| |
CHRISTIE FOLLOWED DAPHNE’S map over the bridge to a narrow road that by-passed the township, zigzagging close to the beach. Soon, the road wound upwards around a cliff. It forked and Christie took the left, noticing an elegant old guesthouse tucked around the corner of the other road.
The road stopped at the top of the cliff. Christie pulled over and checked the map. Yes, this matched the map, yet there was only one house up here, right in the middle of a meadow behind a gate. There was no driveway or path, nor any sign of life.
After leaving the graveyard, Christie collected the painting. Her resolution to find out about Martha and Thomas forced her to ignore her instincts that this man, Martin, was trouble better avoided. Daphne liked him. Not that she knew Daphne enough to trust her judgement, but she had to start somewhere.
Christie checked herself in the rear vision mirror. She reapplied lipstick and fiddled nervously with her hair. “Stop being silly,” she scolded her reflection, grabbed her handbag and the cylinder and climbed out of the car.
The view from up here was incredible. At the distant reaches of the ocean was an endless, hazy horizon. On the cliff to the left was the graveyard and further on, the turn-off to the cottage. The beach was nestled between both cliffs, white and enticing. Inland, the town was like a toy village and beyond it, thick bush led to a mountain. It was magical, like something from a storybook.
Looped around the heavy timber gate was a padlocked chain. Christie giggled as she climbed the gate in case she was shot as a trespasser. The grass was long and soft and would be lovely to walk through bare-footed, but Christie kept her shoes on and pushed herself forward.
The front door was as unwelcoming as the locked gate, cobwebs covering the handle and hinges. A dead pot plant reinforced the message that visitors were not welcome and Christie gulped, her resolve weakening. There were no windows on this side of the house and Christie turned away before knocking. It was a bad idea.
From around the corner, a golden retriever bounded toward her, tail wagging madly and its soft, brown eyes warm and friendly. Christie’s face lit up and she let the dog sniff her.
“Hello there. You’re a beauty!” she scratched behind his ears.
Just as fast as he appeared, the dog ran off again, back in the same direction. After a moment’s hesitation, Christie followed. If Martin owned this dog, he could not be all bad. Dogs knew.
This side of the house was different. Facing out to sea, a long timber deck ran along its length, its railings dripping with jasmine. Heavy wind chimes murmured from one end. There were a couple of deck chairs and a small table, along with a covered barbeque. Two railed steps led up to the deck, another to a sliding glass door, which was wide open.
The dog must have gone inside and Christie followed as far as the door. She knocked on the glass with no response. “Hello?”
No answer. This was a bad idea. Her senses were on high alert and it was time to go. She turned to leave and stopped dead.
Martin Blake stood at the bottom of the steps with a hand on either handrail, forming a human barrier to her escape, which she wanted very, very much.
A white T-shirt hugged his chest and broad shoulders, whilst board shorts left his muscular legs and bare feet exposed. Strong, sun-bronzed arms and three-day growth made Christie imagine him on a surfboard, controlling the waves. An unwanted surge of attraction rushed through her. She forced it into the background, annoyed. It occurred to her she was staring at him.
Christie swallowed. “Um, hi. Daphne - at the real estate agents - gave me your address.”
Martin watched Christie without changing his expression, which was neither hostile nor welcoming. His eyes moved briefly to the cylinder, then straight back to her face.
“Daphne didn’t give me a phone number, so I’m sorry I couldn’t call ahead.”
No response, just a silence that hung between them.
“Daphne said you might be able to help me, with my painting.”
“Daphne talks too much.” Martin took both steps in one movement and brushed past Christie to go into the house. “You have five minutes.”
Christie glanced longingly at the stairs, but her feet followed him. She stopped a few steps inside the door. The room was a large, open plan living area, with floor to ceiling windows on two sides and furnished with natural timber and neutral fabrics. Behind a long, timber breakfast bar was a roomy kitchen.
Martin stood on the far side of the room, arms crossed, openly inspecting her. Heat rose to her face, colouring it. Flustered, she introduced herself.
“I’m Christie Ry—.”
“I know who you are,” Martin interrupted. “Do you always follow dogs to their home?”
“Only the ones that like me.”
“He’s a terrible judge of character.” Martin watched as the insult sunk in and her eyes flashed in response.
“He must be!” As soon as the words left her lips, Christie regretted them. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply...” Her voice trailed off.
“Sure you did.” Martin uncrossed his arms, showing no sign of being offended. He stalked across the room, like a panther to its prey. Wide-eyed, Christie gazed at him as he approached. Her heart pounded, and when he stopped close enough for her to feel the heat from his body, she stopped breathing altogether.
Very deliberately, he brought his mouth close to her ear. “Never apologise,” he slipped the cylinder from her hands, “it weakens your position.”
With that, he took the cylinder to the kitchen counter. Martin eased the painting out and flattened it. With a hand on either side, he studied the canvas as if memorising each brush stroke. Christie joined him, curious at his concentration. Not moving his hands, he turned a piercing gaze on her.
“You got this from your grandmother?”
“Yes. Did you know her?”
“Where did she get it?”
“You don’t know?”
“You have no idea? None?”
Christie shook her head. “None. Just a theory.”
Martin allowed the canvas to roll back up. “Which is?”
“I think maybe it was painted by... a local. Perhaps it was a gift to Gran.”
“Have you ever been to River’s End before, Miss Ryan?” Martin captured Christie’s left hand with his, and held it up to inspect her engagement ring. “Expensive. Like your car. Not once have you visited your hometown, so why now? That cottage is worthless, unless you’re a developer?”
Christie pulled her hand away. “Me? No, of course not. But the cottage does have value and secrets that need discovering.”
“What secrets?”
“Let me ask a question,” Christie began, “that grave you were tending?”
“What are the secrets of the cottage?” His face was hard.
Christie reached for the painting but Martin stepped between her and the counter. “The damage will worsen if it isn’t framed. The tear needs repairing.”
He picked up the canvas and the cylinder as if it was agreed upon. “Write your phone number down – there’s pen and paper beside you. I’ll phone when it’s done.”
Without another word, Martin stalked out of the house. Christie stared after him, unconsciously rubbing her left hand. Now he had her painting. Insufferable and not at all helpful, he nevertheless seemed to know a lot more about her and her family than she knew about him. Which was almost nothing.
***
AWAY FROM MARTIN’S house, past a shed housing surfboards and an old motorbike, a smaller, newer building faced the sea.
Inside, it was part workspace and part gallery. There was a long, solid timber bench with a variety of lengths and styles of timber held in rows on hooks above it. Wood turning tools were neatly stored underneath.
As with the house, the windows were floor to ceiling on two sides and the roof was dotted with skylights to allow volumes of light in. Below the skylights were half a dozen easels, each with a finished painting. All were abstract, in bold and vibrant colours.
In front of the window facing the sea was a long, deep cushioned sofa. There was a small, beautifully crafted bar in the corner and a dog basket enjoyed the full sun of the late morning.
Martin strode straight to the bench. With great care he rolled out the canvas, using four glass weights to hold the corners. He searched the bottom right corner, and there, in the curl of a wave, found what he wanted. The initials T.B.
The dog trotted in. “As for you, Randall. Hmm.” Randall wagged his tail before curling up in the basket.
***
CHRISTIE SAT IN THE cottage kitchen holding a steaming cup of coffee. Her mind was back at Martin’s house, replaying those moments. The way he watched her was incredibly disconcerting. All of her senses warned he was dangerous and yet she fired up at him. She never showed emotion to strangers, never lost her composure. It was as though he deliberately baited her.
He had already formed an opinion of Christie. Why would he even care about a person who had never been to this town before, let alone have virtually accused her of having ulterior motives for being here? Who was he? Caretaker of the graveyard or relative of Thomas?
He affected her in some deep, primal way and her uncustomary rise to his baiting left her vulnerable. Nobody had ever elicited such a powerful, unbidden response from her, not even the most handsome and desirable of actors she worked with. Not even Derek.
What she did need to do was drive home and pick up more clothes, her laptop and a few supplies. She would use her time until Derek returned to solve these puzzles.
***
BACK AT THE APARTMENT, Christie stopped packing half way through, questioning what she was doing. This was her home. Not the cottage. In three weeks, she had a job in London for a series of TV commercials. Instead of running back and forth to River’s End, she should stay here, fill the pantry and fridge with Derek’s favourite foods and make the apartment welcoming for his return in a few days.
But, the painting’s still there. Gran is there.
She flopped onto the bed. Gran wanted Christie to know something. Something important enough to take the dying woman back to her original hometown. Derek was wrong about Gran. She loved Christie in her own way and provided a proper education. Adopting Christie and changing her surname to Ryan - the maiden name she’d kept through her marriages - protected the child’s future. The long silences, the coldness and occasional fury from Gran served to teach Christie control over her own emotions. She knew how to please other people, to meet their needs. It was a gift, not a negative. The least Christie could do was fulfil Dorothy Ryan’s last wish.
Galvanised, Christie finished packing, trying to think of everything she might need. Her professional makeup case had to come as Derek had taken her day-to-day products and hair appliances with him. She tossed her charger and mouse into the laptop bag.
At the front door, she glanced back at the living room. Only three days ago, she stood at the window, happy to be home. Somehow, she would make things right with Derek and regain the stable, safe atmosphere of their life together. She had to try harder.
***
DUSK WAS CLOSING IN when the Lotus passed the Welcome to River’s End sign. Instead of going to the cottage, Christie drove to the clifftop carpark and stepped out into the cooling air. She stretched to relieve the stiffness in her body and headed to the top of the stone steps.
The ocean resembled a postcard, deep blue with highlights of aqua and pink reflected from the horizon. High tide was a couple of hours away, so the waves near the beach were full and rolled in from a long way out. Long enough for a lone surfboarder to be out there.
Christie sat on the top step to watch the setting sun, but instead, her eyes focussed on the man riding the waves. Although a fair way out and in fading light, she was certain it was Martin. A moment later, she spotted Randall rolling in the soft sand.
Her earlier mental image of Martin surfing was a pale shadow of the reality. He radiated power and control as he effortlessly navigated the surfboard out to sea, then back in on a wave. There was an artistry in every move.
Christie’s car keys slipped out of her fingers onto the step. She picked them up, but not before Randall heard the small sound. Bounding across the beach and up the steps, he planted a wet kiss on her nose.
“Shh, doggie, no!” she giggled. “Go back to your master!” Instead, Randall dropped himself at her feet, his tail madly wagging. Fortunately, Martin was paddling back out to sea but it would only be a moment or two before he caught a wave back in again.
“Seriously, you have to go. So do I!”
After giving Randall a quick hug, Christie got to her feet and hurried back to the car.
***
CHRISTIE UNPACKED. The small wardrobe in the bedroom had just enough room for the selection of dresses, pants and tops, plus a couple of jackets she had chosen rather randomly. She had been a bit more conscious about choosing lingerie, socks and shoes, with the drawers filled to capacity and shoes ranging from high heels and boots to slippers and runners lining the bottom of the hanging space. Closing the empty suitcase, her stomach growled.
Back in the kitchen, Christie plugged her in her laptop and left it charging on the old table whilst she prepared dinner. On the way back, she shopped at Green Bay, the previous, larger town. Now, she made a meal from sliced tomatoes, salad leaves, olives, feta, grapes and shallots. The sourdough bread from the bakery was crusty, freshly baked and a perfect accompaniment drizzled with a little olive oil.
Christie plugged a dongle into her laptop for internet access. She scrolled down the emails to the one Derek sent from the airport with her revised e-ticket. She read the brief message. “Don’t miss this flight, Chris.” It could read as a loving reminder he was wanting to see her soon, or as a warning of some sort. She sat back in her chair, sad again.
She could have told Angus her commitment was to Derek and although she loved Gran, she could not attend the funeral. Derek would have felt supported and Angus would have understood, even if he was disappointed. Without the cottage, instead of puzzling over secrets and difficult men, Christie would be sipping a cocktail on the beach with Derek.
Yes, that would have kept Derek happy and she would have done her best to enjoy the holiday. But her heart and mind would have been here in River’s End, knowing she let Angus down and failed Gran.
It was a no-win situation. At least now, she had said a proper farewell to the woman who had taken her in all those years ago. She had also learnt more about Derek than in all of their previous time together.
Christie closed the laptop and left it to continue charging. She wanted to keep reading the letters from Thomas to Martha and get some closure on their relationship. Even though it was still early, Christie changed into pyjamas and dressing gown and put her slippers on, feeling a bit spoilt to be so comfortable. Derek would have thought her ill to be dressed for bed straight after an early dinner.
In her bedroom, Christie relaxed on the bed and reached for the box of letters, hesitating at the memory of Thomas’ headstone. Before, she imagined him still alive and with Martha. Now, she knew that not to be the case and their paths would never cross.
Why she even thought that possible or desirable was a mystery, as some fifty years had passed since these letters were penned, and Thomas could have been anywhere in the world. What a heartbreaking story this was turning out to be. Christie opened the next letter.
Dear Martha,
Today I found a photograph. I remember the day it was taken, how cold the wind was and how cross you were with me... at first...
It was a windswept, wintry day on the beach. Thomas and Martha walked hand in hand toward the lagoon. Trudging through the soft sand a few metres behind them was a young woman, a camera in her hand. Frannie Williams was Martha’s best friend, much to Lilian’s dismay, who disliked the young woman and thought her to be common.
“Um, aren’t we meant to be taking photos?” Frannie called out, already tired of the wind. Martha stopped to let Frannie catch up, but Thomas kept walking.
“Tom? Frannie’s taking our photo!”
There was no response from Thomas, so Martha struck a pose for Frannie.
“He’s so rude!” Martha remarked. “Just take my photo, ‘cos I’m better looking than him.”
Dramatically, she gazed off into the distance while Frannie played with the focus on the camera.
Thomas sneaked up behind Martha and grabbed her. She squealed and tried to escape but he wrestled her onto the sand.
“Thomas Blake, let me go! Oh, there’s sand in my hair now!” Martha pushed against his arms as he laughed and held her even tighter. “It’s not funny!” she fumed.
Frannie took a few photos of them on the sand. She lowered the camera to watch as Thomas captured Martha’s lips with his and kissed her until she stopped struggling. As soon as she did, Thomas let her go, getting to his feet and extending his hand.
Martha pretended not to see it and stood up on her own, shaking the sand off her clothes and out of her hair.
“Stubborn girl.” Thomas said.
He laughed as Martha stalked off, back toward the stone steps.
“You shouldn’t do that!” Frannie scolded. “She’s sensitive.”
“Sorry.” Unapologetic, Thomas sprinted after Martha.
By the time Frannie got to the steps, Martha was sitting on Thomas’ lap, cuddled up in his arms...
Looking at that photo, I remember the taste of salt on your lips and the way the wind made your hair into a silken ribbon. Those memories comfort me but they taunt me as well. I need you back. Please, Martha? Please come home.
Love,
Thomas
Christie found the photo album that had been in the box with the painting. This time, she went past the photograph of Gran and found one of a striking young woman on a windswept beach, posing in a theatrical stance. Her eyes and cheekbones were much like Christie’s and her long hair had the same wave in it. So, this was Martha.
The next photo was again of Martha, but this time with Thomas, his arms around her and his eyes on her face. Christie drew her breath in sharply. Through his letters to Martha, she had visualized him as being a handsome man with strong features. What came as a shock was his resemblance to another man. Thomas Blake and Martin could almost have been brothers.