Page 22 of The Orchard at Rosevale
‘You’ve gone pale,’ Bette said, concern furrowing her brow. ‘I think you should get that X-rayed.’
‘It can’t be broken,’ Ferne muttered as reassurance to herself. ‘I’m flying to New Zealand tomorrow.’
‘I don’t like your chances if your ankle’s fractured.’
‘It could be a sprain,’ Ferne said, sounding plaintive, and as if sensing an incoming meltdown, Bette’s grip around her waist tightened.
‘My car’s out front. I’ll take you to Emergency.’
The thought of spending hours sitting in a hospital emergency department waiting to be seen made Ferne’s head ache as much as her ankle, but she had no option. She needed to know how bad her ankle was sooner rather than later, so she could cancel her trip if necessary.
‘You don’t have to. I can take a taxi or Uber.’ Not that Ferne had ever used an Uber in her life, but she’d downloaded the app a few days ago as proof she’d be leaving the farm and living in the city. One of the many new experiences to look forward to. Experiences that would have to wait if she’d broken her ankle. Hell.
‘No trouble at all. I’ll park out the front of the hospital, take you in, then go drop Obi at home and come back to pick you up. Unless you have someone else to help you?’
A pang of loneliness hit Ferne and her chest ached with the realisation that in getting what she wanted—freedom—she’d never been more alone in her entire life.
Touched by Bette’s friendliness, she said, ‘Actually, I arrived in the city last night. I’m from Rosevale Grove, near Mildura, and I know nobody in the city.’
‘You poor thing.’ Bette’s warm smile made her feel less lonely for a moment. ‘Though that’s a lie. You know me.’
‘Apart from assuming you’re aStar Warsfan by your dog’s name, I don’t.’
‘Well, let’s remedy that, shall we? Can you hop to the car?’
‘At seventy, I think my hopping days are behind me, but I’ll try to hobble.’
Bette made apfftsound. ‘I’m fifty-seven and you look fitter than me. Come on. It’s that black SUV over there.’ Bette pointed to a car about ten feet away and, grateful for the assistance, Ferne gritted her teeth against the agonising pain shooting upwards from her ankle as she leaned heavily on Bette and made her way slowly towards the car.
Once Bette had her settled in the front seat and Obi in the back, she said, ‘Do you still want a coffee?’
Ferne shook her head. ‘Don’t think I can stomach it. The pain’s made me a bit woozy.’
‘Hospital it is.’
As Bette slid behind the wheel, she turned to Ferne with a tentative smile. ‘Besides, I think we have plenty of coffees in our future.’
For the second time in as many minutes, Ferne wanted to bawl courtesy of her new friend’s kindness.
CHAPTER
13
Cruz didn’t know whether to be happy or annoyed by El’s suggestion for him to open a restaurant on the farm.
And at what point had he started calling her ‘El’ and not ‘Elora’?
After spending twenty minutes in her company over breakfast, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. She exuded a zest for life, and he wondered what it would be like to be that exuberant all the time. Just thinking about it exhausted him. He may be thirty, but most days he thought like a fifty-year-old: jaded, cynical, tired. People disappointed him, leading to low expectations. He blamed Mac, though the thought that he channelled his dad’s grumpy personality didn’t sit well with him either. Maybe El’s vibrant personality would rub off on him while she stayed here?
Yeah, and he’d start swimming the Murray River in the nude too.
Never going to happen.
But the bug she’d planted in his head about opening a pop-up restaurant on the farm wouldn’t go away, and the more he tried to focus on the figures for the next quarter’s projections on the computer in front of him, the more his gaze drifted outside to the sheds. It couldn’t hurt to check them out, see if one could be converted into a rustic pop-up restaurant. Nothing too grand, maybe a few tables, so he could do all the cooking in the homestead and hire a local kid to help serve. Keep the menu simple. Fresh produce, highlighting avocados.
He picked up a pen and tapped it against a notepad, letting his imagination wander. Avocado in every dish could be his signature and would go a long way to gaining recognition for the farm. The more publicity he could garner, the greater the chance that buyers would be clamouring for his produce, the more money would come pouring in and the higher the price when he sold the farm. As he thought about it, excitement fizzed in his veins.
He started jotting down menu ideas. He’d keep it simple for entree: a jazzed-up guacamole, a sweet potato, tomato and avocado bruschetta, and an avo sushi. Easy to prep in advance and quick to serve.
