I take a deep breath, shoving my storm anxiety right down into the pit of my stomach, and smile at Pete.
“Of course I can take on the lunch shift instead of this evening. I definitely need the money, and like my grandma probably told you, I’m here to work.”
“Oh Lani, honey. You’ll still get paid for tonight’s shift, even if we’re closed. You’ll just miss out on the tips, I’m afraid. But you might be able to make some of that back over the lunch rush. We’re fully booked.”
“Thanks, Pete. I’ll see you later.”
Waving him goodbye, I check my phone for the time. It’s nearly eleven, meaning two things: I waited for Koa on that beach way longer than I should have, and I now have less than an hour before I have to start work, so I hurry back to my grandma’s to get ready.
Grumpy arsehole neighbour is watering his plants again. Shirtless. At this point, I’m starting to wonder if he even owns a shirt. It’s hard not to drool at the sight of him. What I wouldn’t give to be one of his Rhododendrons.
Not that I’d admit that out loud.
“You shouldn’t do that,” I call cheerily over the fence to him as I pass.
“Do what?”
“Water the plants.”
“If I don’t water them, they’ll die.” His voice drips with sarcasm.
“If you water them this late in the morning or too early in the evening, the sun will scorch them and they’ll die anyway. Besides, I heard there’s a storm coming, so they’ll get watered later anyway.”
My neighbour scoffs. “Oh let me guess, that old codger Pete told you that?”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“Old fool closes the restaurant if there’s so much as a light breeze.”
“You sound affronted by that. It’s not your restaurant, is it? Why do you care?”
“It’s bad for business. We have a loyal band of locals around here, but we rely heavily on the tourist crowd. Closing sets a bad precedent and will send them away to other beaches where theycanget food. Then we all suffer.”
“You sound like you’re one of them.”
“One of what?”
“Someone with a business here.”
“Obviously. You don’t live on Butler land and not pull your weight,” he sneers. “Aside from your grandmother.”
“I thought this was her land,” I reply, my tone sweetly acerbic.
He shoots me an evil glare but says nothing, so I continue up to the house.
My grandmother’s wrap-around porch is her pride and joy. She told me all about it from the first time we met, and sends me photos of the plants she nurtures in their pots regularly. It was the only condition of me staying here this summer. I have to look after her plants. It’s pretty straightforward – water them at the correct times of the day, and give some of the more tropical species special plant food once a week. She made me a little guide and left it on the kitchen table, which is super cute. They even have little name tags sticking out of the pots. Not likethe plastic information cards that you get when you buy plants in shops. These are small wooden ones with pyro typography declaring funny little sayings likeStaying AliveandPlants are my soil-mates, and their names. Not their type or species or whatever they call them. Theirnames. It’s freaking wild but I also love it. We have conversations about how Betty and Barry Begonia are getting on, and whether or not Peter (Paradise) might finally be ready to bloom this year. (Spoiler alert: he isn’t.)
She also begged me to take care of them, by bringing them inside the house, in the event of a storm.
Eyeing them up now, I feel seriously overwhelmed by the enormity of the task. If Old Pete is right and my neighbour is just being a dick, I have over a hundred plant pots to drag inside this evening, and some look to weigh more than I do. Not only that, but I have to find space for them. My grandmother isn’t exactly a minimalist. And it could all be for nothing.
Still, I don’t have time to worry about that right now. Work first, worry about Sneezy the Sneezewort later.
Within twenty minutes of arriving at the restaurant, the place is rammed.
What Old Pete failed to mention when he said we were fully booked is that it’s a triple sitting today – to make up for closing this evening. Covers at twelve, two, and four. Think of the money becomes my new mantra when I even have time to think.
Orders blur together. Plates out, plates back. Water jugs refilled. Smiles pasted on and peeled off again. My feet ache, my shoulders burn, and my head is still tender enough that I’m careful every time I turn too fast.