Deep Wate - Sarah Epstein Page 0,22

than taking issue with random children.’ There was no mistaking how I felt, though. Kids know these things. Their gut feelings aren’t muddied by second-guessing or making excuses for people the way we do as we get older.

I’d sensed it in Ivy’s expressionless greetings when she’d find me on their doorstep, the way she’d close the door and make me wait on the verandah until Henry came out. If I spoke at social gatherings she’d stare at me through half-lidded eyes as though everything I said was tedious. Once, when I was thirteen, she loudly accused me of stealing a Mars bar from the newsagency. I had to turn out my pockets as a line of gawkers formed behind us. When the store manager was finally satisfied I hadn’t shoplifted, the look Ivy slid my way told me she already knew.

And now I see nothing’s changed. In fact, it’s probably worse than ever. Ivy blames me for Henry running away.

I blame myself too, but not for the same reasons as Ivy.

My phone dings with a message. It’s from Sabeen. I read it as I’m walking back out to the street.

Helping Uncle Bernie today. Tea break at 10.30. Meet me at the Bakehouse?

I chew the inside of my lip as I reply that I’ll be there, hoping she’s decided to share whatever she and Raf are keeping from me. I head straight to the café, even though I’m fifteen minutes early, so I have a chance to clear my head before she arrives.

The Bakehouse used to resemble a quaint French patisserie with cream rendered walls and green striped window awnings. But severe hail and wind gusts on the night of the storm damaged the shopfront and shredded the matching topiaries on both sides of the door. A microburst, the Bureau of Meteorology called it, where destructive winds are dragged towards the ground by rain and hail during a thunderstorm. They affect an area of four kilometres in diameter or less, and unfortunately for The Shallows, this intense downdraft hit pretty close to the centre of town. Like other shopfronts along the main strip, the Bakehouse’s awnings are long gone, permanent water stains seeping down the walls like mascara on tear-soaked cheeks.

Locals, however, seem unfazed by the café’s dishevelled appearance, with most tables full and a decent crowd queueing along the glass cabinets at the front of the shop. I take a seat at one of the remaining tables, a used cup and saucer pushed off to one side. From the corner of my eye I sense a waitress approaching with a dishcloth.

‘Let me get that for you,’ she says, reaching across to remove the cup.

I glance up. ‘Rina?’

Her eyes widen at her name. ‘Chloe, hey!’ Her initial surprise soon dissolves into uneasiness. Our argument from New Year’s Eve surfaces again and bobs awkwardly between us. ‘Um, you look really different.’

I’m not the only one. Usually heavily made up, Rina’s face is stripped of all decoration, like the Bakehouse’s facade, scrubbed clean and slightly puffy around the eyes. Her curly hair is scraped away from her face in a severe bun, a smattering of angry red pimples glowing on her chin.

‘Mum mentioned you’d arrived for the school holidays,’ she says, wiping the table down in a jerky motion. ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it for pizza last night.’

She doesn’t elaborate and I don’t press her for details. Mason is a subject we should probably avoid. Instead I say, ‘I didn’t know you worked here.’

‘Just since February. To save up for travelling.’

‘You’re going away?’

Rina’s lip curls and she averts her gaze. ‘Not anymore.’

It doesn’t seem like she wants to talk about it, but she hesitates as though she’s expecting a response.

‘That’s a shame,’ I manage.

She frowns, mildly irritated, like I’ve failed a test. ‘I’ll get you a menu.’

‘Two, please,’ I say. ‘Sabeen’s on her way.’

‘Oh, okay.’ Her face hardens. ‘How nice.’

I instantly feel bad for excluding her even though I only found out about this five minutes ago. I know she and Sabeen have become closer since I started living in Sydney, and I suspect Sabeen picked this café because Rina works here and she thought it’d be a good way of spending time with us both. She hasn’t factored in that we’ll be sitting here socialising while Rina has to wait on us. Or the fact that Rina probably resents how much time Sabeen spends with me every time I’m here.

Rina mumbles something I don’t catch and slips away towards the kitchen.

It’s another