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Rain fell again overnight, finally soothing Christie into a deep sleep in the early hours. Until the rain, every sound disturbed her. The normal night-time creaks of the house and tapping of the trees on the roof became shadowy figures breaking in.
When her eyes fluttered open, it was a moment before she remembered. A moment when she smiled at the thought of seeing Martin today and catching up with Angus. Having lunch with him, invited by Elizabeth to Palmerston House. Then, realising the phone was in bed with her, it all came back.
She’d been told this town had little crime. Occasionally a break-in would occur and the locals always blamed outsiders. People passing through. Most likely and logically, that’s who it was. Probably she and Martin had disturbed them when they’d arrived back. So lucky he’d been with her.
In the light of day, Christie shook off the fear. This was her home and nobody would get in again without an invitation. Her new routine would ensure she checked every lock every time she left. Martin didn’t need to know her suspicions. She had it under control.
After a shower and coffee, Christie opened the satchel, inhaling the old-leather smell with a frown. Just above the clip, carved into the leather, were the initials J.O., and as Christie traced each letter, her forehead creased.
Inside, a folder and a jewellery box. Not this again! Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with the folder. Three photographs. The first was of herself, aged about eight, in the front garden of Gran’s home. Tight plaits, a school blazer, knee-length skirt. Serious, sad eyes. A shiver ran up Christie’s spine. This was the first day in her new school. A proper, private, ladies’ college.
The second photo was a man and a woman, each holding one hand of a little dark-haired girl whose smile was contagious. Christie smiled at herself as a toddler, she couldn’t help it. But her smile faded as she searched the faces of the man and the woman. “Mum. Daddy?” A cold stone dropped into the pit of her stomach. She turned the photo over. “With darling Christabel, aged three!”
Almost afraid, she looked at the final photograph. Her mother, so beautiful in a wedding dress, gazed at her father in utter adoration. A tear slipped down Christie’s cheek, dropping onto her arm unnoticed. On the back, in different writing, “Rebecca Ryan marrying Julian Oliver. 1981.”
“Julian Oliver.” She touched the initials on the satchel. “Christie Oliver.” She’d forgotten her real name. Gran changed it to Ryan when she adopted her. And whilst her intention was good, ensuring Christie’s future was secure, it robbed Christie of her heritage. How could she have forgotten?
Nestled within the jewellery box was a heavy gold locket. She didn’t need to look inside. Without even touching the locket, she remembered. As though it were yesterday.
***
Seven-year-old Christie sat on her mother’s lap, playing with the locket around her neck. “It’s so pretty, Mummy.”
“And one day, it shall be yours.” Rebecca opened it. “See? It reminds me every day how much your Daddy and I love each other. This photo of him is from our engagement party.”
“What’s that?”
“That, my sweetie, is a special celebration when two people decide to get married.”
“Like you and Daddy are?”
“Yes. This photo, the one of me, is a bit newer. It was taken just a few weeks before you were born. See how happy I look?”
“Is that because of me?”
“Besides Daddy, there is nobody in this world I love more. So, when you have this locket, you can see the love we have for each other, and our beautiful girl.”
“When will I have the locket?”
“Not for a long, long time, sweetie.” Rebecca kissed the top of Christie’s head.
***
“You were right, Mum.” Christie whispered, staring at the photographs through tears. “It was a long time.”
This satchel and contents meant more than anything. In spite of the tears that kept falling, a part of Christie was back. She was Christie Oliver, daughter of Rebecca and Dr Julian Oliver. The memories rushed back, tumbling over each other. Daddy teaching her to ride a bike. Mum showing her a gorgeous sunrise. The three of them playing a board game on the wide verandah, avoiding the heat of the day.
The stone in her stomach disappeared, replaced by warmth. Love. The love of a mother and father. Happy, adoring parents. A family. It was possible to have that. It could be real.
***
“I’ve driven around a bit, looked at those places you suggested, but none of them really appeal to me.” Ingrid was a little too close to Martin for his liking. Her perfume was too strong and, up close, her make-up too thick. It was well applied but used to cover her age, rather than enhance her natural beauty the way Christie’s did.
“Do you have a backdrop in mind?” He asked with a patience he didn’t feel. He’d seen her keep a wide berth of Randall, who, oddly enough, had no interest in making friends.
“Somewhere typically Australian. Water, boats. You know the kind of thing.”
“Koalas? Kangaroos?”
“Now you’re being silly.” Ingrid wandered around the studio, stopping in front of one painting, then another. “You do such interesting abstracts. May I have a glass of water?”
And a twist of lemon? Martin opened the fridge, wondering if she expected the lid to be removed from the bottle. He left it on. Now she was flicking through his sketchbook.
“That is private.” The words came out in a harsher tone than he intended and she glanced up. He held a hand out for the sketchbook.
“I’d like that place as a backdrop.”
She’d left it open at Willow Bay. Jasmine Sea was in the background. “Not a great spot. Too much going on.” Martin closed the sketchbook and dropped it on the sofa.
“Where is it? I’ll go and see for myself.” Ingrid opened the bottle and took a tiny sip. “This was such a good idea. I love working with real men and you, Mr Blake, have that dominant streak I admire.”
Oh God, she was flirting. This wasn’t going to work. His expression hardened.
“I’ve deposited ten thousand dollars into your account,” she said. “My mother is so excited about this, so please, tell me where it is?”
Randall sat up, his attention on something only he could hear. Martin recognised that look. Christie was close by.
“If you go west past the estate, you’ll find a narrow track on the left, just a few hundred metres further along.”
Ingrid’s face lit up. The sound of the Lotus wiped the smile away. “Oh, is that a visitor?”
“She’ll wait at the house. Why?”
“I... I’m terribly private. I don’t want anyone knowing I’m here.” She picked up her handbag. “Is there another way out?”
“No. But if really don’t want to run into Christie, I’d suggest going around the house to its left.”
“Yes. I’ll give you a call when I’ve looked at that place.” Without another word, she swept out of the studio. Randall tore out of the door, heading toward the house. Martin picked up the sketchbook.
***
Curled up on Martin’s lap, Christie’s composure slowly returned. He’d put her there when the tears flowed too fast for his handkerchief to manage, cradling her in his arms as she sobbed and told him about her parents.
Now, the tears spent, Christie sat up, wiping them away with her hand. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. You can buy me a new t-shirt.” Martin lifted the wet material away from his shoulder. “Would you like to wash your face?”
“Probably.”
“I’ll organise some water.”
Christie sprinted out of the door. It only took her a minute to rinse her face, trying not to look in the mirror at whatever damage she’d done to her make-up. Before going back to the studio she made a quick detour to Martin’s room.
Back in the studio, Martin had two tall glasses of sparkling water ready. When Christie held out a clean t-shirt, he laughed and immediately stripped off the wet one. As he raised his arms to remove it, muscles rippled across his chest. Emotional as Christie was, the sight of his naked torso was distracting.
He extended his hand. “Hello. May I have that?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Aren’t you having lunch with Angus in half an hour?”
Christie reluctantly handed over the t-shirt. “What would you say if I just took off my top like that?”
“Sweetheart, there’d be no talking. Maybe just a text message to Angus to cancel lunch.” He tucked the t-shirt into his jeans, grinning at her expression.
She took a long drink of water, playing with the locket now around her neck.
“May I see?”
Martin closed the distance between them and opened the locket. “I can see you in them both. What a thoughtful legacy.”
“I don’t understand why Gran kept it from me. But mostly...” She sighed.
“Mostly, what?” Martin closed the locket and placed it against her skin, taking her hands in his. “Your name? Christabel Oliver. So beautiful.”
“Yes. It bothers me that Gran changed my name. As if erasing Dad. And Mum.” Her eyes filled with tears again.
“Hey, don’t cry. Whatever her motives, you have your name again and can use it how you wish. But, Christie, no more tears. I’m out of handkerchiefs and fresh t-shirts.”
That made her laugh. “I might run home and freshen up. I don’t want Angus feeling bad for bringing me the satchel.”
“Do you want to come back up later? Dinner on the deck if it’s still warm enough?”
“I’d love it. I might drive up rather than walk back at night.”
“I’m happy to walk you home.” He took her into his arms. “But just as happy for you to stay.” His lips touched hers. “In fact, I’d rather you stay.”
I’ll never want to leave. “Me too. I’d better get going.”
“I’ll see you tonight.”
She picked up her handbag. “I meant to ask. Who owns the Porsche that was here when I arrived?”
“You didn’t cross paths? She’s the person I’m painting.”
“Nice car. She doesn’t have short platinum hair, does she?”
“Bright red hair. Now stop asking questions and go see Angus.”
“Okay okay. I’m going. Bye Randall!” Christie waved to the dog, who wagged his tail and followed her to the door.