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CHRISTIE STOOD IN THE middle of the kitchen. She had stripped the T-shirt off almost the minute she got home, and now wore her dressing gown. She needed to eat but only some grapes and feta remained, along with the bottles of wine. She ignored the food and took out a bottle, pouring a glass which she raised to the fridge.
“To bad decisions and poor forward planning,” she said aloud, unsure whether to laugh or cry, deciding instead emotions were a dangerous waste of time and energy.
One glass down and Christie gave in and finished off the meagre offerings from the fridge. Her stomach was growling and she wondered what Martin would have cooked. She dropped onto the chair at the kitchen table and opened the next letter, dated only two days after the last one.
Her engagement ring was on her closed laptop and she wore Martha’s solitaire. Somehow, it brought her closer to her great-aunt, a woman she had never met and probably never would. All she knew of Martha was the person she saw through Thomas’ eyes. Someone worthy of his deep and abiding love. Someone with spirit and fire, compassion and intelligence.
Beautiful girl,
What words can I use to bring you home? I am out of ideas and it has become clear either you are not receiving these letters, or have changed your mind about us. I will not accept the latter, so write this without expecting a response. Perhaps Dorothy is keeping these from you or perhaps you refuse to open them.
Even so, it puzzles me you would not seek me out. Better than anyone, I know how strong and honest you are, and you never, ever break a promise. Not if you can help it. Why not come home and finish this properly, if that is what you want to do?
No, something is wrong beyond what happened that night. I plan to ask for time off work next week and come to find you.
I fear you may come home whilst I come to seek you, but I must take the risk. You are worth it.
I love you always,
Thomas.
Thomas had waited so long afraid he would miss Martha returning. How difficult it must have been back then, with no internet or mobile phones. There was no mention of him trying to phone Martha.
Who was stopping these letters, for surely Martha would have responded at least once to them, even if just to say goodbye? It pointed toward Gran. Christie pushed the possibility away.
She picked up the next letter, realising with a shock that this was the last one.
Dear Martha,
There has been a change of plans, which I hope will not upset you. Instead of me coming to Melbourne, your best friend will bring you a letter...
Thomas and Frannie sat outside the corner café in the sun. Thomas drank black coffee and Frannie nibbled on a cupcake between sips of white tea. Thomas was uncomfortable, one finger tapping the side of the cup.
“Tom? You look so worried.” Frannie ventured.
“Hm? No, not sure about your idea. Though I appreciate you wanting to help.”
“You’ve said yourself you’ve not once been to Melbourne and have no idea of how to get around. What if you get lost?”
“I’ll ask for directions.”
“It’s not like she’s right in the city now. If what my contact says is true and Dorothy moved to that new part of town, well there’s not even public transport there yet.”
“I’d walk a hundred miles if I had to.”
“But what if you go all that way and don’t find her? What if she comes home at that exact time?” Frannie persisted.
Thomas drank his coffee.
“You write that letter to Martha and I’ll guard it with my life and put it into her hands and her hands alone. Cross my heart.” Frannie was determined to win this one and she had many more arguments in her favour if this one failed. She watched Thomas closely, seeing the conflict on his face.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose on you and I know it must be hard to go and see her, after everything. What if it makes things worse for you?”
“Martha and I will always be friends. Sometimes you have to take a chance. She is not replying to your letters so either she doesn’t want to come back, or she has not read them. Well, make your words special and she will remember why she loves you so much!”
Frannie reached a hand across and rested it on one of Thomas’. “You know, I care a lot about you and what happens with Martha. Let me help. Please?”
She smiled at Thomas, who nodded and removed his hand from hers.
“Well, I am leaving the day after tomorrow, so you had better go and write that letter. And with a bit of luck, when I come home next week, Martha will be with me.”
I am not sure how she knows Dorothy moved, but that might explain why you have not replied to my letters. And why the phone rang out when I finally got a number.
There is no point me sending this one, but I feel I have to. Maybe Dorothy still collects her mail from her old address. At least I know there will be one letter that will find you. A letter and a painting, to remind you of your promise. Please my darling girl, please read it with an open heart and come back to me.
Love,
Thomas
That was it? Christie stood up and fruitlessly searched the shoebox for another letter. Did this mean Martha’s friend succeeded in getting it to her? Or did Thomas never write it? Was that how the painting got to Dorothy?
Folding the letter thoughtfully, Christie found the whole thing mystifying. Who was this “best friend” Thomas trusted enough to act as intermediary. Would Martha’s closest friend not have already spoken to her about the separation? Best friends tended to share as much as sisters did. There had been mention of a friend in other letters. Frannie, who took their photographs on the beach.
Christie flicked through the photo album to find the picture of them both again. The love in their eyes was real. As before, Christie was struck by the similarity between Thomas and Martin, who must be his grandson. Somehow, she had to find the right way to ask him this tomorrow. She toyed with the idea of offering him the painting in exchange for a frank and honest conversation, but discarded that. The painting was staying here until she had sufficient information to make a decision.
One by one, Christie put the letters back into the shoebox. Deep in thought, she turned off the light and headed off to bed, more than ready for today to finish. A long, low rumble of thunder filled the air.
***
MARTIN STOOD ON THE deck in the morning sun, admiring a large yacht sailing by. Long, low, and sleek, it cut seamlessly through the water. He sipped on white coffee as he considered the boat. He heard the soft swish of feet through grass and half smiled.
“Like boats?”
Christie stepped up onto the deck and followed his line of vision. “Oh, I love them. Particularly yachts. So beautiful.”
Martin turned to give her his attention. She was dressed simply today. Jeans and an emerald green, short-sleeved shirt showed off her slim figure. Her hair was in a ponytail and her minimal make-up gave a natural glow.
“Yes. Beautiful.”
“Stop flirting. I’m engaged, remember?”
“Coffee?” Martin walked into the house before she could reply, so she followed him.
Inside, Martin was in the kitchen at a coffee machine. “What can I get you?”
“Um, anything’s fine.”
Martin stopped with a pained expression on his face. “So, what would you like?”
“Flat white?”
“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Martin turned to the coffee machine and Christie perched on a stool. The kitchen was spacious, with stainless steel appliances, including a double sized stand-alone oven with gas cooktop. At the end of the counter was a bowl with fresh apples, oranges and mangoes and Christie gazed at them with longing.
“Did you miss breakfast?” Martin placed coffee in front of Christie.
“Oh, thanks. Yes, ran out of food so I’ll get something on the way home.”
“When did you run out? No, don’t answer. Do you eat eggs?”
“Love eggs.”
“Drink your coffee.” Martin pulled a frying pan out of a drawer and went to the fridge.
“Oh, you don’t need to feed me!”
“What makes you think this is for you?” Martin placed eggs and cream on the counter, and found a bowl in another drawer. “I haven’t eaten yet. If you’re lucky, there may be enough for you.”
“Oh.”
Taking a cob loaf, he deftly sliced it, then tossed two pieces into a toaster. As the frying pan heated, he cracked eggs into the bowl, added a slurp of cream and lightly whisked the mix. From an overhead cupboard, he took two plates and collected cutlery on his way past a drawer. After placing these on the counter, he took the eggs to the stove and poured them into the pan, swirling them once then walking away to get a spatula.
The toast popped and Martin glanced around from his place back at the stove.
“Can you get those, and check the fridge, should be butter and some jam if you prefer.”
Christie did so, putting a piece of toast on each plate and opening the fridge. It was stocked with fresh vegetables and fruit, juice, milk, a selection of cheeses, yoghurt and seafood, plus beer and a couple of bottles of wine. She found the butter and took it back to the counter as he brought the frying pan over.
Back on her stool, Christie watched him slide half of the scrambled eggs on to one plate, then the other. Perfectly cooked, soft ribbons of yellow with flecks of pepper he added toward the end.
He pushed one plate in front of her with a no nonsense, “Eat.”
She picked up a fork, waiting for him to join her. He sat beside her and took a mouthful of coffee, watching her over the rim in expectation. Christie speared a forkful of eggs. Martin nodded to himself and started eating.
“Thanks.” Christie said between mouthfuls. She stopped for a moment to butter her toast, glancing at Martin, who studied her with that same pained gaze from earlier.
“It is delicious.” she said before biting into the toast.
“Are you always like this? Not looking after yourself?” Martin shook his head.
“No. I don’t know. Maybe. Love your coffee. I have a thing about coffee.”
He got up and took her now empty cup. “So do I. Same as wine, why drink it unless it is good quality. Applies to much of life, actually.”
***
CHRISTIE FINISHED EVERY morsel, wishing she could eat it all again. Now she was done, she glanced around the living room. “Where’s Randall?”
Over the grumble of the coffee machine, Martin raised his voice. “Probably in the studio.”
“You have a studio?”
Martin did not answer, so Christie waited until he brought fresh coffees over.
“Where’s your studio?”
“Just over there.” he waved in the general direction. “He likes sleeping there in the morning. Sunny and quiet.”
“So, you’re an artist?”
“Sometimes.”
Christie wondered if he was a collector as well. Maybe of local art and that’s why he wanted her painting so much. She hesitated to ask in case it disturbed this pleasant truce.
“Um, last night...”
“When do you leave?”
“What? Oh, early in the morning I think.”
“When will you come back?”
Christie shook her head. “I don’t know. I’d like it to be soon, but in a couple of weeks, I’ll be in London for a while so it may not be possible to come back before I go. Why?”
“Have you thought anymore about selling me the painting?” There, it was said.
“Yes. Have you thought about telling me who its rightful owner is?”
Martin put his coffee cup down and started to clear their breakfast plates. Christie watched him stack them on the side of the sink, then return the butter to the fridge. His demeanour was not upset or angry, but nor was he forthcoming. It was so frustrating. Finally, he stopped moving around the kitchen and stood on the other side of the counter, arms crossed and expression thoughtful.
“Would you leave it with me while you’re away?”
“The painting?”
“Leave it here in River’s End. It will stay safe and that way you’re not transporting it all over the place.”
“I’d not even thought about whether to leave it in the cottage or take it to Melbourne and get it valued.”
For the third time this morning, Martin’s expression was frustrated. “Its value is whatever a buyer will pay.”
“Not helpful if it needs insuring. What do you think it is worth?”
“How much do you want?”
Christie rolled her eyes at Martin, who raised an eyebrow.
“How about we stop going round in circles, Martin. You tell me what you know about the painting and I’ll consider selling it to you at a fair price.”
“Do you roll your eyes at your fiancé?” Martin wandered around the counter and sat back on his stool whilst Christie stared at him in surprise. “You wouldn’t do it if you were engaged to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d never knowingly disrespect you and would expect the same in return.”
He ran his hands over his lap, stopping with one palm on each knee, and leaned forward a fraction, dark eyes serious. “I highly value respect.”
Christie could not help herself. “What would you do?”
Martin sat back and picked up his coffee cup. “That’s a discussion for another day.”
He finished his coffee but continued to nurse the cup. Christie had no idea what to make of this strange conversation. She had the oddest sensation of light-headedness and realised she was holding her breath. Martin seemed oblivious to this and continued speaking.
“If you must know, there’s someone I wish to show the painting to. I’ll care for it; I promise you and when you return, if you want it I’ll give it back.”
“Just like that? With no arguments?” Christie forced a smile.
“More or less. Are we agreed?”
“I need to think about it.”
Martin nodded and took her car keys out of a pocket.
“Oh, I forgot the T-shirt.”
“Keep it.”
Christie reached out with her left hand. She still wore Martha’s engagement ring. Martin released the keys and glanced at her questioningly.
“Forgot I had that on. It helps me feel closer to her.”
“To your grandmother?”
“Um, no, to Martha, my great-aunt. This was one of the secrets left in the cottage for me.”
Instantly, Martin got up and stalked away, his expression almost as angry as the day they first met at the graveyard. He headed for the sliding door, his body rigid.
“What’s wrong, Martin?” Christie grabbed her bag and followed.
At the door, he paused. “Let it go. Nothing good can come of this, Christie, just drop it.”
“But, why?” Christie reached Martin, confused.
“Please trust me about this.”
“It’s not about trust. Gran wanted me to find out about Martha... and others.”
“Then we’re on opposite sides.”
“What? No, I don’t understand. Please help me understand all of this.”
Martin sighed and went out onto the deck, back to the same spot he was in earlier in the day. He stared out at the sea.
“Go home, Christie. Go back to Derek and your fancy life.” He delivered the words in a monotone. “There’s nothing here for you. Sell the cottage, the painting, the ring. Make a profit and go and find a happy life for yourself.”
Why are you saying this? Christie gazed at him through wide eyes. Her heart pounded in her chest and her stomach tied up in a knot. More than ever before, she wanted to stay. With sudden clarity, it hit her. It was emotion. Raw, powerful emotions rising above anything else Christie had ever experienced and this complex, difficult man had as much to do with them as the beautiful region and the funny little cottage she already loved.
“I don’t want to go.” Emotion choked her voice.
“There’s nothing here for you. You are a Ryan, and your family aren’t welcome in River’s End. Go back to Melbourne, city girl.”
Hand over her mouth, Christie turned and ran down the steps as she had the previous night. Tears blinded her as she sprinted to the gate, where she stopped, sobbing for a moment, before slipping through it.
***
IT WAS A FEW MINUTES until Martin heard the Lotus start. Long, painful minutes where he held onto the railing so hard his hands hurt. Gripping those rails was the only thing that stopped him going after Christie when he heard her crying.
She would never understand why this had been a bad idea. He was furious with himself for inviting her into his world. Her family and his could never unite.
As the car drove away, Martin remembered his words about respect. That he would never intentionally disrespect her. What he had just done was worse. Necessary, perhaps, but not fair to either of them.