Five years of learning the ins and outs of the cutthroat business world and his son went and bought an orchard. What a disappointment.
I have questions for Lola though, because as much as I have always believed in her, the eighteen-year-old who up and left town without telling anyone did not know how to write a business plan like that.
I have my suspicions about what she’s been up to the past six years, which is why I’m here, her purple folder in hand, to accept her offer in person.
I near the edge of town, walking past the halfway homes Jarred rents out to the Heart Home Foundation for care leavers. His mum runs the foster care charity, so he helps out where he can, but I know he’s got to be making a loss on those flats. Not that, that will stop him.
I turn the corner onto Main Street, weaving around the end of season tourists milling about Tea’s Bookshop.
A small group of families wait in line at Beli’s ice cream cart and I nod to her as I pass. She gifts me one of her toothy grins. Beli must be nearly eighty now, wrinkled brown skin and shrinking by the month but every year she mans her cart, and makes a fortune off the tourists.
I smile at the sunhat wearing, backpack-carrying parents. Something about having the tourists here makes me feel like more of a local. As much as I tell myself Pine Rock is my home, a part of me still feels like an interloper. I can’t claim that I was born and bred here, can’t tell stories of heading down to Surfer’s Bay once school finished for the day or of snowball fights in the square on snow days.
I got glimpses of that life every holiday when I’d leave my stuffy boarding school dorm behind and stay with the Fords.
We’d surf in the summer and sit by a bonfire in the winter while someone pumped out music until Old Man Gregor rang the police, and by the end of the holiday, I almost felt like I was one of them. Which only made it that much harder when my driver turned up to take me back to Riders.
I shake my head and let the soft breeze brush thoughts of my old school away as I approach Lola’s shop.
Fresh pale blue paint glistens on the frames and a guy that looks little older than a teenager sits on an upturned bucket as he adds finishing touches to the shop front.
My feet slow to a stop. He can’t have the experience needed for a job like this, he’s a kid. Except that makes him closer to Lola’s age than I am, and my mind is suddenly filled with every fucking rom-com Lola used to make us sit through where the girl met the love of her life renovating a damn inn or farmhouse. Hell, there’s probably one set at a fucking coffee shop.
“You working for Lola?” I ask, trying not to grit my teeth.
The kid pushes back the bandana keeping his long hair out of his face. “Yeah, I’m Henry.” He tilts his head and fiddles with the paint brush. “You the brother or the orchard owner?”
My shoulders tense. The title of orchard owner rankles me. Despite my best efforts, Lola features in my thoughts pretty much hourly and yet apparently, I’m not even worthy of my own fucking name.
I hold out my hand. “Roman. Orchard owner and Lola’s future business partner.” It’s an exaggeration of the truth but I find myself wanting to make more of a mark than the person who supplies her with apples. “Lola inside?”
The windows have been covered with brown paper to stop the endlessly curious residents of Pine Rock from seeing inside before the shop’s done.
The kid hops up and shakes my hand. “She’s in there.” He scratches the back of his neck and squints. “You, uh, might want to come back later though. She’s kind of upset right now.”
My grip on the folder tightens. “Upset how?”
“Uh, there was an incident last night. She’s okay but it’s been a bad morning.”
A growl rumbles in my chest. I’m marginally reassured that Lola isn’t physically hurt but there’s no way I’m leaving her in there alone when she’s upset. I rap my knuckles on the shop door and Henry goes back to painting with a wince.
“Lola, I know you’re in there,” I call out when she doesn’t answer.
The door cracks open. Her eyes are puffy and red, but she sniffs and tips up her chin like the evidence of her crying isn’t tracked across her face. “Can we please do this later?” she asks softly.
My hand comes up of its own volition, my thumb brushing her damp cheek. “What happened?”
She leans into my palm and a deep-seated longing unfurls inside of me. I could spend a lifetime being needed by this woman. All too quickly though, she pulls away. “Nothing. It’s fine. Everything’s on track.”
“Lola,” my voice deepens.
She goes to close the door, but I push it open and barge my way inside like a bloody caveman. It’s not a cool thing to do but I wish Lola knew she doesn’t have to hide from me. I’m not going to think she’s in over her head the first time things don’t work out as planned.
And by the looks of it that time has come.
The smoky scent of burnt wood catches at the back of my throat and I make a beeline for the back door that’s propped open behind the counter.
The air is thick and ash clings to the outside of the shop. A large, roughly rectangular piece of driftwood takes up the space in front of the bins. It’s black and charred all over, the wood crumbling from the inside out.
