Logika pisma a organizacja spoÅ‚eczeÅ„stwa. Jack GoodyЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER TWO

       Three weeks later

      AFTERNOON SPRING SUNSHINE poured through the window, setting up a glare on Raf’s laptop screen and making it hard to see. He was working on his current project—designing an app for cardiologists to use to explain conditions and procedures to patients. So much had changed in health care since his mother’s sudden and unexpected death from a heart attack it made that time look like the Dark Ages.

      After an overcast and drizzly morning, he took the warm rays as a sign and closed the computer. His father was dozing in his recliner—weary after his hydrotherapy session earlier—and his ageing schnauzer and extremely elderly cat were both curled up on his lap, snoring louder than their master.

      The brightness of the light cast Raf’s childhood home in an unforgiving glow. What had once been one of Shearwater Island’s state-of-the-art homes was now looking very tired and dated with its 1970’s arches, the faded and worn Berber carpet, and the wood-panelled feature wall with its geometric clock. The only things that had stood the test of time were the beautiful, clean lines of the Scandinavian furniture. His mother had decorated the house as a bride and twenty years later, when she probably would have redecorated, she’d died. That had been nineteen years ago and apart from the addition of a big-screen TV, his father hadn’t changed a thing.

      The pounding surf combined with the warbling and happy song of the magpies and the sounds slipped under the open window, calling to Raf. He stood, stretched and walked over to the glass, leaning his hands against the sill and fingering the bubbled paint. He didn’t know why he often stared out this window—it wasn’t like he could see the sea. All he got was a view of the modern house next door. Perhaps that was the reason. Something about it reminded him of his new home in Melbourne—a house he’d designed and spent all of two nights in before his sister had telephoned with what he’d assumed was the daily Mario poststroke update.

      ‘The rehabilitation centre wants to discharge Dad,’ Bianca had said briskly.

      ‘I guess he’ll be happier at home,’ he’d replied, wondering if he’d really notice a change in his father’s mood. Happiness and Mario were two mutually exclusive things.

      ‘They won’t send him home alone.’

      ‘Can’t he live with you for a while?’ he’d suggested, as he’d ripped open another moving box.

      Bianca’s sharp intake of breath hissed down the line. ‘I’ve got a business, Raf, a husband and two teenagers, all of whom are driving me crazy. I can’t add Dad into the mix or I’ll go under.’

      He ran his hand through his hair, running options through his mind. ‘What about live-in help?’

      She snorted. ‘He can’t afford that.’

      He unwrapped a beautiful piece of glass art he’d bought from the Wathaurong in Geelong. ‘I can.’

      ‘It wouldn’t work. You know how difficult he can be and, besides, down here on the island in winter we’re not exactly overflowing with candidates for the job.’ He heard her click her tongue. ‘You’ve been a volunteer with St John Ambulance since Mum died.’

      ‘That’s first aid and emergency work. It doesn’t qualify me as a carer.’

      ‘Well, I’ve never done first aid but I’ve been looking out for Dad for years and now, little brother, it’s time for you to step up. Besides, it will give you something to do now you’ve sold your company.’

      ‘I’m designing an app and I’ve got plenty of things to do.’ Things that didn’t involve living on Shearwater Island with Mario.

      ‘I’m sure you do but for now you’re going to be the good Italian son you haven’t been in years and come home.’

      Anger meshed with guilt and then, reluctantly, resignation followed. When Bianca got an idea in her head she didn’t let it go until it was a done deal, and he grudgingly conceded that she did have a point. He’d stayed away a very long time. ‘Exactly how long do I need to be there?’

      ‘For as long as it takes.’ Her snappish tone immediately softened. ‘His rehab coordinator said they’d review his independence in three months. Look at it this way, winter’s on the run and spring on the island is always pretty. Bring your computer and think of it as a working holiday.’

      The thought of him and his father sharing a house was so far removed from his idea of a holiday that it made his gut churn. ‘Exactly when did you add being a stand-up comedian to your many skills?’

      She gave a hoarse laugh. ‘You never know, Raf, Dad might surprise you.’

      Over the last six weeks, Mario hadn’t surprised Raf in the least.

      As he gazed at the house next door, he admired the soaring timber beams and the floor-to-ceiling windows. Every inch of it had been built to maximise the view of the Southern Ocean. It was a view his father had seen from his fishing boat all his life right up until four months ago. Now the only time Mario saw the sea was when he left the property—an event he was dependent on Raf and others to provide. He probably missed the glorious vista that on a sunny day promised the world. No wonder the old bastard was grumpy a lot of the time.

      His father cleared his throat—his sign that he was now awake. ‘What are you doing?’

      Raf turned from the window, an idea suddenly taking hold of him with a zip of excitement. ‘I’m thinking you should extend this house upwards and get the same view as your neighbours.’

      His father jerked the lever on his easy chair, snapping the leg rest back with a bang. The animals scattered. ‘And I can climb stairs so easily now, Rafael.’

      His father’s sarcasm swirled around him. ‘There’s a thing called a lift, Dad.’

      ‘And there’s that thing called money.’ Mario thumped his cane to emphasise his point that he could no longer work.

      Raf closed his