Through the next day, and into the night, the storm made sure the sky remained dark with clouds, and the winds maintained the fury of the waves. Stella visited the cove after dark again, when Grace was safely asleep. In the cozy cabin she lounged in Zeph’s arms, talking with him, sipping black tea from one shared mug, kissing – and talking again. Some strange magic was at work – Stella seemed to know Zeph more deeply after just these few hours than she did Jamie after years and years …
On the third morning of the storm, Stella woke to the sound of light rain whispering against the roof. By the time she’d had breakfast the rain had eased and died away. The skies had lightened and cleared. Only the sea still roared, waves pounding the rocks.
As she was sweeping up her toast crumbs, her mother came in from the sea room.
‘The windows are covered in salt again,’ Grace said. She crossed to the sink and stood looking out over her garden, where raintrodden plants sprawled across the beds. ‘I’ll have to rescue those poor things, too.’ She turned to Stella. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘It’s a good morning for beachcombing,’ Stella responded.
Grace was already putting on her gardening apron and heading for the side door.
From the kitchen, Stella took a loaf of fresh bread. And a jar of the boysenberry jam; a warm red jewel in her hand.
Mid-morning sunshine slanted in through the cabin windows. It lit up the dust in the air, and sparkled on traces of salt on the varnished tabletop. Stella reached out to touch the leaves of Zeph’s plant. They were turning towards the light, she saw – lifting themselves to the warmth.
Zeph lay close beside her in the narrow bunk, his limbs matching hers length for length. Stella felt a stab of regret at the thought that they would never stand back-to-back with a book balanced on their heads to make certain who was the tallest. Just as they would never swim together under a full moon, the sea looking thick like oil all around them. She could hear the sound of the sea. It was still too wild for boats to venture out, but she knew it would calm down within hours.
Then Zeph would sail away.
‘I’m coming back, you know that, don’t you?’ Zeph said, as if he could read her thoughts.
Stella fixed her eyes on the string hammock swinging above her, tracing the criss-cross lines, the diamond shapes of the holes. She’d longed to hear Zeph say this. She’d dreamed of it. But she could not forget how – not long after they first met – he had suggested taking her with him to visit Bakti. He’d made the offer so easily. Too easily, perhaps …
‘When do you have to leave for Hobart?’ Zeph asked.
‘February twelfth,’ Stella said. William and Grace were going to drive her all the way there in the ute, and see her settled into the hostel.
‘That’s about six weeks away,’ Zeph said. ‘I can be back before then, for sure.’
Stella bit her lip. She had to know, to be certain. She could not bear to wait – and just hope.
‘Promise me,’ she said.
She breathed in and waited. If he made a promise to her, he’d keep it, she knew – just as he was going to keep his promise to Bakti.
Zeph got up on one elbow and looked down into her eyes. ‘I promise,’ he said. ‘I promise to return.’
The words sang through Stella’s head like a blessing.
‘Carla promises, too,’ Zeph said with a grin. He prodded the sleeping cat. ‘Don’t you?’
Then he grew serious. He touched Stella’s cheek gently, running his fingers over her skin and on down her neck to the edge of her shirt. When he spoke, his voice was quiet yet firm.
‘Stella, I haven’t felt this way about anyone – ever. Nothing could stop me from coming back to you.’
Tears filled Stella’s eyes as she looked up at him. She reached for his face and kissed him – gently first, then her mouth pressing hard against his, her tongue reaching past his lips.
She felt his hands behind her back, easing in under her shirt, creeping up towards the clasp of her bra. The barrier that had stood between them – the knowledge that their time together was soon to end – was gone.
I promise to return.
Stella sat up to take off her shirt, and then her bra – dropping them in a soft heap on the table. Zeph didn’t touch her for a while, he just looked up at her intently – as though he were trying to fix in his mind the exact pattern of the shadows that played over her skin. Stella saw her body through his eyes – her flat stomach, her lean thighs. The skin of her breasts looked like velvet, the fabric of lily petals, bathed in the soft sunlight.
She lay down beside him. She could see his erection pushing against the cloth still wrapped around his hips. He rolled to lie on top of her, his legs interleaved with hers, his weight held on his arms. Salt-stiffened strands of hair fell forward, brushing her nipples.
‘Have you?’ Zeph whispered.
Stella knew what he was asking. She shook her head.
‘I haven’t either,’ Zeph said.
Closing her eyes, Stella felt relief wash through her. He was hers. He had belonged to no one else.
Suddenly, Zeph arched away from her. He sat up, swinging his legs down onto the floor. ‘We can’t. We mustn’t.’
Stella swallowed, her heart pounding in her chest. Now was the time to agree with him, she knew – to rescue herself. But she’d worked it all out. She knew.
‘We can. I’m safe.’
Zeph stared at her, unmoving.
‘My period’s almost due,’ Stella added. ‘I’m always regular.’
‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
Stella could tell by Zeph’s face that he was not certain exactly what she meant. It was up to her. She was the one who could say.
‘I want to,’ Stella replied.
As she looked into his eyes – dusky green in the light of the cabin – she reached over to where his sarong was tied at his waist. She undid the knot and eased the cloth aside. Then she lay back, waiting for him to return to her. She let her legs fall apart, leaving her body open.
He stretched out over her, raised up on one elbow. His erection lay hard against the front of her hip. He touched her first with his fingers – spreading her wetness. Then he shifted so that he was poised between her legs.
Stella closed her eyes. She felt every nerve in her body being drawn together, meeting in the place where he was about to enter her. She drew in her breath as he moved suddenly, pushing up inside her. He pressed deep and hard. There was a moment of stillness as he held her close. Her body, her heart, her soul felt full – made one with him.
The Lady Tirian was a dark shape against the glistening sea. Stella screwed up her eyes to pick out the two figures on the deck. William and Jamie. As she watched their steady progress towards her she felt numb, like a person trapped in a dream and unable to move their limbs – just watching, waiting, helpless.
She wrenched her gaze away and instead scanned the car park, littered with gum bark and leaves snatched away by the winds. She glanced over at the Memorial Wall, with David Grey’s abandoned plaque. Then she looked across at the façade of the Halfmoon Hotel with its cracked-paint sign.
Everything looked diminished, somehow – as if she were viewing the scene from far away. As if she were not really here any more.
As if the real Stella had left with Zeph, hours ago – and was, at this minute, sailing away into the strait.
She heard someone approaching behind her – heavy steps along the wharf. Joe, she thought. Coming over from his mooring to await William’s arrival – to make sure he was not forgotten if there should be any leftover food or some fish.
But then a faint perfume came to Stella, carried by the breeze. She stiffened, recognising at once the sweet, flowery fragrance. ‘Allure’. It was what Jamie always bought – soap, talc or eau de toilette – for his mother at Christmas.
‘I thought you’d be here, pet,’ Pauline said. ‘I’m going in to St Louis with Brian for tea, but I want to see Jamie before I go.’ Her bright pink lips stood out against the rest of her face. ‘You’ll be glad to have him back!’
‘Yes,’ Stella replied. She tried to say something more – something casual, normal. But the best she could do was smile.
As she came to stand by Stella, Pauline fiddled distractedly with her hair. It had been curled into a loose bun on top of her head, but was now falling down on one side. She pulled out bobby pins and tried to push them back in. She leaned towards Stella.
‘Help me with this, love.’ She spoke through pins sticking out of her mouth.
Stella’s hands felt stiff and clumsy as she tried to scoop the loose locks back into place. She thought of all the times she’d sat in Pauline’s kitchen having her own hair pinned up. She remembered the touch of the woman’s fingers against her scalp and the way the hair brushing against her skin sent her into a trance. Pauline often tried out new hairstyles, consulting a magazine laid open on the table. ‘You’re my pretend daughter,’ Pauline liked to tell her. And Jamie would always smile at her words. He expected he would marry Stella, one day. He did not imagine he could lose her to a stranger passing by in a yacht.
‘I was a bit worried about New Year’s Eve,’ Pauline commented. ‘It would have been a quiet old time for us girls if that weather had lasted any longer.’
Stella looked at the woman in silence. Was it New Year’s Eve tonight? Or tomorrow night? She saw herself dressing for the dinner dance as she did each year. William would complain about her clothes, her makeup – reminding her that she was only sixteen. Meanwhile, Grace would spend ages choosing a dress from the collection of eveningwear she’d brought with her from England – and then end up changing at the last minute into one that her husband preferred. Finally, they’d set off in the ute, the three of them – the air close with perfume, aftershave, and an undercurrent of mothballs. When they arrived at the hall, Jamie would already be there waiting, his face pastel-painted by the glow of coloured fairy lights.
Stella froze, her fingers still twisted in Pauline’s hair. She knew, suddenly. She would not be able to pretend with Jamie. Not even for a minute. She would have to tell him straightaway that she didn’t … didn’t what? Love him? Belong to him? After all these years, and all the plans that had been made …
She swallowed on a knot of fear – a sense that a wave was gathering, rising beyond her control.
‘Are you done? Thanks, pet.’ Pauline straightened. ‘Look. Here they come.’
Stella turned her face in the direction of the boat, but she gazed past it – only glimpsing the waving figure on the foredeck and the dark blur of her father’s head and shoulders inside the wheelhouse. She focused on the rocks beyond, the ones that sheltered the gulch. The seabirds that usually congregated there were gone, hunting for food now that the seas were calm. The layer of white droppings that topped the granite boulders had been washed thin by the days of rain.
She wouldn’t tell anyone about Zeph, Stella decided. Not Jamie, not William, not anyone. She would keep him to herself. She did not want to expose him – her memories of him – to anger, hurt, dis - belief. Some part of her felt that if she did, she might not see him again. Like the prince in the fairy tales, he would vanish with the coming of daylight. She must hide him in the shadows of secrecy – safe, until his return.
‘I have to go.’ The words escaped Stella’s lips before she had time to think. She had no excuse, no plan.
Pauline frowned with concern. ‘What on earth’s wrong? Are you sick?’
‘Yes,’ Stella lied. ‘Just a bit.’
‘I’ll drive you home,’ Pauline said firmly. ‘St Louis can wait.’ She nodded towards the boat, already drawing near. ‘They can wait, too.’
‘No,’ Stella said. ‘No, thanks. I’ll be okay. I’ve got my bike.’
Before Pauline could say anything else, Stella turned and hurried away. Her boots hammered loudly on the decking of the wharf. She knew without looking that the woman was staring after her.
In the shelter of a she-oak thicket, well along from the main beach, Stella sat looking down at the sea. Where the rocks cast shadows over the water she could see down into the green depths – in which seaweed fronds wavered above the white shapes of empty oyster shells. Where there were no shadows, the sea was a mirror, reflecting an untarnished image of a clear blue sky.
The ground beneath Stella was layered with she-oak fronds, dropped over centuries. Prickly seed pods dotted the soft bed. Stella picked one up and held it in her hand. Tightening her fist around it, she pressed its spikes into her flesh. She savoured the small points of pain. They were signals from a body that was more sensitive, more alive than before, she was sure. The sea smelled fresher in her nostrils. The trees rustled more loudly. She wrapped her arms around herself, hugging her body.
Everything was changed.
Stella stared at her hand, still gripping the seedpod, the spikes printing their shape on her skin. She remembered the burning, afterwards; the ache. The green-leaf smell of sperm, sticky and damp on her thighs. And the feel of it leaking from her body, running down to stain the sarong that was bunched between her legs.
Now, on the bed of she-oak needles she moved her hips, feeling for the faint echo of the pain still lingering in her body. She cradled it inside her. Her secret. Her power. The knowledge that she was no longer a virgin. She and Zeph had made love. And it could never be undone.