How To Save A Life (Emerald Cove #1)

by Lauren K. McKellar

  But most of the time, the booze does.

  In the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of water, sculling it in one go, then I pull myself up the stairs with the bannister, all so I can lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and not sleep for the next hour until I have to get ready for work.

  After the nightmare, I never go back to sleep.

  It's easiest to deal with the horror when I'm awake.

  ***

  Sunrise on a Saturday is the time I like the most.

  Everything's still at sunrise. There are no cars about, no people moving fast, getting things done, ticking items off their lists.

  Downstairs, the house is silent. The only movement will be the birds warbling in the crisp morning air, and the rushing of the water in the lake that runs to the ocean from the wilderness strip behind our house. The lake I walk along every Saturday morning on my way to work.

  I rub my hands together to ward off the chill that sets in as soon as I've stepped out the front of our house—our vacant house, I should add—and start off to The View, the café where I make what have been referred to as 'the best coffees in all of Emerald Cove'. I could drive; it'd make light work of the thirty-minute hike. But this peacefulness, the sense of calm I get from being so close to the clarity of the water and the occasional aviary wildlife that populate it ... nothing can beat that. It's where I go to be alone. And being alone is almost as good as being with Duke.

  Duke.

  The thought makes guilt once again bubble in my stomach. Hopefully, he’ll come away with me. Hopefully, we’ll—

  "Thank hell," Tim curses as I round the corner. His hands are wrapped around the metal frame of a chair he's putting out on the sidewalk, tucking it under the table in front of it. He jerks his head toward the interior of the cafe. "Get in there; we've had another walking group."

  "Sorry, on it," I mutter, at the same time as I complete my usual Saturday morning ritual of imagining new and creative ways to inflict pain upon my boss.

  Impaled by one of his own cafe chairs that has been dipped in hot lava beforehand.

  Yep.

  Nice.

  I slink through the crowd of twenty women clustered by the register, and a confused-as-hell looking Ana who is manning the till.

  "So you want a double shot of sustainable beans frappé, with a caramel insertion and chocolate on top, on soy?" She narrows her eyes, and I smile. It's going to be one of those mornings.

  To be honest, we get those mornings at least once a fortnight.

  The View is situated right on the beachfront in our coastal town, and is known as the place to get your morning coffee, thanks to a good write-up in the state-wide newspaper. And, since it's located a short five-hundred metres from the start of the infamous Five Cliffs Hike, a trail that attracts many nature enthusiasts due to its stunning views and plentiful assortment of wildlife, we often get coffee requests such as these, aka Coffee For Hipsters From The City.

  I scoot in next to Ana and stow my bag under the counter, grab my apron and tie it around my waist. Then I check that the machine has already been brought to life. Tim usually does it the second he opens the doors, to make sure he can start making a dollar as soon as someone walks up. He sometimes makes light of it, and says he turns it on before he turns off the alarm.

  I don't even think he's joking.

  "We have a few dockets already." The subtext in Ana's voice says even though we're not technically open, and she shoves three pieces of paper along the steel counter toward me. Tim loves to do that—take orders from go so he can milk every extra dollar out of our wages and the tourists. I nod. Looks like it'll be a busy morning.

  There's something oddly soothing about making coffee.

  Grind.

  Click.

  Whirl.

  Pour.

  It's a rhythmic dance that's easy to get caught up in, to lose yourself inside of.

  Before I know it, it's one, and not only have the twenty hikers left and come back to get "one more for the road", but the lunchtime crowd is easing and ordering wine instead of coffee, allowing Ana and I to take a step back and relax a little.

  We lean against the counter behind us that has grown hot from the constant hum of the coffee machine throbbing against it.

  "Water?" She offers me a bottle from the fridge, and I gratefully accept, knocking back half of it in one long gulp. It's so cold it hurts, but the burn is worth it.

  "Thanks." I screw the lid back on tight and place it next to me, enjoying the breather.

  "Isn't it nice to just sit and—"

  "Lia, will you restock the wine fridge?" Tim's voice cuts through Ana's speech, and she winces. Sorry, she mouths, and I shrug and head out back to the storeroom located in the car park behind the venue.

  It's dark out here, and cold, the concrete roof of the parking lot trapping in the cool air as well as blocking a lot of the sun. This car park has stock rooms and entrances to each of the three businesses that share this block—The View, a tattoo studio, and a karate training group. I push the sleeves of my black long-sleeved shirt over my fisted hands and make my way to the door furthest on the right, the room where we keep all our spare booze, aka Whatever's On Special With A Shop-A-Docket.

  I unlock the door from the key ring I have tied around my wrist with a rope. I wear it every time I work—the jewellery of The View employee. Inside, the room is darker still, and I flick the switch for the light but nothing happens.

  "Freaking cheapskate," I mutter. There's no doubt in my mind that Tim is aware of this electrical failure. It's probably why he's getting me to fill the fridge instead of actually doing it himself.

  The Sauvignon Blanc proves to be my biggest challenge. It's located on the top shelf, and no matter how high I jump and grab, I'm still not within safe snatching distance. So, I do what any self-respecting employee would do. I push out a case of beer from underneath the shelves. Then, I stand on top of that and I reach up, pulling down one, two, three, four bottles of—

  "Can we talk?"

  Smash.

  Crash.

  Anger.

  Four bottles fall to the floor, green glass shards fragmented and broken against the concrete. Wine spills from each bottle's wound like blood, sinking into the grey beneath in an irreparable injury.

  Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I cast a murderous glance over my shoulder. "No," I grind out.

  "Lia, I'm so sorry." Ellie’s on her hands and knees, scooping fragments of glass shards into her hands.

  Ellie.

  Just another reminder of my past. Of what I'm trying to run from.

  "Leave it."

  I don't look at her face—I can't. I can hear the sadness in her voice, and I'm worried that seeing further evidence of it will bring me to tears.

  "I can help, I—"

  "I got it." Pause. "But thanks," I grit out.

  She hesitates a moment, possibly because it's the politest I've been to her in eighteen months, and I look up. Those big blue eyes of hers stare into mine, sincerity and sadness and just everything good bleeding out of them. I look back down at the boozy mess at my feet.

  It's hard to run from your past when it insists on chasing you.

  Her footsteps thud away, and I pause for a moment. How the hell did life get so complicated?

  Only 152 more days.

  "I said, get me a damn omelette!" Tim yelling at some poor sucker in the kitchen breaks me out of my daze, and I stagger to my feet, grabbing a broom from behind the door and sweeping up the mess before pushing it into a dustpan and then emptying it into the bin. I splash some bleach on the ground then jog back out front, eager to be back where I belong before Tim notices I've been gone too long.

  Who am I kidding?

  It's also because I don't want to be there in case she comes back.

  "You ready for a double-shot flat white?" Ana asks me.

  "Sure." I grab the jug and pour in some creamy white milk.

  Ana's hand on my wrist captures my attent
ion. "You okay?"

  I glance down. Scarlet blood is gathered about my wrist. Seeing it, I recognise a sting. I must have cut myself when I was picking up the broken wine bottle.

  The blood is glossy and red, and I stare at it, captivated for a moment, before I wipe it off against my black apron.

  "Fine." I offer up a wan smile and turn back to the task at hand. Coffee. Something I know well.

  It takes me exactly one minute and twelve seconds to serve up a double-shot flat white. First, you grind the beans. It takes all of five seconds, if you have your tools ready, and then you place the beans in the basket and tamp it down. Then you connect the grip handle to the grip head of the machine, ready for work, and begin the pour.

  While that’s going on, you start to work the milk. You move the jug around, letting the steam warm it slowly. Too quick, and you risk it burning, or creating a skin. Too slow, and you risk losing customers.

  Finally, you pour the milk over coffee. That divine scent of rich, earthy caffeine overwhelms you, creeping up your nostrils and claiming a place in your soul. You can all but taste it on your lips.

  Then the milk is poured over that espresso shot, and no matter the pattern, be it leaf or haphazard mess, it's without a doubt one of the most beautiful things dozens of people see every day. Because for them, coffee is their lives.

  And since I found out I had to get that scholarship and move interstate, it is for me, too.

  I cap the cup with our recyclable lid, and push the drink forward on the counter.

  "Double shot flat—"

  "Did you get to the fridge?" Tim barrels in front of me, raggedy tea towel over his shoulder.

  "I ..." Totally forgot.

  "For Christ's sake, Lia. Get your shit together, or you won't have a job," he hisses, and even though I know his words are empty, they still sting just a little. Because if I don't have this job, I don't have any money. And scholarship or not, I'll need some cash to move to Melbourne and rent an apartment, get myself set up.

  I’ll need some cash to help my mum.

  Heat flushes my cheeks and I mutter an apology before hightailing it back out to the stock room and grabbing the bottles of wine, this time with far more success. I fill the fridge in two trips, placing the bottles of white wine in a neat orderly fashion from Pinot to Sauv Blanc to Chardonnay, just as Tim likes it.

  Then I grab a mop from the cleaning closet and finish washing away all evidence of the incident from earlier on. All evidence, except that one tiny cut on my arm.

  When I come back out the front of the cafe, I wish I'd turned around and gone back in. Because she's still here.

  "You're still not talking to her?" Ana asks.

  "Uh-huh."

  "Well, I figured it was worth an ask. Who knows, maybe today you'll finally give the poor girl a chance ..."

  "You don't know," I say softly, but when I look back over my shoulder, Ana has disappeared through the still-open door at the back of the cafe interior.

  Bitch.

  Ellie stands from her table and walks over to the counter. I have no doubt that she was waiting for me. She always does.

  "Can I please have a chai latte?" she asks. Her blonde curls are flying loose around her face, blowing in the wind. I remember how we used to spend hours doing each other's hair. How fine and delicate hers was to the touch.

  "Four fifty, please." I hold out my hand, but I don't make eye contact.

  Some memories are best left buried.

  Cool coins are delivered to my palm, then warm fingers grip my wrist. "You cut yourself—"

  I shake her off. "It's nothing."

  I throw the coins into their relevant spots in the register, then turn to the machine. I make the chai as I would for any other customer, and when I go to place the finished product on the counter, my hand is shaking.

  "Poor Ellie," Ana mutters as she walks past, a superior look on her face.

  I know Ana's right.

  And I wonder how much longer she's going to keep doing this.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I get home and park my car outside our house, lined up along the patchy front lawn. I traipse through the mid-calf height grass, and make a mental note to try and borrow a lawnmower next weekend. The damn stuff just grows so quickly.

  That's when I notice the shiny red sedan parked to the other side of the driveway. It can only mean one of two things:

  1. The owner of the house next door has finally lowered his rent and convinced some tenants to move in, or:

  2. Mum has a visitor

  Despite the odds, I pray for option one.

  I open the front door and it squeals in protest, swinging back with much more vehemence than with which I pushed it. Heaven forbid anyone trying to rob us. The easy front door would probably put out a welcome mat.

  In the living room, Mum is sitting by herself, and she's—

  Sweet baby Jesus.

  She's reading.

  My mother, Marie Louise Stanton, is reading a goddamn book.

  I drop my schoolbag where I stand, but its heavy thud can't draw her attention from the text in her hand.

  "Hey, Mum." I walk to her side and sit on the couch next to her, and it seems that only when the pillow beneath her moves does she register that there is now someone sitting next to her.

  "Lia." She cups a shaky hand to my cheek, and it's a gesture from so long ago that it's hard not to get my hopes up. Hard not to throw away every memory I have of the last year and a half and replace it with the Mum I knew before.

  Before it happened.

  "Whatcha reading?" I ask, looking down at the fat text. It seems so giant next to her small, frail body.

  "Oh, some Jodi Piccoult number." Her voice quivers, and I wonder if this is withdrawal. If it means my throwing out all the alcohol the other day worked.

  She smiles a soft smile. "Depressing, really."

  "I think that's why people like them," I say, and she laughs, and I laugh, and we're both laughing at how people don't really know. Fiction is for the fantastic, life is for the loathing. Or that's how it seems to us.

  "Have you ..." I suck in a breath. Looking around, the house is clean. There's no half-empty bottle of beer by her side—no photos out in places they shouldn't be, assaulting you with their unwanted memory. "Have you been—"

  "And who's this?"

  I look up. Standing in the doorway, holding two cocktails of something that looks like bourbon on the rocks, is a man with long dark hair. His jaw is square, and he has dark brown eyes that just drill right through you till you feel you're naked. And then you feel gross, because he looks like the kinda guy who'd get off on that stuff.

  "This is my daughter, Lia." Mum smiles, and extends her hand, opening and closing it in anticipation of the tumbler that no doubt has her name on it.

  "I didn't think you were drinking today ..." I trail off as the glass meets her lips.

  "Ha!" Whiskey sprays all across the living room, on the coffee table, the white tiles, the pillows—me. And I'm not impressed. "Why shouldn't she be drinking today?"

  I glare up at Mystery Man. "Because she can take a break every now and then."

  "Not on our one-month anniversary."

  I tuck my chin close to my chest and turn my gaze to Mum. "Something you want to tell me?"

  She takes a sip of her drink, the ice knocking against the glass as she moves it. "This ..." She swallows. "This is my boyfriend, Smith."

  I blink. "Like the model in Sex and the City?" My voice is incredulous. Because a hottie this guy is most definitely not.

  "I get that a lot." He smiles and sits down on the other side of the two-seater couch next to me, so his big jean-clad thigh is brushing against mine. I edge closer to my mum. This couch is definitely only made for two.

  A million questions run through my mind. Where did you meet? When did you decide you were ready to start dating again? Is there a website for Creepers Anonymous? "So where did you two meet?" I decide on, addressing the questio
n once again to Mum. The less I have to look at creepy guy, the better.

  "I ..." Mum frowns, pausing for a moment. "We—"

  "At the pub down in Sandy Bay," Smith interrupts, tapping a blunt-nailed finger on my knee. His hands are covered in dirt. He's probably a landscaper.

  Those eyes narrow in on me again.

  Or maybe he buries dead bodies for a living.

  "Your ma, she's such a looker. I was lost, like"—Smith clicks his fingers—"like that the second she clapped those peepers on me."

  "And ... you felt the same?" I ask Mum, hopefully. Because okay, the guy may be kinda creepy, but he's probably nice under all that exterior of long-haired, flannelette shirt-wearing hick he's got going on. And maybe Mum is smitten with him, too. Even if he's nothing like—

  Don't. Think. About. Him.

  Mum knocks back the rest of her drink, and her eyes shine as she says, "He takes me dancing, Lee Lee. I spin, and we twirl, and he makes me feel like a young girl again." The lines at the corners of her eyes scrunch up as she smiles, and I can't help but to think that she's never looked quite so old in her life.

  What's more important, though, is that she looks happy. And so I'm gonna like this guy, even if he hasn't endeared himself to me straight off the bat.

  They look at each other over my head, and all of a sudden, it feels as if they're both leaning closer in some kind of lovesick trance and I'm the meat in the odd couple sandwich.

  "Why don't I go get started on dinner?" I push up from the couch and Smith all but falls into the space I vacated.

  "Thanks, darling. Can you get me a top up?" Mum rattles her glass, and I go and take it from her. Smith's, I notice, is still relatively full. Thank God. I don't think I could deal with two of them tonight. Not when I still need to study and I have a party go to.

  In the kitchen, I slide Mum's glass across the counter and open the cupboard, as if I'm expecting to find something in there that's not what I bought at the store last week. I count the tins of tuna and the instant noodles and frown. She hasn't been eating again.

  Huffing out a breath, I grab the rice and some of the tinned salmon and set to work on creating a version of salmon mornay. Pots go on the stove, tins are opened, and milk and butter are rationed for the sauce until I have something almost ready for the oven.