Sweet Home Summer: A heartwarming romcom perfect for curling up with. Michelle Vernal

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СКАЧАТЬ She wants more time to devote to her Scottish dancing while she can still kick her legs up, apparently. Your gran reckons she’s finally given up on snagging Principal Bishop. Yep, sorry to say you missed the boat with Ben there, love,’ he finished helpfully.

      ‘Thanks for that, Dad.’ She could almost feel Ben’s eyes burning into her willing her to look at him, as she kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead. Or perhaps she was being fanciful. Either way, she had no doubt he’d known she was arriving home today thanks to the Bibury bush telegraph. She wondered if he’d changed much, it had been years since she’d last seen him. The last time had been when she’d flown home for her grandfather’s funeral. Isla, already grieving, had felt like she was talking to a stranger as he passed on his condolences.

      Maybe his hair was thinning, and he’d gotten paunchy. What would he think of her when he saw her properly? She didn’t think she’d changed much apart from wearing her hair shorter these days, so it sat on her shoulders and not halfway down her back. It was darker too thanks to the tint her hairdresser had put through it, telling her it would off-set her olive skin tone. She hadn’t put on weight though, no chance of that with Toad’s constant passive aggressive remarks.

      ‘That Tim was bloody useless. I told you that time and time again, but would you listen? Nope, you take after your Gran in that respect. She never listens either,’ her dad said, as though reading her mind. ‘I could never trust a man who uses moisturiser and puts more crap in his hair than your mother.’ His tone softened. ‘I can’t pretend that I’m not happy you broke things off with him and to have our girl home of course.’ He patted Isla’s knee, and she gave him a watery smile, relieved that they’d reached Gran’s.

      ‘It’s been painted!’ The last time she’d seen the weatherboard house where, growing up, she’d spent as much time as her own home, it was beginning to show the telltale signs of the harsh coastal climate. Now it stood out like a gleaming pearl amongst the street full of other weatherboards that had all lost their lustre.

      ‘Ryan and I got stuck in when he was home last. We thought if the old girl sees sense and decides to sell, then it’s one less thing to worry about. Your mum and I tried to talk her into putting it on the market after she had that fall but I never met anyone as pig-headed as Bridget Collins. She’ll miss the boat I reckon. Property prices have gone down enough since the mine closed.’ He turned into the drive and sounded the horn. Isla couldn’t help but grin, as the Dukes of Hazzard, General Lee’s Dixie tune announced their arrival. He was such a petrol head, her dad.

      ‘Gran! It’s me,’ Isla called, pushing open the door. Joe brought up the rear carrying her cases. She shook her head at the foreignness of leaving your front door unlocked as she stepped inside. It was shadowy in the hall despite it being high summer. This was thanks to the rich Rimu wood panelling that adorned the walls. Her dad deposited her worldly possessions (at least, until the rest of her belongings that Maura had kindly agreed to box up and ship arrived) in the spare room before kissing her.

      ‘I’ll leave you to have a catch up with the old girl. It’s good to have you home Isla.’

      ‘It’s good to be home, and the hat and boots look great Dad.’

      ‘Why thank you, lil’ lady,’ he drawled tipping his new Stetson before strutting out the door in his cowboy boots.

      She wondered if he’d sleep with them on recalling how she’d felt like the perfect daughter, being the one to bring his boyhood dream to life.

      Before she’d left the States, she’d walked into the LA stockists of the Stetson brand. Her jaw was agape as she’d stood gazing at the different designs. A cowboy hat was a cowboy hat, wasn’t it? Except for when it happened to be a Stetson, it would seem. She’d gravitated towards a traditionally styled hat called the Rustler. Lifting it off the wall, she’d inspected the hat for a price and spotting it; Isla truly did feel as if she was having an out of body experience. She whistled between her teeth, a cool two hundred and seventy dollars for a flipping hat! Dad had better remember which one of his two offsprings it was who’d fulfilled his dreams when he sat down to write his will, she’d thought, marching over to inspect the boots.

      Isla would have loved to have blamed the state of her nerves on the price of the Stetson hat and the matching cowboy boots (which, by the way, had cost her the grand total of five hundred and fifty dollars, a sum she still hadn’t quite come to terms with) but she couldn’t. The trigger had in fact been a conversation with Toad that had been so ridiculous she’d nicknamed it Banana Gate. The screenplay of their exchange ran through her mind once again like a scratched DVD as she stood in the doorway:

      ‘Hey, hun, did you know bananas are fattening?’ Tim was leaning against the doorway, watching her with a faintly amused expression playing across his handsome face.

      Isla jumped. ‘Oh hi, you frightened me! I didn’t hear you come in.’

      ‘I’m on target for this month, so I thought I’d knock off early and head down to the gym.’ His brown eyes flickered towards the fruit she was holding, and a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. He was a cat playing with a mouse.

      Isla stared at the banana recalling those horrible flickering ads that popped up on the internet unbidden. The ones that featured a banana and a fat belly and tempted you to click to find the holy-grail to losing that wobbly belly. ‘I, uh, I assumed being fruit it was good for me.’ Why was she explaining herself? It was just a banana for goodness’ sake, hardly a king-size block of chocolate and so what if it was? She was a grown woman, not a naughty kid pilfering food before dinner. He couldn’t tell her what she should and shouldn’t eat, and she was hardly overweight, so why did she feel like she was doing something wrong? ‘It’s going soft, it needs to be eaten.’ The words continued to burst forth, an unstoppable explanation like popcorn from its kernel.

      Tim shrugged. ‘Hey, it’s your call. It’s just that I thought we’d agreed on you wearing the red dress to the awards dinner this Friday night.’

      Isla knew the red dress didn’t leave much room for movement. She also knew that the last time his advertising firm had been up for an award he’d had Tori on his arm. Tall, skinny, beautiful Tori, who’d turned heads. He’d dropped his ex into the conversation when he’d asked her what she was going to wear, adding that he thought her red dress was a show stopper. The awards mattered to him. She would be the trophy on his arm, not the fat cow that showed him up. Tori had always made an effort when things mattered to Tim and so should she, she decided, putting the banana back in the bowl. She wasn’t hungry anymore anyway. She had that horrible sick, bloated feeling again that always assailed her after conversations like this. Now, he looked like the cat that got the cream as he turned away.

      The sun was streaming in through the window as she watched him disappear down the street, gym bag slung casually over his shoulder, oblivious to the fact that tears were running down her cheeks.

      Now, she shook her head. Toad was the past and this was her present. She focussed on her dad swaggering to his Ute and grinned involuntarily. The cowboy ensemble was money well spent. Her hand hovered over the lock. What was the point? She knew she wouldn’t be the one to change the habit of a lifetime. Gran was as stubborn as a toddler who refused to stop sucking her thumb. Isla’s mum had often told Isla in exasperation that this was a trait that had skipped a generation bouncing directly from grandmother to granddaughter. ‘You two are peas in a pod,’ she’d say, shaking her head. ‘I might as well bang my head against a wall when it comes to trying to make the pair of you see sense.’ Isla and Bridget would grin at each, co-conspirators.

      She stood in the hallway with its dust motes and red Axminster carpet that did nothing to lighten the hall. Gran was fond of saying it had cost a fortune СКАЧАТЬ