But when she walked from the cafe floor into the kitchen on Saturday morning, six days before Christmas, she heard Bing Crosby’s unmistakable crooning.
‘What the hell’s that?’
Sebastian took a step backward, then glanced out the open window. ‘Don’t bite my head off, nothing to do with me. Reckon it’s coming from your place.’
It must be Pop and the girls, she thought. She’d forgotten that the cafe and house windows were both open.
With a frown, Clem surveyed the bustling cafe. It was their first busy day in weeks. She hadn’t stopped for morning tea, and with customers in a jovial mood, she didn’t want to interrupt the enthusiastic ordering or give them any reason to leave before they were good and ready.
‘Issy’s already promoted Sunny Cross as a jingle-free zone on our socials. I’ll talk to Pop.’ Clem sighed.
‘We’re out of gingerbread breakfast muffins, and the rustic fruit mince pies. Want me to change the specials board?’ Sebastian asked as she undid her apron. ‘They’re in a buying mood today.’
Clem nodded. ‘Thanks, Seb. If you get a spare second, rejig the counter display too, so the last of the Christmas cakes and mini-Christmas puddings are right by the till.’
She zipped out the back of the cafe, down the paved path and into the farmhouse laundry.
‘Pop!’ Clem cried, plugging her ears with her fingers. The scent of sugar and spices and buttery biscuits greeted her at the door. Normally the heady aroma and the sight of her grandfather wearing the sunflower-patterned apron he’d bought her would have caused her to pause. But today, with her head hurting almost as much as the blisters from her new shoes, she pushed through the door with a grimace.
The music was even louder inside the farmhouse kitchen, and Arthur looked surprised when he turned to find her there. ‘You have to turn that music down,’ Clem yelled. ‘We can hear it from inside the cafe. You’ll drive my customers away.’
‘Hey, Clemmy! Are you here to sample our wares?’ Grinning, he grabbed a gingerbread man off the cooling rack, juggling it between his fingertips, before setting it back down again. ‘Maybe wait a moment, that one nearly burned my fingertips off.’
‘Hi, Mum!’ Indi called, waving a wooden spoon. ‘We’re having our own Christmas party.’
‘I told Pop to turn it down,’ Harriet yelled, then covered a giggle with her hand. ‘But he likes it loud. We’re testing out the new speakers for the Christmas party.’
‘Uncle Jack borrowed them to us,’ Indi added.
‘Lent them to us,’ Clem corrected. She glanced over her shoulder, where a new car was pulling into the driveway, andturned the volume dial on the speakers. ‘Can we save the loud music until after the cafe closes?’ She gave her grandfather a pleading smile. ‘Please?’
‘If your customers are getting cranky about Frosty the Snowman, then we need to rustle you up some new custo …’
Art’s cheerful banter trailed off as he studied her face. ‘Clemmy, are you okay?’
She straightened her apron, smoothed her hair and pulled herself together.Don’t lose it now.
‘Love you, Pop, thanks.’
Clem dashed back to the cafe, the headache pounding at her temples.
Three more days of work and then she’d have two whole days of sleeping in, ignoring the phone, only cooking in single batches, for the people she loved, in a timeframe that suited her. And although she knew the schools wouldn’t reopen until late January, she felt a sense of relief that she hadn’t won the school canteen catering contracts. They would’ve been a recipe for burnout.
She took the steps to the cafe two at a time and was relieved to return to the mellow Cafe Del Mar mix on the stereo, the buzz of conversation and the efficient team of staff she’d come to know and love.
But the moment she saw a young family arriving with a beagle puppy, she felt a raw jab of pain in her heart.
Don’t think about Spencer. Don’t think about Spencer.
With a muffled apology to Kev and Sebastian, Clem fled through the kitchen, shut the back door behind her and sank onto the concrete step.
Losing it is not an option.
And as she picked a fading bloom from her Pierre de Ronsard rose, plucking the petals off one by one, she wishedshe’d pushed Spencer on the topic of Belle, or more specifically Belle’s death, earlier.
Sharing a life with a man who not only condoned medical euthanasia, but who had assisted with the process, felt impossible. Her father’s suicide had ripped their family apart, and despite many counselling sessions, she still felt the weight of his loss.
If only she’d known Spencer was an advocate for voluntary-assisted dying, something she couldn’t fathom, they could have saved so much time, and then her heart wouldn’t be aching like it was now.
