a mile away. I made the rice, though. Open the wine to breathe, would you?’
Frank unhitched himself from the frame and opened the shiraz on the sideboard.
‘The pinot too, Frank?’
‘On it. The sav blanc’s in the fridge?’
‘Chillin’ like a jazz saxophonist.’
A chime sounded.
‘Daft beggar,’ Frank laughed, kissing Milo on the cheek before he went to answer the doorbell.
‘Look who we found looking for your street number!’ Milo’s mother Olivia ushered a young woman through the door ahead of her, while her husband of nearly five years – former West Australia Police Detective Peter Crowther – brought up the rear.
‘Angie!’ Frank scooped his sister into a happy hug then held her at arm’s length. ‘You’re looking great. Feeling good?’
Angela patted her swelling belly. ‘Less morning sickness with this one, anyway.’
‘Milo’s in the dining room, he’ll be right–‘
On cue, Milo swept down the hall to hug his mother and kiss Angie’s cheek. He slung an arm around Pete’s shoulders. ‘How you doin’, Stepdad?’
‘Coming to claim that bottle of Glenfiddich you still owe me from last year, Stepson.’
‘I still can’t believe Geelong lost the Grand Final to your lot.’
‘Go the Mighty Haaaaaaawks!’ roared Pete cheerfully.
Frank ushered everyone down the hall. ‘Listen to you, Milo, all… blokey.’
Milo countered the accusation by prancing into the dining room. ‘I speak English, Italian and the language of Melbourne football, my friend. Those of you who grew up in Western Australia weren’t steeped in a century of Aussie Rules tradition. You’ll never know the true calling.’
‘I kicked a ball around with my dad,’ protested Frank.
‘Frank, I love you like the devil, but you are pitiful with ball games.’
Frank’s mouth pursed in a moue as he bit inside his lip. He’d never normally let a fantastic straight line like that go, but it was against all laws of nature to make ball jokes with your sister and practically-mother-in-law in the room. Milo, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, was not helping.
‘Who’d like a shiraz?’ Milo broke the moment with a cheeky grin. ‘Who’s designated driver for the night? Let’s toast our new house!’
Milo was bright and chatty all through dinner, though he only picked at his meal. Angela, visiting Melbourne on company business, showed off photographs of her husband Matthew, their four-year-old daughter Isabella, and the progress on repainting the nursery.
‘Mum thinks we ought to paint it sage green. She said it was dad’s favourite colour.’
Frank’s eyebrows rose. ‘Was it?’
Angela snorted inelegantly. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think Dad might have just about known there was more than one kind of green. I can’t imagine he’d have known sage was one of them.’
‘She just likes to feel like he’d be expressing opinions if he was still with us.’
‘He was never short of an opinion,’ agreed Frank.
‘You got that from him, all right.’ Angela said, a slight edge to her tone.
‘And his rakish good looks,’ suggested Milo, who was the one who looked like a Renaissance pin-up boy. ‘Who’s up for dessert? I’ve got gulab jamun or rice pudding.’
Olivia and Pete shared their plans for a belated honeymoon to Fiji and renovations on their house in Eaglemont.
‘I thought we’d get the builder who did your music studio here,’ Olivia said as dessert was finishing. ‘Go show it off to Pete, Milo, sweetheart. He’s sceptical.’
‘I’m not sceptical,’ Pete protested. ‘I just don’t know why we need a builder of soundproof rooms to close in a veranda. I could close in the veranda.’
‘Peter,’ Olivia mock-scowled. ‘You have many fine skills but I won’t have you and your ex-police friends doing to our veranda what you did with the barbecue and the patio. Now shoo.’
‘You can show it to me too.’ Angela took Milo by the hand and tugged. ‘Soundproofing the nursery might be just the thing this time.’
Milo let himself be led out. ‘You’re pretty much begging for me to show off my guitar collection,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a new Les Paul.’
‘Isn’t that the drag queen?’ Pete’s exaggerated innocence collapsed into laughter at Milo’s expression as the three of them went from the old 19th century terrace house into the modern extension, completed only a month ago.
Olivia swirled wine around her glass as she watched them leave. ‘He’s trying a bit hard tonight.’
‘We had a slightly weird day. The Foundation office is finally set up, so Paolo’s been on his mind. It’s all been on his mind. He had to take the stairs again.’
Olivia closed her eyes and drew in a breath, held it, to keep tears at bay.
‘He has way more good days than bad,’ Frank said. ‘It doesn’t matter that he prefers the stairs. He’s writing songs. He loves the park over the road. He’s madly in love with that new guitar of his. He’s okay.’
‘Are you?’
Frank couldn’t meet her concerned gaze for long. ‘I’m fine.’
‘It’s all right for you not to be fine, Frank.’
‘I know. But it’s okay for me to be okay, too.’
She smiled ruefully. ‘Of course it is.’ She rose and began to clear the table. ‘The house is looking fantastic. You look very settled in.’
‘We’ve had a whole month without builders around. It’s great.’ Frank emptied scraps into the bin and began to fill the dishwasher. ‘We don’t even owe the bank a cent for it. We got enough from the sale of Steven and Kev’s Fremantle place to cover the house, the renovation and the extension. However the new album goes, we’ve got a roof over our heads. Five minutes from Lygon Street, a park right over the road, and walking distance to the city on a sunny day.’
‘Milo grew up in Carlton, you know.’
‘He said. He took me on a tour of all his favourite ristorantes and teenaged busking spots. We did a café crawl and got so wired on coffee shots and gelato I think we almost bid against ourselves at the auction.’
For years, Frank had sat on his inheritance from his mentor Steven, unable to live in the riverside
