to do now you’ve sold your company.’
‘I’m designing an app and I’ve got plenty of things to do.’ Things that didn’t involve living on Shearwater Island with Mario.
‘I’m sure you do but for now you’re going to be the good Italian son you haven’t been in years and come home.’
Anger meshed with guilt and then, reluctantly, resignation followed. When Bianca got an idea in her head she didn’t let it go until it was a done deal, and he grudgingly conceded that she did have a point. He’d stayed away a very long time. ‘Exactly how long do I need to be there?’
‘For as long as it takes.’ Her snappish tone immediately softened. ‘His rehab coordinator said they’d review his independence in three months. Look at it this way, winter’s on the run and spring on the island is always pretty. Bring your computer and think of it as a working holiday.’
The thought of him and his father sharing a house was so far removed from his idea of a holiday that it made his gut churn. ‘Exactly when did you add being a stand-up comedian to your many skills?’
She gave a hoarse laugh. ‘You never know, Raf, Dad might surprise you.’
Over the last six weeks, Mario hadn’t surprised Raf in the least.
As he gazed at the house next door, he admired the soaring timber beams and the floor-to-ceiling windows. Every inch of it had been built to maximise the view of the Southern Ocean. It was a view his father had seen from his fishing boat all his life right up until four months ago. Now the only time Mario saw the sea was when he left the property—an event he was dependent on Raf and others to provide. He probably missed the glorious vista that on a sunny day promised the world. No wonder the old bastard was grumpy a lot of the time.
His father cleared his throat—his sign that he was now awake. ‘What are you doing?’
Raf turned from the window, an idea suddenly taking hold of him with a zip of excitement. ‘I’m thinking you should extend this house upwards and get the same view as your neighbours.’
His father jerked the lever on his easy chair, snapping the leg rest back with a bang. The animals scattered. ‘And I can climb stairs so easily now, Rafael.’
His father’s sarcasm swirled around him. ‘There’s a thing called a lift, Dad.’
‘And there’s that thing called money.’ Mario thumped his cane to emphasise his point that he could no longer work.
Raf closed his eyes and counted to five before opening them again. ‘I’d be happy to finance it.’
‘Why would you want to do that? You hate living on the island.’
He sighed. ‘I don’t hate it.’
His father’s mouth flattened into a hard line. ‘Could have fooled me. You stayed away long enough.’
And just like that, they were back to the circular argument that had dogged them for eighteen years. He could have said, I’m here now, but that would only remind his father of the reason why, which was like throwing a lit match onto a petrol spill. He changed the subject to something neutral. ‘Who lives next door?’
Mario grunted, the sound derogatory. ‘Weekenders.’
The locals had a love/hate relationship with the holidaymakers who flooded the island each year from December until Easter. There was no doubt the money the tourists poured into the economy helped keep the island’s businesses alive but that money came with city attitudes, which frequently scraped up against country sensibilities. A community needed more than money to thrive and apart from the surf lifesaving club, the holiday home owners didn’t usually get involved.
‘They’re not doing a very good job at being weekenders, then,’ Raf said wryly. ‘I’ve been here a few weeks and I haven’t seen them once.’
‘Probably too busy working to pay for that house. You know your cousin Rocco made a pile of cash building and selling it.’
His father rose laboriously and Raf held himself back from rushing forward to help. The staff at the rehabilitation centre had been firm that he should wait for Mario to ask if he needed assistance. It was logical on paper but in reality it meant by the time Mario asked for help he was furious at himself for failing and, by default, furious at Raf for being the one there to help. The role of a carer was a catch-22 situation, no matter which angle he viewed it from.
His father walked slowly to the kitchen. Although Mario no longer skippered his boat, the habits of a lifetime were hard to shake. At three o’clock each afternoon he made coffee and listened to the detailed coastal weather report as if he still had to make the decision about whether or not to navigate across the treacherous bar and enter Bass Strait.
With Mario occupied, Raf usually took this time to go for a run and as he turned away from the window the soft drone of an engine snagged his attention. He looked back. A silver BMW four-wheel drive was pulling into the neighbours’ driveway. The tinted windows made it impossible to see how many occupants were in the vehicle but given the style and make of the car he thought it a pretty safe bet there’d be two adults and at least two children. The perfect nuclear family to match the beautiful house.
A ripple of sadness and disappointment rolled through him and he immediately threw it off. He had more than enough money to live his life as he pleased. He had nothing to be sad about.
He glimpsed a flash of blond hair as the driver’s door opened. ‘Yes!’ His prediction was on the money—make that a blond-haired, blue-eyed family.
‘What?’ Mario yelled from the kitchen.
‘Your neighbours have arrived.’
Mario didn’t bother to reply—the weather report took precedence over weekenders—but Raf stayed at the window to see if the rest of his conjectures would be accurate.
The driver stepped out from around the door and surprise shot through him. It wasn’t a blond man but a woman. A very pregnant woman wearing large, dark sunglasses that hid half her face. She arched her back as if she’d been driving for a long time without a break and the clingy top she wore stretched over her full, round breasts and fecund belly.
Lush. So lush, so beautiful. The words pinged unbidden into Raf’s mind and he gave himself a shake. Hell, what was wrong with him? It was one thing for a bloke to think a woman pregnant with his own child was sexy. He was certain that thinking that about a pregnant stranger was totally wrong.
No one else had alighted from the car. Had she just come with the kids? He waited for her to open the rear passenger doors but instead she turned so her back faced him. With her left arm akimbo, he assumed she was stroking her pregnant belly. Her head tilted back and her hair swung against her shoulders as she stared up at the house, looking at it as if it was a tall mountain she had to climb.
Why would you think that? More to the point, why are you even watching her? You’re not that creepy guy who stares out of windows at people.
He rubbed his face with his hands. Exactly how small had his world become over the last few weeks if he was looking out a window and imagining things about a pregnant woman he’d never met. He really needed to get out of the house and talk to someone other than his father.
He
