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Christie was up at dawn, intending to make the most of the weekend, free of Barry’s crew. By about nine, she had cleared a wide section of the garden bed in front of the cottage. It did look a bit odd though, the blank wall with an old step and cleared frontage. She hurried to the back of the cottage.
In a box left by the workmen was a can of spray paint. Giving it a shake, Christie returned to the front of the property, giggling now at what she planned to do. She stood on the best of the old bricks and sprayed the outline of a door onto the wall. Not a very good one, as it leaned to one side and was too wide.
She added a door handle for good measure, then attempted a kookaburra. “Oh dear,” she murmured. “I’m not really artistic after all.”
A black Range Rover crossed the railway tracks. Christie couldn’t believe her eyes when it turned into the driveway with Angus McGregor behind the wheel. She jumped up and down until he climbed out, then threw her arms around him.
“My goodness, Miss Christie! Let me stretch! You always were the most impatient child!”
“Yes, and I still am. Impatient that is.” Christie squeezed him and reluctantly stepped back. “I can’t believe you’re here! How long are you staying? Oh, you can meet Martin!”
“I should like that. As for your question, I don’t have any plans. I just wished to see you.”
“Are you alright? You’re not ill, Angus?”
He laughed and shook his head. “Nothing of the sort. I missed you.”
“Well, come inside and have some tea. There is so much to talk about. You can stay for a while? Days? A lifetime?”
Angus reached into the car, drawing out a small satchel. “Perhaps a few days.”
“Oh, goodie!”
After Angus locked the car, Christie put her arm through his and they wandered along the driveway. Angus stopped. “And what, may I ask, is that?” He pointed to the door and Christie laughed. “That, dear Angus, is the front door. Or at least, a not very good artist’s impression of where it will be. We have much to discuss and I need to warn you, it is a mess inside.”
***
Angus McGregor lived his life in the service of others. Marrying young and losing his beloved wife only a few years later, he had turned his energies to the hospitality industry. After working his way up to concierge of a prestigious London hotel, he eventually yearned for his homeland of Australia and returned with no job, friends, or ideas. Quite by accident he had come across Dorothy Ryan, a wealthy businesswoman with a long history of being difficult and failing to retain staff to run her home.
Within a few days, he’d understood why so many previous staff had left. Hired to run her Toorak mansion, including arranging and running regular dinner parties and overseeing all aspects of the day-to-day management of everything except her business, he’d come close to resigning more than once. Dorothy was a cold, sometimes unpleasant woman who expected perfection yet refused to deal with details.
Determined to make Melbourne his home, Angus had learnt to ignore his employer’s sharpness and somehow won her over with his steady, calm, and perpetually polite nature. She retired around the time that Christie, her only grandchild, was orphaned and came to live with them. He flew to outback Queensland to attend the funeral and bring the child back. Dorothy would not forgive her own daughter for marrying the doctor who took her so far away, not even long enough to see her only offspring laid to rest.
Now, he had finished his final duty of emptying and selling the Toorak mansion. The Range Rover was his to keep, a car he rather liked. With nothing to hold him to Melbourne, he relished his recent travels around Victoria, following whatever road took his fancy. But it was Christie who always stayed in the back of his mind. The child, now woman, was as close to a daughter as he would ever have.
***
Almost dancing from room to room, Christie showed Angus the changes already made, and filled him in on the plans for the rest of the cottage. They stopped between the bedrooms.
“So here was once the front door.” Christie waved at the brick wall. “Can you believe it was filled in last century and in all these years, nobody reversed that? Thomas lived here with his first wife, Frannie. Surely, they would have put the door back? Although...”
“Although?”
“Perhaps it hurt too much. His parents did this after there was an argument about Thomas’ future. He wanted to paint and they wanted him to be the next stationmaster. According to his best friend, Thomas came home after a weekend hiking and not only was the door gone, but all of his paintings and art supplies. Thrown out.”
“How awful! That would be life changing for a young man.”
“It was. He eventually agreed to do as they wished in return for his own space to paint.” She gestured above to the attic. “That is where he painted the seascape, Angus. And where Frannie hid the letters he once wrote to Martha so something must have stopped him using it, or she would never have kept them there.”
“A sad story indeed. But your last email told me how happy Thomas and Martha are now.”
“Come and have some tea. They are in Paris! I’ll show you the photo they sent last night.”
“I might just wash up first, if you don’t mind?”
“Of course, ignore my chatter. I shall put the kettle on.”
When Angus joined her a few moments later, he dropped the satchel onto the kitchen table. “I found some photos and bits and pieces from your Gran’s you may wish to keep.”
“No love letters from unknown people?” Christie handed him a cup of tea.
“Thank you. Not that I am aware of.”
“Please, sit. Have you had breakfast?” She joined him with her coffee, pushing the satchel to one side. She’d open it later, when she was alone.
“Indeed. Quite a pleasant breakfast at the motel in Warrnambool.”
“Speaking of motels, we need to find you somewhere to stay. I would have you here in a heartbeat but as you’ve seen, the place is only just habitable for me. As it is, I’ll be moving out in a couple of days to let the guys do all the wet areas.”
“Then it’s a good thing I planned ahead and booked a room.”
“You did? Not in that motel I hope!”
“No. At Palmerston House.”
“Wonderful! Elizabeth will look after you and that’s probably where I’ll be soon as well. Oh, this is going to be so great. I don’t know where to begin!”
***
Martin straddled his surfboard, aimlessly paddling in a circle of sorts. His mind drifted over the morning with his new client, Bethany Fox. He couldn’t pick her accent, a curious mix of private school Australian, English and something else. German or Dutch. Or South African. She said she worked in finance and, from the look of her clothes and car, it was lucrative.
Under normal circumstances he would have politely declined. He usually only painted those who mattered to him, but two things swayed him. There was her own soft plea. This painting was for her parents in England. Her mother was frail and unable to travel. A lover of art, she asked Bethany for a portrait with Australian scenery around her beloved daughter. Whilst Martin wondered why a quality photograph would not have sufficed, he nevertheless understood Bethany’s desire to make her mother happy.
More importantly, there was the commission. Money usually mattered little to Martin. As long as he had enough to pay his debts and feed his dog, not much else counted. Thomas had taught him to save, to invest wisely. There was sufficient tucked away to keep him going for a long time should his income dry up. But that was before Christie came along.
He had to stop thinking like a single man. Sooner or later, she’d give him an indication that she was ready to be with him forever. If he was to be the man who would be the father of her children and the husband she deserved, then he needed to start planning for their future.
A small wave carried the surfboard in. Randall bounced around, barking happily. Martin put the surfboard under an arm and trudged through the sand toward his house. Much as it pained him to take time away from Christie, and go against his odd gut feeling, he’d made a decision. He’d ask for a ridiculous sum for the portrait and, if she agreed, he would paint Bethany Fox.