Read Online Gone Fishing by Susan Duncan - Free Book Online

the stuff of firm foundations. Boil their personalities down to the base ingredients, and they’re a different species. She analyses. He feels. She likes crisp linen and cutlery laid on the table in the right order. He prefers to sit on the end of a pontoon with his feet in the water and his hands slippery from the shells of fresh prawns. She’s a woman who enjoys a good glass of wine. He wouldn’t cross the road for a glass of fermented grape juice but he’d scrabble over ten tradies on a murdering hot day to get to a frigidly cold.
    It’s never going to work, he admits, feeling what’s becoming that familiar clench in his gut. He’s on a hiding to nothing. To hang on and hang in is just a weakling’s way of putting off the hurt that he remembers vividly from when ruby-lipped Carly dumped him for suave Billy Morris and he thought his eight-year-old heart might die of the pain. ‘C’mon, Sammy. Let’s get busy . ’His mother had grabbed his hand and a couple of hessian sacks and dragged him along the wallaby track leading from the boatshed into the bush on a search for firewood. By the time they staggered home bent almost double under the weight, the moon above white in a fading summer sky, he was almost too buggered to eat his dinner. ‘Keep busy, love, and you won’t feel as bad.’She’d cooked the Sunday roast on a Thursday for him. Maybe because in her heart she knew it wasn’t quite that simple but it was as good a place to start as any.
    He skids to a stop at a red traffic light, burning rubber. Scaring himself rigid. Longing for the open waterway where there is room to move. He’s way out of his comfort zone and the pressure is like a vice squeezing his chest so he can hardly breathe. He urges himself to take it easy. Drives on when the light goes green, accelerating a fraction of a second too slowly. The car behind him honks. Sam gives him the finger. A P-plater passes him at double the speed limit. Dead meat in a month, he thinks, more sad than angry. He recites his bad-investment spiel out loud to take his mind off the numbing stop-start drive. His voice bounces back, failing to convince even him. He hasn’t a hope. He hasn’t a choice. No wonder commuters go nuts, he thinks, hitting the brakes for the tenth time in as many minutes and yearning again for the snap of clean air in his lungs, the freedom of open water.
    The café is humming. Clattering, banging, hissing. Sweet scents of sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, lemon, baking, knock back the smell of the sea and wet sand. A low murmur of voices comes from inside. Ettie, who didn’t fancy another brutal day if Kate decided not to appear, has called in help. Marcus, a former top city chef and two hats restaurant owner, is working the customers, the food, the cooking, like a virtuoso performer. He tosses pancakes, swirls maple syrup, spins delightedly from grill to counter. Every so often, his eyes land on Ettie, who has returned to her usual joyous self, and his faces softens. He is a man in love with a woman he believes to be a treasure above all others. He is contemplating a quick little behind-the-counter waltz of happiness when he catches the change in Ettie’s demeanour. He looks behind. Kate stands in the doorway. Ettie takes a deep breath. Marcus steps aside. Kate has shame or chagrin hanging off her like a cloak. Ettie moves forward. Marcus watches. Kate appears to be fighting an urge to flee. Ettie holds out her arms. Kate heaves in a bucket of air, swallows and walks straight into them.
    â€˜I will make coffee, yes?’ says the chef, pleased with the outcome of what could have been a tricky moment. ‘You girls, you wait outside in the sunshine. I will come with everything in a few moments.’ He flits around the café, shooing them away with the flick of a tea towel when they fail to move fast enough.
    Ettie slips an arm around Kate’s waist and guides her