great. I’ll go with the Schweinshaxe—crispy skin pork hock is a favourite of mine.’
With that he signalled the waiter and placed their order. The waiter returned moments later with the drinks, before leaving them alone again.
Phoebe was staring at the people walking by and at the cars slowly moving down the single-lane road that meandered through the town. She was thinking about Washington, covered in snow, while she was enjoying a balmy evening in the foothills on the other side of the world.
‘A penny for your thoughts?’
‘It will cost you a quarter.’
‘A quarter of what?’
‘A quarter of a dollar.’
Heath rubbed the cleft in his chin and considered her terms. ‘Tell me honestly—are your thoughts right now worth twenty-five cents?’
‘I guess unless you pay up you’ll never know,’ Phoebe returned with a cheeky smile.
Heath decided to call her bluff and, reaching for his wallet, found a twenty-cent and a five-cent coin. He placed both on the table and pushed them towards her with lean strong fingers. ‘Well, your thoughts are officially mine now.’
‘I was thinking about Washington …’
‘International thoughts are always more expensive, so I can see why there was a price-hike from a penny to twenty-five cents,’ he teased. ‘So go on.’
Phoebe bit the inside of her lip. ‘That’s it.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yep. I’m afraid you probably didn’t get your money’s worth after all,’ Phoebe said with her head at a tilt. ‘It was always going to be a gamble. When the stakes are high and you play big … sometimes you lose.’
Heath’s lips curved a little at her response. He suddenly had the feeling that spending time with Phoebe would never be a loss.
‘That was delicious—thank you so much.’
‘You’re most welcome,’ he replied as they made their way along the now darkened street.
Street lamps lit their way, but the sky was dark and dotted with sparkling stars. The breeze had picked up a little over the almost two hours they had spent eating and conversing, but it was refreshing, not cold, and it carried along with it the gentle wafts of eucalyptus and other native bushes.
Phoebe filled her lungs with the beautiful fresh air. Both had purposely steered the conversation away from their personal lives and discussed issues aligned to their careers.
‘We can head to my father’s home, if you like, to have a coffee with him.’ Heath wanted to prolong his time with Phoebe, but in a way that was safe for both of them.
‘Isn’t it a bit late to be calling on your father?’ she asked as they left the freeway and headed towards the city residence.
‘My father is a night owl. He has been for many years. He was always the last to bed. I remember coming home in the early hours of the morning sometimes, maybe from a pub crawl with uni friends, and he would still be up reading.’
‘And your mother didn’t mind?’
Heath drew a shallow breath. Although it had been a long time since his mother had died he still felt the loss.
‘My mother was killed in a light plane crash returning from Kangaroo Island. She was a social worker and had been over there consulting about issues with the high rate of school truancy. She was working on strategies to keep the children on the island engaged, and she called my father just before she boarded, very excited with the outcome. She told him that they had made significant progress and that she would tell him all about it when she arrived home. The plane went down ten minutes after take-off from Kingscote, in bad weather that had come in quickly.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’ Phoebe’s hand instinctively covered her mouth for a moment. She felt her heart sink with the news he had just broken. That meant he had lost two women he had loved. That was a heavy burden to carry for any man.
‘How old were you at the time, Heath?’
‘Sixteen—so it will be twenty years this July since she was killed.’
The desolate expression on Phoebe’s face told Heath how she was feeling. She knew she had no words that could capture the depth of his sadness so she didn’t try to speak.
‘I think, to be honest, he has no reason to go to bed early any more. There’s no one waiting so he stays up late—unless he has an early surgery roster … then he goes to bed at a reasonable hour.’
‘And he’s never wanted to remarry?’
‘No. He and my mother were soul mates. He didn’t think he would find that again, so he never looked.’
‘That’s sad. There might have been someone just perfect …’ Phoebe replied—then realised that she was overstepping the mark, by commenting about someone else’s love-life when her own had been a disaster, and stopped.
‘Perhaps. But he’s never recovered from losing my mother. Some people never do. They just can’t move on.’
Phoebe wondered if Heath was the same as his father. Cut from the same cloth and faithful to the woman he had lost. Never having healed enough to be with someone else.
They travelled along in silence after that, until Heath pulled up at the front of the beautiful old sandstone villa that his father had called home for so many years, and where he was staying for just a few weeks. Standard white roses, eight bushes on each side, lined the pathway.
Someone must have been watering them in the extreme weather, Phoebe mused as she walked past them, tempted to touch the perfect white petals. Their delicate perfume hung in the night air. The front porch light was on and the home had a welcoming feel to it. It was as if there was a woman still living there, Phoebe thought as she made her way to the front door with Heath.
He unlocked it and they both stepped inside.
‘Hi, Dad, we’re home. I hope you’re decent. I have Phoebe with me, and you don’t need to scare her in your underwear, or worse.’
Phoebe felt a smile coming on at the humour in his greeting and it lifted her spirits. She looked around and was very taken by the beautiful stained glass around the door of the softly lit entrance hall. And she felt comforted by the lighthearted side of their father-son relationship. It was not unlike the way she related to her own father. The warmth, respect and humorous rapport were very similar.
‘I’m outside on the patio.’
Heath dropped his keys onto the antique hall stand and then led the way down the long hallway, through the huge country-style kitchen, complete with pots and pans overhanging the marble cooking island, to the back veranda. From what she could see of the house in the dim lighting it was pristine, and she wondered if it was the work of Ken or if perhaps he had a cleaning service to keep it looking so picture-perfect. It didn’t look like two men
