Ry grew serious and leaned in. 'A plan for the pub. To do what?'
'I want to landscape the barren wasteland out the back and turn it into a dining area during the summer.' Lizzie tried to gauge Ry's initial reaction. He wasn't laughing or shaking his head in disbelief. Good. That was good. So she segued to Part B.
'But wait, there's more. I want to organise a market out there on Sunday mornings. There could be stalls selling plants, old books, vintage clothes and local foods, that kind of thing, and we could do breakfasts as well.'
'A market?'
'It would be fantastic, Ry. The local primary school and our sports clubs – even the local environment group – are always looking for things to do to raise money. We could donate them a stall, people would come along to support them and everyone wins. You know how many extra people we get coming through the Point in summer, staying for weekends or even weeks on end. They can walk up to our market, buy a few things and have breakfast, just like the produce markets at Willunga and in the city. It's a win-win. You get to feel good about supporting the local community and we get to sell bucket loads of bacon and eggs and coffee on a Sunday morning.'
Lizzie sat back, feeling slightly exhausted. Nerves had triggered her excited info dump. She needn't have worried. Ry didn't look bored. In fact, he looked interested.
'Have you worked out what this would cost?' Fair enough question, she thought. Ry was a businessman, after all. She knew the dollars and cents had to add up for him. Unfortunately, that's where her middle of the night plan hadn't been fully thought through.
'I have to admit … I haven't got a clue. We'll need a few decent-sized trees around the boundary so we get some natural shade out there and we'll have to dig up that horrible hot bitumen, pave and do some landscaping. Maybe we could have a couple of shade sails? And there would be the cost of the extra tables and chairs, lightweight ones that we could store in the old shed over winter.'
Lizzie was starting to feel the excitement bubbling in her stomach. She didn't know if it was making her feel thrilled or nauseous.
'It'll need council approval, especially if we're getting rid of car parks.'
'I'm sure you can swing that, Ry. You got the Windswept Development approved, didn't you?'
He smiled ruefully. 'It only took a year of lobbying every local councillor, the Mayor, the State planning authorities and one very powerful local matriarch whose family has lived here since whales were hunted off the south coast. And in the end, what really swung it for us was that we're remediating a dirty old industrial estate.' Lizzie could see him doing the sums in his head. 'So what time-frame do you have in mind?'
'I was thinking we should get it done by Christmas.' She blurted out the words so he wouldn't realise that it was only a few weeks away. 'If we could get one Sunday market organised by then, we could promote it as a Christmas event.' A thought flashed through her mind about the perfect person to play Santa. At least he had the right beard.
Ry looked hesitant. 'That timeline's gonna be tough, Lizzie. Almost impossible.'
'We can do it, Ry.'
He pondered and looked her in the eye, as if judging whether she would cave at the slightest scrutiny. And then his expression transformed from sceptical to energised, like a lightbulb had gone off above his head. When Ry reached his hand over the table to shake Lizzie's, she gave him a firm grip.
'Lizzie, you're a genius. I don't know why the previous owners didn't make you manager years ago.'
'Really? I can do it?'
Ry grimaced and gave his head a little shake. 'Well, that's the only bit I'm having trouble with. The bit where you think you can do this all on your own.'
'Well, obviously I can't do the paving or plant the trees-'
Ry held up his hand to shush her. 'Hold on. Before you get too excited, you have to hear my two conditions. Firstly, I reckon we should let Julia loose on the local council, don't you? I'm sure she'll enjoy that. She's antsy about the wedding and without a date set, she can't go ahead and plan the living daylights out of it. I'll ask her to consider a little consulting work. Pro bono, of course. '
Lizzie couldn't believe what he was saying. He was really going to let her do this – and Julia would be in on the project too. If she felt any happier, she'd burst.
'I take it from your reaction that's a yes?' Ry smiled at her.
'Yes, yes, yes!' Lizzie clapped her hands together in glee. She jumped up from her chair, rounded the table, grabbed his shoulders and planted a big kiss on his forehead.
'Whoa, hold on. You haven't heard the other condition.'
Lizzie sat down again, excitement heating her cheeks and giving her a shiver all over. 'You get to sign all the cheques? I'm totally fine with that, of course you should. It's your pub.'
'No.' Ry shook his head. 'I won't need to sign all the cheques. But I'm going to give you someone who will.'
Lizzie felt a cold, hard lump of reality forming in her stomach. Why did she know what Ry was going to say?
'Danny Boy.'
Yep, he'd said it.
'He's more used to handling projects worth hundreds of millions, but I'm sure he can get used to taking a few zeros off the end of the cheques.'
Lizzie didn't speak. If she knew him better she would have said, 'You. Are. Shitting. Me.' And then slapped him on the shoulder. Instead, she just stared at him to determine if he was serious.
He was dead serious. 'He's the one you need, Lizzie.'
Lizzie could see she was stuck between a rock and another rock. She loved this idea. She wanted it. And getting it meant she had to work with Dan. Up close and personal. Did she love her idea that much? Hell, yes. So Dan was hot. He clearly didn't think she was or, if he did, he wasn't going to do anything about it. She sucked in a deep breath and held her shoulders strong. 'Okay.'
'And here's the kicker.' Ry grinned as he finished his glass of water and put it back down on the table with a satisfied plonk. 'You're going to ask him. And you're not going to tell him it was my idea.'
Most days, (oh, who was she kidding, every day), Lizzie found swearing like a shearer to be immensely satisfying. But on this particular day, it was doing zilch to alleviate her frustration. That look on Ry's face when he'd told her what she had to do? Smug self-satisfaction, that's what it was. He'd boxed her into a corner and he knew it. He knew she knew it. And he'd enjoyed the squeeze.
Lizzie stomped her way along the esplanade to Dan's, knowing the seagulls hovering overhead wouldn't be offended by her exclamations of outrage. The very fact that she was about to ask for his help created a little pearl of annoyance in her gut. Ry had left her with no specific instructions about how she should broach the whole thing with Dan, which she knew meant that he didn't have a clue. While he might have a brilliant business mind, Lizzie realised Ry had no idea about helping his best friend.
Lizzie decided she could present it to Dan as a business proposition. This was simply a job, two people working together, bringing their particular skills and talents to a project with a defined time frame and a clear end point. She'd been clear with Ry and Julia. She didn't want to do therapy or handholding or pity. Business she could do. Keep it professional. She would put it to Dan and let him decide.
When Lizzie reached Dan's house, she knocked fiercely. The hollow sound it made on the rickety wooden door took her back twenty years. She'd practically grown up in this house when Julia had lived here. With only a roadway and the low dunes between it and the beach, it had been the perfect summer hangout for teenage girls. She and Julia had roamed the sand hills and the cliffs of Middle Point every summer, suntanned, sun-screened and seriously boy-crazy. Chasing boys and being chased by them.
Lizzie sighed at the memory. The only blokes who chased her these days were pensioners on the hunt for the specials menu.
She knocked again, wishing Dan would hurry up and open the damn door so she could get this over with, quickly. She hadn't specifically rehearsed what she might say. She was going to wing it. Once she opened her mouth, all sorts of things – planned and unplanned – tended to pop out anyway so she figured there was little point in careful preparation.
Finally, the door creaked open. The hermit of Middle Point stared down at her, wearing what appeared to be his standard uniform of boardshorts and an old T-shirt. His eyes were narrowed and his mouth humourless.
'Dan,' she said firmly, in place of hello or anything friendlier.
He didn't move or speak, simply looked right into her eyes. From inside the house, she could hear canned laughter and then the loud blaring of a TV ad.
His silence forced her to respond.
'"Hi Lizzie, how are you? I'm great, thanks Dan."' Her charade won a reaction. He appeared to be trying hard not to smile.
'I need to talk to you,' she said, her stubbornness rising to the surface as her chin lifted.