The Boys of Summer (25 page)

“What does it say?” I asked, trying to keep
my breathing even.

Stan passed the message to Ellie; he
squinted, struggling to read it. Ellie held it up to the overhead
light. She winced and her sad eyes turned up to me, her smile
pained.

“He wants you to bring your bike into the
shop tomorrow, so he can fix it.”

I snatched the phone from her hand. It did
say that, but Ellie had left out the last detail.

So I can get it out of the way.

You know how I said that the turnoff to the
Falls was a last nail in the coffin? I was wrong. Fixing my bike
was it. He would fulfill his end of the bargain and get me and my
bike out of his way. I had been half tempted to get Stan to text
back, ‘whatever, never mind’, but then I thought, No! I would take
the moral high ground.

To prove even further that I had
no-hard-feelings-let’s-be-friends, I chucked in my own deal. I
spent the portion of the next morning at the Rose Café making pies.
Much to my mum and dad’s surprise, I negotiated some hours helping
them out at the shop if I could make up some pies. Mum and Dad kept
casting me wary looks as if there was some alien creature in their
kitchen. I suppose there was.

“So what are you going to do with the pies?”
Mum asked.

“My bike is getting fixed today; it’s a kind
of payment, a little thank you.”

“How very Dr Quinn Medicine Woman of you;
sure they don’t want to trade for eggs and chickens?” Dad
laughed.

I just glared at him as I rolled the pastry
with my pin.

“And they’re okay with that?” Mum
frowned.

“Yes, it’s all sorted. Apparently your pies
are quite the hit among many.”

Mum straightened with pride.

‘Well, I have a new recipe. We should try
it.”

I held up my hand. “No, Mum, it has to be
made by me, and I’m doing the Summer Berry pie deal.”

I had watched my mum make these pies a
hundred, maybe a thousand times, so I was confident in being able
to replicate the same crisp, sweet, sugary flavour. I made four
large ones in total.

Three were Summer Berry marked with a pastry
‘O’ for Onslow Boys, and one was baked with a ‘T’ for Apple and
Rhubarb pie. Toby’s favourite. I didn’t want to take so much
pleasure in making something for Toby. I wanted to slap myself for
lovingly painting the egg wash on the T with a smile. Until reality
flashed back in the form of that flicking indicator that changed
everything.

Dad had offered to give me and the bike a
lift into town, but it was not an overly hot day. The walk was so
calm and peaceful until I made it to the main strip and that peace
turned into sweaty-palmed anxiety as I approached Matthew &
Son. Hopefully Toby was out and I could just handball my bike to
his dad and then hightail it out of there.

No such luck. The radio was blaring with the
Eagles and the shop was empty aside from a pair of unmistakable
legs that lay under an old, metallic blue Kingswood, one foot
tapping to the beat. A muffled voice sang and whistled from under
the car. I coughed and rang my bike bell and the voice froze. In
one fluid motion Toby wheeled himself out from under the car,
casting a winning smile that flashed brilliantly white against his
grease stained face. It was the smile that caught me off guard, the
one I certainly didn’t expect to see greeting me. Talk about four
seasons in one day; one minute he would be all smiles and joking,
the next I couldn’t even get a hello.

I tilted my head to the music. “What, no Glen
Campbell?”

It was a universally known fact that if you
passed by Matthew & Son, you would always hear Glen Campbell
from the stereo.

His smile broadened. “Not on my watch.” He
maneuvered his way to his feet and wiped the excess grease off his
hands onto a cloth.

“Well, you knew I was coming, so I guess I’ll
never truly know.”

He crooked his finger and motioned me to
follow him. I leaned my bike on the steel pole in the middle of the
room and went with Toby into the office. It was a small,
paper-infested space with a map-filled cork board and empty boxes
piled in the corner from incoming parts orders.

Bills were spiked and clipboards with
scrawled details were racked. Toby opened a filing cabinet stacked
with cassettes. He grabbed one and held it out to me. I smiled.
Glen Campbell’s
Greatest Hits
.

“I knew it.”

“Right.” He took it from me and placed it
back in its slot, and picking up its case, he showed me the
inscription on the side. ‘Matthew Morrison’ was written in thick
black texta.

“Dad’s stash.” He placed it down, picking up
the next box. “Mike’s God-awful stash.” Sure enough, ‘Michael
Morrison’ was inscribed on the side. He then picked up the last
box, raising his brows. “My stash.”

I eyed him warily as I checked out the spines
of the tapes. The Beatles, The Eagles, Credence; sure enough, no
Campbell.

“Still quite the mature-aged selection,” I
mused.

“I like to think of myself as an old
soul.”

I picked up a cassette I wasn’t familiar
with. “Sam Cooke?”

Toby’s face lit up as he took it from me.
“Ah, now he is an absolute favourite, you’ve probably heard this in
my car.” He looked at me expectantly.

I bit my lip in deep thought.

Toby shook his head. “You don’t know who Sam
Cooke is?”

I grimaced. “Maybe if I heard him …”

Toby ejected the Eagles cassette, popped in
Sam Cooke and pressed play. A melodious tune oozed out of the
speakers and I instantly recognised it as the song that had played
when Toby had driven me home from Horseshoe Bend.

The wind flapping around the cabin, Toby’s
bicep flexed with tension at the wheel. The awkward side-smiles at
one another in our first real encounter together. The first time we
were alone.

Sam Cooke was singing through the stereo
about a cupid casting its bow, and I was lost with the wonder of
his beautiful voice.

Our trance was broken by an incoming whistle
to the tune, and Toby’s dad entered the office, pausing in surprise
at the sight of me.

“Oh, hello.”

“Ah, Dad, this is Tess.”

“Hi, Tess.” He shook my hand with vigour; I
could feel the roughened calluses from years of labour.

“So what are you kids up to?”

Toby squirmed uncomfortably, it seemed no
matter how old you got, there was a universal trend: parents were
put on this earth to embarrass. But I didn’t think Toby’s dad was
embarrassing, he was friendly, and charming. He had laugh lines in
all the right places with dark blond hair and tanned skin. You
wouldn’t have automatically thought them father and son but then
Matthew Morrison smiled and suddenly there was no mistaking the
link.

“We were just discussing Toby’s love for Glen
Campbell.” I smiled sweetly. Toby laser beamed his gaze into mine,
silently imploring me to be quiet.

Matthew’s brows raised in surprise.
“Really?”

“Mm hmm.” I nodded.

“He is the best!” Matthew added excitedly.
“Guess all those years with Glen Campbell playing at home finally
paid off. I knew you’d come around, son.” He patted Toby on the
shoulder. Toby looked pained.

“Why, on his sixth birthday we bought him a
cowboy suit and he used to ride around the yard on his stick
pony.”

“Right.” Toby snatched the cassette cover out
of my hand. “Time to go.” He ushered me towards the office
door.

I had to laugh. “Nice to meet you, Mr
Morrison.”

“Please call me Matthew.” He tilted his head
and smiled.

I grabbed the edge of the door, buying some
time as Toby pushed me forward.

“Well, Matthew, I would really love to learn
the rest of that story someday.”

Matthew rubbed his lightly whiskered chin. “I
dare say I can even drag out some old photos.” He winked.

“Oh, now that I would love to see.”

“Out!” Toby grabbed my hand from the
doorframe.

Back in the garage, I grabbed my bike and
brought it forward for inspection, but I was more keen to unveil my
prized pies.

I wheeled the bike over. “I brought you a
present.”

Toby looked over the bike, looking not in the
least bit excited.

I rolled my eyes. “In the basket.”

This only resulted in a curved brow of
skeptical interest as he lifted up the blanket over the basket as
if he were expecting a striking cobra to rear up.

“No you didn’t …” He ripped the white and red
check cloth from the top.

“Freshly made this morning by yours truly.” I
beamed.

He cocked his head as he noticed the pastry
initials.

“Oh, um, these are the Summer Berries. ‘O’ is
for Onslow Boys.” I blushed. “And ‘T’ is for … well, it’s your
favourite Rhubarb and Apple.”

He looked into the basket with a deep
affection as if it housed a litter of fluffy kittens. He looked up
at me.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

I shrugged. “I know.”

We looked at one another for a long moment,
and then all of a sudden the speaker dipped and stopped and Sam
Cooke was playing again, crooning out ‘You send me’. Toby’s gaze
quickly darted down, with what I thought was a blush.

I mentally slapped myself for getting carried
away. I was here so he could fix my bike, and the deal would be
finished and there would be no more obligations to one another; he
now had pie so all was fair. It was then I noticed Toby had looked
back at me.

“What?”

He frowned, making me feel uneasy. He stepped
closer looking at the side of my face.

“Keep still.”

I froze “What?!”

“Don’t panic, you just have a little
something.” He reached out and wiped his finger down my cheek.

“There.”

The penny dropped as I saw his face break
into a cheesy grin. I walked to peer into the side mirror of the
nearest car to find a long, black streak down my cheek and Toby
trying not to drop my bike as he laughed, waving his dirty hand at
me.

“Oldest trick in the book.”

I rubbed my cheek. “Almost as old as your
taste in music.”

“Right, that’s it.” Toby leaned the bike next
to the car and held out his greasy hands to grab me.

I ran, squealing. “Toby, don’t!”

I reached the safety of the street outside
and Toby paused in the archway.

I wiped my cheek vigorously. “Is it
gone?”

Toby shrugged with a devious smirk on his
face. “Guess you’ll never know, just like the Onslow Boys are never
going to know about those pies.”

I gasped. “I am so going to tell them.”

He shook his head. “I have your bike for
ransom now.”

“You’re a cold-hearted man, Toby
Morrison.”

Toby leaned against the doorframe, arms
crossed as he looked me squarely in the eye. It was unnerving, as
if he was peering all the way deep inside me, into my soul. All of
a sudden he wasn’t smiling anymore; his whole demeanour had
sobered.

“So I have been told,” he said in all
seriousness, and with that he straightened, uncrossed his arms and
turned and walked back inside, leaving me in the street, breathless
and confused.

To keep my mind busy, and to the utter shock
of my parents, I offered my services to the Rose Café’ from Mondays
to Thursdays.

I know, right? I just couldn’t take lying on
my bed being in my head all day. Or worse, hanging with the Onslow
Boys. With Toby and Angela.

Once over their own shock, Mum and Dad had
agreed wholeheartedly and even insisted I was paid properly and
everything. Looks like that top I had been eyeing off wasn’t so far
away, after all. It was good to be there, we all liked it. Over
summer, the peak tourist season, I usually rarely got to see my
parents at all.

And it’s not like I had anything better to
do. Ellie started spending her every waking moment with Stan. Adam
had headed back to his nan’s in the City.

It wasn’t until Thursday afternoon at the
café that I saw a familiar six-foot-three figure at the counter,
peering into the glass cabinet. He was wearing his navy work shirt
and pants and an impressively fluorescent orange safety vest, with
reflective trimming.

I walked up slowly. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m
afraid your attire is in a serious colour clash with our
décor.”

He turned abruptly with a surprised smile.
“McGee!”

“Murphy!”

“What are you doing here?”

“I work here Monday to Thursdays.”

“Two jobs? You put us all to shame.”

“No I think that fluro vest ensemble puts you
to shame.”

I walked around the counter to grab an order
docket. “So I have to ask. Did you happen to receive a pie this
week?”

Sean looked at me blankly.

“A Summer Berry pie?”

Still nothing. I shook my head.
“Unbelievable, you wait ’til I see that Toby Morrison.”

A spark of recognition flickered in his
grey-blue eyes.

“If you are referring to a parcel I received
at work containing a crust of a pie with a note saying, ‘Tess made
us pie. It was delicious’, then, yes, I received a secondhand
portion of pie.”

My jaw fell open. “That is so mean. The pies
were meant to be for all of you.”

“Pies? Plural?”

I told him about the pies I had lovingly made
from scratch and instead of being mad, Sean laughed, scratching his
chin.

“Right! Well, I guess this means war.”

“Uh oh!”

“It’s been a long-standing Murphy-Morrison
tradition, war has,” he said. “It was his turn for payback. Now
it’s my turn. I’m going to have to have a think about the next one.
However long it takes.”

“Riiight, okay,” I said, “well, I’m not
getting involved. I don’t want my bike mailed back to me in
pieces.”

“Fair enough.” Sean went back to studying the
contents of the glass cabinet. I watched him as he chose. His cheek
dimpled for a second and was gone again. It was an unexpected
delight each time he smiled, but he wasn’t really a smiler, more
like a wicked grinner. He looked older than twenty-two, but maybe
that was because he was so filled out, so muscular, that it made it
hard not to ogle him. His short-cropped hair made it hard to
decipher what colour it was, probably brown. He wasn’t beautiful
like Toby, but he was handsome.