple of kilometres along the flats. The town consisted of three stone cottages perched on the banks of the river, a slightly larger building that looked like an old shop in the centre of a rocky paddock, and Gabrielle’s impressive, double-storied sandstone inn, set further back from the water.
Last time he visited, he had followed Sam along the majestic swoop of a white gravel driveway from the riverfront right up to the inn. Now there were a couple of dozen vehicles parked in the paddock alongside the old shop, so he followed suit.
A cobbled path meandered from the improvised car park. It skipped across the dirt road and picked up on the far side to lead through a small gate in a drystone wall, almost hidden by wattle trees. A thick, honeyed scent came from the yellow-covered bushes, noisy with bees, and he ducked beneath the arch of branches.
In contrast to the well-grazed paddock, the lawns of the inn were lush and green, bordered by crowded garden beds. Other visitors strolled the grounds, pausing to admire flowers. His mum would have a fit: despite the extensive gardens, there didn’t appear to be any fruit trees or vegetables.
In the centre of the grounds, a lacy-leafed tree spread a deep purple canopy above clusters of white tables and chairs. Gabrielle sure knew how to present her property, he thought, pausing to take it all in. But she would, considering she was in marketing.
Each table was draped with a cloth in a soft pastel shade, many of the chairs occupied by visitors sipping from champagne flutes and, to his surprise, given the rural setting, beer in tall glasses rather than bottles. Clearly, the drinkers were about as interested in the gardens as he was. But he was sure looking forward to kicking back with a glass. It would be a change to allow himself to completely relax for once. And not think about any damn thing.
Because he couldn’t afford to let himself dwell on what had been torn from him. Or on what he’d thrown away.