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The seconds seemed to drag. I didn’t know if it was my imagination or not, but she seemed to have a similar reaction. She just stood there, clipboard in hand, staring at me. It was unnerving. I felt like the room was tilting, like everything was spinning out of control. Again.

She recovered faster than I did. She smiled, thinly, but it was more of an effort than I was capable of making at that exact moment.

“Sorry to interrupt, I thought you said the café was closed,” she said.

Her voice had a familiar edge to it, yet at the same time, it was vaguely distant. As if heard through a tin can, at the other end of a piece of string.

“It is,” Bridget said quickly, gesturing at the spare chair in front of her. “Maia, this is Heath. Grab a seat, love. You deserve a break, after all your help today.”

I shoved my hand towards her, desperate to appear normal, even though that was the opposite of how I felt. “Hi, nice to meet you.”

“Hi.”

She slowly reached out to take my hand. The moment we touched, I had the weirdest sensation. It was as if time had frozen, stopped completely. The world shrank and floated away, taking the café and Bridget with it. Her eyes seemed to reach inside of me, as if she were searching for something. It was unsettling, this stranger with Em’s face staring at me like that. I felt exposed, as if I had just given her something, a piece of myself, and I immediately wanted it back.

“Nice to meet you,” I repeated, releasing her hand quickly.

I wished I wasn’t barefoot. I felt under-dressed and definitely under-prepared. Crazy to think that having shoes on would make me feel more capable, more protected from whatever was happening, but it was the truth. Something about having this girl in front of me made me feel vulnerable.

Bridget shuffled us over to sit down at the nearest table. I could feel the back of my neck heating up as I struggled to think of something else to say, but thankfully Bridget beat me to it.

“So, you’re heading over to Dad’s, are you?” she asked.

I didn’t dare look back at Maia, not until I’d gotten my head under control. It was too risky.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll get your coffee and his chocolate éclair ready, then,” she said, standing up and walking over to the coffee machine behind the counter.

I panicked. Alone with Maia, my brain shut up shop. She was even more like Emily up close. Those eyes – round and hazel-coloured, just like Em’s, only with more of a green tinge to them. Em’s eyes had been more hazel, mostly brown. The memory of Maia’s hand, small and delicate, was burned into mine. I swallowed down the lungs that were now sitting in my throat and forced fantasy aside, dragging logic forward.

It’s not her. She looks like her, but it’s not her.

I agonised over something normal to say, something conversational. Small-talk. Something other than ‘I don’t know if Bridget mentioned it, but you look a hell of a lot like her daughter.’

“So, Bridget tells me you want to learn how to surf?” I said instead.

For a split second, I felt triumphant. I could do this, talk to her, look at her, without making myself look stupid. I just had to concentrate. Hard. Then I realised what I’d said. I’d practically offered her the one thing I wasn’t prepared to do.

She smiled nervously, both hands on the clipboard that now rested on the table. “Yeah. I was looking through the brochures she has over there earlier. I think I’ll contact the surf school tomorrow.”

I glanced behind me, at the makeshift information centre Bridget had set up in the corner. It was filled with brochures and pamphlets on local amenities, places of interest and suchlike.

“That’s a good start,” I said, turning back to her, relieved. “They’ll teach you the basics, enough to get you up and going.”

“That sounds perfect,” she smiled.

Holy shit. Even their smiles were similar. Not the same, but very close. I found myself looking for differences, as if trying to further convince myself. I’d always been one for hard evidence. I didn’t do fairy-tales. In that respect, Bridget and I were total opposites.

“Heath could teach you,” Bridget piped up from across the room. “He’s been surfing forever, haven’t you, love? He’s patient and a good teacher. He taught my daughter how to surf.”

And there it was, right on time. If I didn’t love her so much, I would’ve happily throttled her, right then and there.

“I don’t want to be any trouble.”

She looked more embarrassed than I did.

“I know you’re busy,” Bridget said, making her way back over to the table with a takeaway coffee and a paper bag. “I didn’t mean to drop you in it. Maybe you could think about it, and let Maia know at the party tomorrow night?”

I smiled graciously, as if we hadn’t had this conversation only moments ago.

“Coffee for you, chocolate éclair for the old man,” she said. “I’ve put an extra one in there, too – it’s for you, not for him, so make sure you stake your claim. You know what he’s like.”

She set the coffee and paper bag down in front of me.

“The chocolate éclair’s look lovely,” Maia said, indicating the brown bag. “I’ll have to try them. I had a chocolate and raspberry muffin earlier – to die for.”

“Bridget’s a great cook, and she makes a mean coffee,” I said, grateful for the subject change, snatching at the small-talk like a life preserver in an unforgiving sea. “If you have a sweet tooth, you’re in the right place, too.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Oh, I do. I can see myself eating my way through the menu while I’m here, that’s for sure.”

“I make no bones about the fact that I think chocolate can pretty much cure most things,” Bridget said, blushing slightly at the compliment. “One of the great things about being in business for yourself, isn’t it love? Being able to do what you like, without being answerable to anyone?”

“Oh? What is it you do?”

I suddenly felt inadequate, as I always did when talking about how I spent my days. Pushing around a lawn mower, pulling weeds, digging flower beds – hardly the dream career everyone longs for.

“I mow lawns.”

“Ha!” Bridget scoffed, turning to Maia. “He’s being modest. He’s probably the most under-paid landscape gardener you’ll ever meet. He does a beautiful job – lawns, weeds, planting, planning – the whole lot. If it wasn’t for Heath, there’d be a lot of ragged-looking holiday homes around here.”

Compliments were something I never knew what to do with, but I did my best to take it like a man. As if laughing at me, my body rebelled and I could feel the back of my neck heating up again. Bridget pimped me out like a pro, but the truth was much less glamorous.

“Hardly,” I mumbled, reaching for my coffee and the bag of cakes. I needed to get out of there before I lost it completely. “Anyway, it’s been really nice meeting you, but I have to go. I have a cantankerous seventy-nine year old waiting for his chocolate éclair. If I’m late, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Maia smiled. “Sounds intriguing. I better not hold you up.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” I kissed Bridget on the cheek then turned to Maia. “Nice to meet you. Sounds like I’ll see you tomorrow night, at my brother’s party.”

“See you then,” she smiled.

I PULLED UP OUTSIDE
Henry’s house, grabbing my coffee and the éclairs from the centre console of the truck. I’d have to tell Henry about Maia. If the two met, I didn’t want the old man to have a stroke, and the possibility was a very real one, going by my own reaction.

Even ten minutes after I’d left the café, my heart was still racing. I didn’t know what the hell to think. First there was hope, then confusion, then disappointment. Now – and this really shook me – curiosity. Who was she, and what the hell had just happened? I’d never experienced anything like that in my life. Whatever it was, it was discomforting. I thought I had things under control, more or less. Apparently, I was wrong.

This was a shitty time to meet someone, especially someone who looked like she did. I was scared to move on, and afraid of what would happen to me if I couldn’t look back. So where did that leave me? Stuck in the middle, as usual. In limbo, just like I had been for the past five years. It felt like home. I’d mentally moved in, rearranged the furniture to my liking, redirected my mail and sat down to wait. But wait for what? Or, who?

My bloody head hurt just thinking about it.

I walked up the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath my feet, the sun beating down on the top of my head. Glancing up at the small, pale blue weatherboard cottage, I spied Henry perched on the roof. What in the hell was the old bugger up to now? His attention was so captivated by whatever it was he was doing, he didn’t even see me, and suddenly I forgot all about Maia and what had happened at the café.

Henry was a legend. The whole town knew him. He’d lived here his whole life, married Emily’s grandmother here, raised Bridget and her brother, owned a business and retired here. Part of me harboured a deep-seated hero-worship of him, and the other part of me sometimes felt like I was charged with babysitting a head-strong five-year-old. The old man had no idea the amount of mini-strokes he had caused everyone in recent years, due mainly to his fierce independent streak. Should I tell Bridget about this latest stunt? Probably best to find out what was going on first. I stopped still and stared up at the roof.

“Henry! What the hell are you doing?”

I startled him, but he managed to keep his balance. “Jesus, boy! What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?”

“Give
you
a heart-attack? That’s bloody rich! What’re you doing up there?”

“Checking the hot water cylinder overflow valve.”

“I could’ve done that for you, y’know.”

“I’m not in the grave yet,” Henry grumbled, his full head of steel-grey hair glinting in the sun.

He made his way slowly across the roof to the ladder leaning against the end of the house. For as long as I could remember, this had been Henry’s house. As a kid, I used to come by with Vinnie to visit. His wife, Glenda, made the best cheese scones I’d ever tasted, and she could whip them up in twenty minutes flat. I loved them fresh out of the oven, loaded up with butter that melted on impact. Vinnie liked his cold, the weirdo. Even before Em and I got together, there was Henry and Glenda. Our families were close then, and even more so now.

When Glenda died twelve years ago, there had never been any question of him moving. He’d lived here, in this house, for over fifty years. But the older he got, the more obvious it became that it was only a matter of time. The house needed maintaining, and even though Henry was determined to act like he was fifty, not closer to eighty, it was getting the better of him. Moving him out, selling the house, was the only option. The only trouble was, no one had actually bothered to tell Henry this.

He was a formidable force, but I loved spending time with him, despite the sometimes gruff exterior. He was a product of his generation – hardy, adventurous and independent. He was also cantankerous and short-tempered. It was the direct attitude that I admired most, though. Henry called a spade a spade, which meant you knew exactly where you stood, always. There was no pussy-footing around where Henry was concerned. It was as refreshing as it was entertaining, as long as you weren’t on the receiving end.

I watched him navigating his way across the roof. Putting down the coffee and the paper bag on the porch, I went over to hold the ladder for him. Henry slowly made his way down, spying the treats as soon as he was back on terra firma again.

“Good timing, I’ll put the kettle on,” he said, leading the way inside without another word.

Christ. Up on the roof, and up and down a ladder that looked older than I was. I didn’t want to think what might’ve happened if he’d slipped. I picked up both coffee and bag and followed him. Bridget would chuck a fit.

“Don’t even think about it,” Henry warned, reading my mind as he made his way across the front porch and into the house. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

I couldn’t help but smile. The old bugger was as sharp as a tack, as usual. While his body may be letting him down as the years passed, there was nothing wrong with his mind.

We settled down at Henry’s kitchen table, he with his cup of tea, me with my takeaway coffee. He ripped open the brown paper bag and helped himself to a chocolate éclair, murmuring appreciatively as he ate. Bridget knew they were his favourites. I’d fallen into the habit of finishing work early on a Thursday just so I could call in at the café and pick up a coffee for me and a treat for Henry on my way over. He deserved it.

I visited him twice a week – Tuesdays and Thursdays. On Tuesdays, we went to the Police Station, then I dropped him off at the RSA for his weekly game of pool with his mates. Thursdays, we did this. He was a stickler for routine, and after Em disappeared, I needed something solid to set my clock by. I needed to keep track of the days somehow, to keep myself grounded. I’m sure Henry knew that. Henry seemed to know everything.

“How’s Jasmine?” he asked, between sips of tea. “I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks.”