| |
MARTIN WAS CONTENT to walk in silence, so Christie fell into step with him, Randall trotting alongside. She kept checking her pocket to reassure herself the phone was still there. Apart from the photos, she kept most of her contacts in the phone, including Angus’ number and she could not bear to lose touch with him again.
At the edge of the shallow lagoon, they stopped. Randall happily plunged in, splashing around like a puppy.
Martin stared into the clear water. “The river that feeds into this lagoon starts right up in the mountain range. There’s a lake, several hours hike into the bush. It’s in a valley that barely sees the sun, so steep are its sides and so dense its growth of old forest.”
Wondering where this was leading, Christie contemplated Martin, who was still intent on the lagoon.
“In the scorching heat of summer, when you finally reach the lake, it is utter bliss to dive into its icy waters.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“I did say several hours hike. In pretty rough conditions.”
“Are you inviting me to go hiking?”
“Could you keep up?” Martin only now raised his eyes to meet Christie’s.
She unconsciously rechecked her phone.
"Must be an important phone," Martin commented. "Expensive. New?"
“Oh. I’m a spy. It has classified information.”
“You almost dropped it in the ocean. What sort of spy are you?”
“Pretty bad one. You’re right though; it is new and has a couple of phone numbers on it I don’t want to lose.”
Martin stared at Christie. She wondered if he still believed she was only interested in expensive toys, as he once put it. He needed to stop thinking that.
"I destroyed the last one. I threw it at a wall, and it shattered. Shall we walk on the jetty?"
“No. Don’t change the subject. Why did you throw it at a wall, Christie?”
“To stop it ringing, if you must know.”
Christie stepped into the lagoon and waded across to the other side. She laughed when Randall followed and shook himself, spraying water all over her. Martin watched from the other side as she tried to brush the droplets from her hair, all the while talking to Randall.
After a moment, he crossed the lagoon and kept walking along the beach. Christie joined him again, squeezing water out of the front of her T-shirt.
“You’re not afraid of water.” It was a statement with a question behind it.
Christie sighed. "I can even swim. Quite well. The ocean thing is a childhood fear, and I want so much to get over it."
"I'll help you," Martin said. "When the tide is low."
“Oh. It’s okay; I can sort it out myself. Thanks.”
Martin gave her a sceptical glance. “Yeah. That’s been working so well.”
Christie went quiet. Inside, the fear bubbled away. Fear of the waves, fear of failing in front of Martin. The only way he would get her in the ocean was to carry her, and she would never let him do that. She needed to get his mind off her phobia.
She stopped. “Martin? You said we need to talk.”
Martin checked his watch, and dropped onto the sand, stretching his legs out.
"Sit," he said.
With a small, bemused sigh, she joined him. Randall flopped beside them.
“Who was calling?” He glanced at her ring-less left hand.
“What?”
“When you threw the phone at the wall?”
“Derek.”
“I see.”
“I left him.”
Silence fell again. Christie was puzzled. That was all he had to say. No more questions or probing stares?
“So, what did you want to talk about?”
“Are you staying for a while?”
“Yes.”
“No London?”
“No. I don’t want to talk about this right now.”
"You only ever need to tell me what you want to, Christie. Just because I ask a question, doesn't mean you have to answer."
Christie stared out at the beautiful early evening sky over the sea. It was still quite light. Part of her longed to unburden herself onto him. To share what happened and listen to his perspective and uncanny insight into the situation.
“I hadn’t expected you back so soon.”
“This is about the painting, isn’t it? You want to hold onto it for longer?”
“I’d like to. Just for a day or so, then we can talk again about its future.”
Randall rolled onto his back, and Martin scratched the underside of his chest, his eyes on the dog. Christie watched them, loving the strong connection between man and dog.
“Let me ask you one question. And give me a straight answer.”
“One question and you’ll leave the painting with me?”
Christie nodded as Martin turned his attention back to her.
“I saw one of your own paintings at Crown Casino. Sole Survivor.”
Uncertainty crossed Martin’s face.
“It is an incredible work. You are so talented.”
“Is there a question in there?”
"No. while I'd suspected it, the description with the painting confirmed you are one of the Blake family."
“I could have told you that. Anyone in town would have.”
“So, my question is this. Are you Thomas Blake’s grandson?”
“That’s the question?” Martin raised an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“I am.”
Christie remembered the first time she had seen a photo of Thomas Blake. His strong features, intense gaze and undeniable good looks. So similar to Martin. Now, the resemblance was even more apparent. Particularly the eyes. So expressive and so quick to bring the shutters down when challenged. Was that one of Thomas’ traits as well?
“You realise you’re staring at me?” Martin sounded amused.
“Oh. Sorry.” Christie’s mind worked overtime. “So, if you’re his grandson, you would know if he ever lived in my cottage?”
Martin's amusement disappeared, and he got to his feet. "I answered your one question."
Christie gazed up at him. “I know, but I have so many more. Please?”
He held his hand out, and she took it, standing in one fluid motion. He kept a gentle hold on her fingers. A current blazed through Christie, and she prayed it did not show on her face as she tried to focus on his words. "I'll keep the painting safe. Thank you."
“But no more answers?”
“I have to go. Stay away from the sea. We’ll work on that fear of yours another day.”
Martin released her hand and strode away toward his house.
"I think I said I could manage," Christie called after him.
“Perhaps I’ll be the judge of that. Low tide is late morning.”
Randall realised his master was leaving and took off after him. Christie stood on the sand watching them. Martin reached to pat the dog's head, and Randall's tail went crazy. Their sense of belonging to each other was tangible, and Christie wished she could run after them.
Shaking her head at herself, she wandered back toward her end of the beach. She could not, must not become attached to them. She rubbed her fingers, troubled by her reaction to his touch. Martin had made it abundantly clear in the past he was only interested in the painting, and while his view of her may not be as cynical as in the beginning, he was every bit as guarded. He had been quick enough to shut her down after answering her question.
Stopping near the jetty, she wondered why she asked about his relationship with Thomas rather than a hundred other questions. She answered herself. Knowing Martin was Thomas’ grandson was the closest she would ever get to meeting Thomas Blake.
***
RANDALL BOUNDED UP the road to the house ahead of Martin. Parked outside the gate was an old Land Rover, caked with dried mud and dust. Randall ran around it in excitement. Martin kept going, straight through the open gate and to the house.
The sliding glass door was wide open as usual, and Martin had to step aside as Randall, like a bullet, rushed past him, straight to a man sitting in an armchair near the window, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
“Well, well, Randall. Just as well it’s only me, not some thief, the way your master leaves the place open.” The man put his glass on a table beside the chair so he could scratch under Randall’s chin. The dog lay at his feet adoringly, his tail thumping the ground.
“It’s a peaceful community. No thieves around here.” Martin stopped in the middle of the living room.
“Growing community. Since when were there houses up past Palmerston?”
“Not long.”
“Not happy about it.”
The other man used his hands to push himself up from the chair and stepped over Randall. Crossing to Martin, he extended his hand. When Martin took it, he pulled him in for a hug and patted him heartily on the back. “Pleased to see you, my boy.”
Martin stepped back. “And you too, Thomas.”
***
CHRISTIE LET HERSELF into the cottage as night fell. She had detoured back past the river and up the hill, wanting to avoid the graveyard.
No wonder Martin had been upset at the intrusion that day. There to tend his grandfather’s grave at the same time of the funeral of the sister of Thomas’ first love. Assuming Martin knew all of that.
Either way, Christie doubted he would be forthcoming with the information she needed, just because he answered one question. She still had to work this out on her own. As much as it bothered her, she might have to read Gran’s diary.
Flicking on the kitchen light, Christie glanced at the table, remembering how those couple of hours with Jess had transformed her. The outer girl was one thing, but it was the growing confidence in herself that turned Jess into such a beautiful young woman tonight.
Once she had a shower and made dinner, she would reassemble the pieces of her puzzle and see what came of it.
***
“WELL, AT LEAST YOU lock this door!” Thomas still had his glass of whiskey in one hand as he and Martin wandered into the studio.
“The contents of the house are more replaceable than in here.” Martin watched Thomas stand in front of one, and then another of his paintings. From a young age, he learned how to paint from his grandfather, sat at his knee with his own small easel and palette at their home high in the nearby mountains. Growing bored with landscapes, Martin experimented with abstracts and developed his own style from there.
"You're welcome to comment," Martin said.
“No need. You know your strengths and your flaws. I’ve always admired your boldness. The intellect you weave through the art.”
“Some would call it madness.” Martin poured himself a whiskey from the bar and topping up Thomas’ glass.
“Not worth your time. If someone understands you, they - they are worth your time.”
Randall padded in and after getting a pat from Thomas, settled himself in his bed.
"You going away again soon?" Thomas watched the dog, and Martin laughed.
“Did you enjoy his company that much?”
“He’s a fine dog.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Something about Martin’s tone alerted Thomas. “And who told you that?”
“Someone.”
“Ah. Someone.”
“The same someone who loaned me what I need to show you. Why I called you.”
“Well, show me.” Thomas put his glass onto the top of the bar.
“It’s over here, Granddad.” Martin walked to the central easel, covered with a sheet.
“Uh oh. You only call me that when there’s a problem. Did you buy something you shouldn’t have?”
“Oh, I tried to buy it. I’m still trying to buy it.”
“For goodness sake, Martin, show me the thing!”
In one quick action, Martin pulled the sheet off.
Thomas went as white as the sheet and walked away. Back to the bar where he grabbed his glass and drained it in one long gulp.
Martin folded the sheet, keeping an eye on Thomas. Moments passed as Thomas refilled his glass but ignored the contents, finally walking back to stand in front of his own painting.
With shaking hands, he touched the image of the jetty. “Where?” His voice was so low, Martin had to move closer to him. “Where did you find it?”
"It's a long story, and I think we need to be sitting down for it."
“You said you’ve tried to buy it. Who, Martin? Who from?” He turned to Martin, his eyes filled with tears and his expression halfway between hope and fear.
***
ELIZABETH PAUSED IN the doorway of the living room, watching Martha stare at a white envelope in her hands. Her friend had been introspective all through dinner, worrying Elizabeth she may have received bad news at today’s hospital visit. She drew a deep breath as she walked in.
“Well, how about a sherry to finish the evening?” she headed straight to a tray on the sideboard.
“Never say no to a sherry.”
“I shall miss these evenings when you go home.” Elizabeth prompted as she poured sherry into two crystal glasses. There was no reply. Martha was distracted and only glanced up when Elizabeth placed the glass on the table beside her.
“Oh, thank you, dear.” Martha saw the worry in her face. “I’m alright, Elizabeth. It’s positive news.”
Elizabeth sighed in relief and sat opposite Martha, taking a sip of sherry.
“Turns out that young doctor wasn’t so difficult. He’s written me a letter of clearance to fly.” Martha placed the envelope on the table and picked up her glass. “I can go home, Elizabeth.”
“That’s what you want?”
“I do want to go back to Ireland, to my little house and garden,” Martha stared at her drink, “but I shall miss you terribly.”
“Why not stay? Come and live here, with me. There’s more than enough room, or we could find a place of your own?”
Martha tasted her sherry, listening.
“You’ve already said how much you love the summer here and after all, this is where you grew up.”
"You shouldn't tempt me," Martha said. "I would soon become a boring companion and drive your patrons away!"
Elizabeth laughed. “Boring is something that would never describe Martha Ryan so that is a risk I would take. So, what would make you stay?”
Martha shook her head, deep again in her own thoughts. The silence stretched out before Elizabeth decided it was now or never to talk about Christie.
“What about family?”
“Family?”
“What about Dorothy’s children?”
“I lost contact with my sister many years ago. Apart from when our parents died, we’ve not communicated.”
“So, you don’t know of any children. Grandchildren?”
“My sister was not the nurturing kind. I can’t imagine her with small children running everywhere, spoiling her garden and muddying her floors.” Her tone was bitter.
“But she did have a child, darling. A daughter.”
“A daughter?” Shock filled Martha’s face. “She never told me!”
“You did say you lost contact with Dorothy a long time ago.”
“She managed to find me when it suited her! Why wouldn’t she tell me about a child?”
Martha got to her feet, agitated.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to distress you.”
“No, I’m glad you told me. It reinforces I need to go home. To my own home.”
Elizabeth stood up. "Please, darling. Please sit again. There's more to tell you, and it might change your mind."
“Don’t tell me. No more, Elizabeth. I shouldn’t have come back.”
Martha walked to the doorway. Tears coursed down her cheeks and she wanted to pack and go home.
“Martha, please wait, dear. I won’t mention it again.”
Something in Elizabeth’s voice made Martha stop.
“You are my dearest friend. I wish things were different, but they’re not and staying here just... it just hurts too much. Too many memories.”
Elizabeth nodded sadly. It had been a mistake to mention Martha’s family, or maybe, the mistake had been waiting too long.
***
NIGHT HAD FALLEN HOURS ago, and the moon shone brightly above a glassy ocean. Martin stood alone, motionless at the edge of the cliff, not seeing the beauty in front of him.
Thomas had reacted badly. Shock, followed by sharp anger and bitterness.
“Why? Why would this be in her estate?”
Martin had no answers. After covering the painting with the sheet, Thomas stormed out of the studio. An hour of silent drinking later, replacing emotions with whiskey, Thomas staggered to the guest room. Randall went with him, curling up on the floor at the end of the bed.
For a while, Martin watched Thomas sleep, his heart broken for the man who raised him. A man who lived for the colours he transformed into paintings.
The passion this painting ignited in Thomas made Martin even more determined to buy it. Perhaps not for its artist anymore, but for him. As a reminder some things are not meant to be. That some things are best left alone.
Martin turned his attention to the opposite cliff. Not far from there, Christie was no doubt asleep. She was the one thing he knew he had to leave alone.