She lets out a laugh. “Anoysterfarm?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. That sounds really interesting.”
I glance at her. “Does it?”
“Yes! But I’m guessing it doesn’t involve pirate ships…?”
“Usually not.”
A slow smile forms on her face. “How disappointing.”
She doesn’t seem bothered by my occupation, humming thoughtfully as she says, “I bet it’s nicer working outdoors.”
“I certainly think so.”
“Although I have no idea what an oyster farm looks like.”
“Well…” I sit straighter, staring carefully ahead. “If you close your eyes and imagine rolling hills, grassy paddocks, wooden fences, cows…”
Her brow creases. “Yes?”
“It looks nothing like that.”
She gapes at me, a smile teasing her mouth. “That’s very unhelpful, you know that?”
A chuckle escapes me. “So, besides music, is there anything else you’re hoping to get out of your time here?”
“Besides music? I’m not sure. That’s the reason I came.”
“No sightseeing?”
“I haven’t really thought about that.” She scoffs softly. “Truthfully, I was kind of hoping you could Mr Miyagi my creative block away. You know, wax on, wax off type stuff.”
“Ah, but you already know how to play guitar,” I say wryly. “And I’m afraid I don’t know karate.”
She grins at that, and something warm stirs in my chest. It doesn’t placate my concerns, however. She’s hoping I can guide her, but what she’s asking for won’t be easy—not if she’s chasing it too hard.
She chews her lip. “Seriously, though. I have to figure this out. Without music, I don’t know how to be.”
The frustration in her voice takes me back to Sydney—to a rooftop bar at the end of a long week, Jeremy at my side with his sleeves rolled up and a rum and coke in hand.
“Slow down, mate,” he’d told me. “Music’s meant to be a passion. Don’t let the job eat you alive.”
Would he give his daughter the same advice now?
She hums softly beside me, and for a moment, I hear him too.
Jeremy was always humming. She has his posture, his willowy frame. Even her cadence echoes him—that thoughtful pause before she speaks, the gentle humour.
But the rest is her mother: the warm brown eyes, the round face, the wild sweep of golden hair.
It’s a poignant thought, still difficult to comprehend: the man who mentored me, befriended me—and saved me—is gone. And now his daughter is here, trusting me with this fragile part of her life.
Not mine to look after, exactly, but close enough that I feel the weight of it.
“One step at a time,” I murmur. “You’ll get there.”
