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CHRISTIE KNEW SHE HAD to get to the graveyard. How could Martin say his grandfather was alive when Christie had seen his grave with her own eyes?
Once on the sand, she took off at a sprint. Martin must think her to be crazy, but she had to find out for herself. If Thomas was alive, everything changed. Everything.
She raced up the steps, unaware of the cold stone under her bare feet. It was only at the top she stopped, desperate for air. For a few seconds, she stood with hands on her knees, gulping in oxygen, clothes and hair soaking wet. She straightened and scanned the graveyard.
Approaching Thomas’ grave, Christie vividly remembered Martin, his eyes angry, preparing to tidy the plot. He had obviously abandoned the job because long tufts of coarse grass still surrounded the headstone when Christie found the pendant the following afternoon.
Now, the grass was short, there were no weeds, just a small row of newly planted, brilliant blue lobelia at the base of the headstone. Christie read the inscription.
Thomas Blake
Son of Thomas and Frances
Husband of Anna
Beloved Father of Martin
Christie gasped. This belonged to Martin’s father, not his grandfather. How could she have misunderstood?
The next grave had a similar headstone, with white lobelia adorning its base. Christie reluctantly read the inscription, afraid of what it would reveal.
Anna Blake (nee Crossman)
Adored wife of Thomas and sister of Sylvia
Deeply loved Mother of Martin
Oh my god, both of Martin’s parents are dead.
Like hers.
Unaware she was crying, Christie forced herself to the last grave. There was purple lobelia at the base of the headstone.
Frances Blake (nee Williams)
Loving Mother of Thomas Jnr and Wife of Thomas
Shaking, Christie went back to the first grave and sank to her knees.
How had she missed this? Long grass had hidden enough of the inscription to let her jump to incorrect conclusions. Instead of checking properly, perhaps via public records or local knowledge, she assumed Thomas was dead.
“Are you satisfied?” Martin’s voice was tense as he stood behind Christie, staring over her head to his family’s resting places. “Thomas is alive but his son, his daughter-in-law and his wife all rest here. Killed by a driver who’d had one or two drinks too many.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Martin.”
No wonder he had been so adamant about taking her car keys away that night. He could have lost it entirely with her but instead calmly insisted she not drive. To lose nearly all of your family in one terrible accident was something she understood.
“How old were you?”
"It doesn't matter. It happened." His voice choked with long-buried emotions.
"My parents died in a car accident when I was seven." Christie volunteered. "They were travelling to a remote town to deliver medical supplies, and I never saw them again."
“I didn’t know that.”
Christie turned glistening eyes to him.
“Why are you crying?” he asked curiously. “For your parents?”
“Yes. And for your parents and your grandmother. For Thomas. For you.”
Martin shook his head. "Don't. It was a long time ago, and we're both adults now."
Christie stood and went to Martin. She rested her palm flat against his chest, where his heart was.
“Inside, we’re always their children. This pain you and I hide from the world... it keeps us connected to their smiles, their voices and love. That way, we never forget them.”
Grief flooded Martin's face, and he gathered Christie in his arms, holding her close. She heard the steady beat of his heart and wrapped her arms around his waist. He tightened his embrace, and they stood for a while in silent understanding.
"I left your sandals at the top of the steps," Martin said.
“Thank you.”
Martin released Christie, and reluctantly, she dropped her arms. He went to his father's grave. Christie wanted his arms back around her. Instead, she followed him.
“I thought this belonged to your grandfather.”
“Clearly.”
“Is that who you wanted to show the painting to? Is Thomas here?”
“No more questions, Christie. Go home and put some dry clothes on.”
Christie only half heard him, thinking instead about the pendant. Had Martha drawn the same wrong conclusion about Thomas? “Why did he change his mind?”
“What do you mean?”
Christie failed to register the sharp edge to Martin’s voice.
“Why did he marry Frannie?”
“Why do you call her that? Thomas was the only one who did.”
“Just from the letters. Her name is mentioned as Frannie.”
Martin turned to Christie, arms folded and his expression hard. She gazed at him, realising in dismay he was shutting her out again.
“He had such love for Martha—”
“You have his letters?” His words cut across hers, demanding an answer.
“I told you that, ages ago. Well, that I had love letters. I thought you knew they were his! I have other things. Rings. Photos he may want.”
“You read his letters? His private letters.”
“I thought... I thought he was dead. Martin, I would never...” Christie almost wept at the contempt on Martin’s face.
“You really are a Ryan.”
“You don’t understand, Martin, I’m trying to help!”
“Then help us both and go back to the city.”
The words hung between them.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
“I do mean it. But I also have to finish what I started.”
Christie took a hesitant step toward Martin, who put up his hand and shook his head. “I’m so angry with you right now. So disappointed.”
Without another word or glance, he spun away and stalked back to the steps. Too upset to follow, Christie sank back onto the grass. In a heart-wrenching moment, Christie knew why this man affected her so much.
Somewhere between their disagreements and tenderness, the understanding and misunderstanding, the secrecy and honesty; somehow Christie had fallen in love. Totally, irrevocably in love with Martin Blake.
***
MARTHA WAS RATHER IMPRESSED with herself. Not accustomed to modern forms of communication, she nevertheless managed to book her flight home to Ireland using Elizabeth’s computer. Now, the printed ticket was in her bag.
“I don’t mind driving you all the way to the airport.” Elizabeth arrived with a plate of sandwiches and put them on the coffee table near Martha.
"It isn't necessary, dear. The bus trip from Green Bay is pleasant, and it connects with the bus to Tullamarine Airport. It will give me a chance to watch the scenery one final time."
Elizabeth sat opposite. “This is farewell.”
“There’s always a spare room in my little home.”
“And I may take you up on that.” Elizabeth was sad. “I have enjoyed your company so much.”
Martha helped herself to a sandwich. It would be so easy to stay here in River’s End for the remainder of her days. The town had only changed a little, and still had the charm she loved as a young woman. As her ankle mended, the desire to walk along the beach or even up the hill to the clifftop had increased. To sit in that meadow again in springtime, the flowers tickling her legs and breeze ruffling her hair... it was a bittersweet thought.
What would her life have been, had she controlled her temper that night? Marriage, children. Grandchildren now. The home Thomas once promised to build her would stand upon that cliff where he painted her portrait. But there was no Thomas, and besides, he had chosen another. Frannie.
“Martha? Are you okay?” Elizabeth saw her friend’s shoulders slump.
“Hm? Yes, just lost in thoughts. Memories.”
“Would you like to talk about them?”
“Some things are better left in the past.”
“Perhaps. I see your sadness though and can’t help but think I can tell you things that would make you happy again. If you’ll let me.”
Martha knew what Elizabeth meant. Something about Dorothy’s daughter. In this day of computers and the internet, if anyone wanted to find her, they would.
“Let’s have dinner in town tonight. My treat.” Martha changed the subject with a forced smile. “I can’t recall the last time I had a pub meal.”
“And I don’t believe I’ve ever had one here!”
“Well, about time. A counter meal and glass of local wine to toast our last evening?”
Elizabeth nodded, knowing she would be wasting her breath to protest.
***
THOMAS WAS MAKING LUNCH when Martin stormed in. “Have a shower, boy. You’re dripping water from that long hair of yours.”
"My hair is just fine, thanks, Thomas."
“Then have one to cool you off.”
Thomas piled ingredients onto thick chunks of bread, tossing a piece of meat to Randall, who sat at his feet.
“Granddad?”
“Oh dear, there’s that granddad thing again.” Thomas started cutting the sandwiches.
"After my shower, we need to talk."
“No, first we’ll need to eat. Not getting any younger, you know. Every meal counts.”
Martin shook his head and stalked off to his bedroom. Thomas stared after him, wondering what else Martin could say that would shake his world. Seeing his painting had been enough, but somehow it seemed that was only the tip of the iceberg.
***
CHRISTIE STRAIGHTENED her hair in front of the bathroom mirror still patchy with condensation from her shower. The repetitive task of segmenting her hair, brushing then running the hot tongs through it was soothing. Every so often, she stopped and stared at her reflection.
She could not have fallen for Martin. His firm gentleness in the ocean obviously affected her judgement. By giving her courage, he had taken her heart. His harsh words in the graveyard were a sharp reminder of the other side of his nature. Now though, she understood he had been protecting his grandfather this whole time.
Thomas Blake was alive. If the pendant meant anything to him, he should have it, along with his own letters and the rings intended for his wedding day.
What will I say to Thomas? Once her questions would have filled a book, yet now she just wanted to apologise for reading his private letters. All she longed for was Martin to respect her, to forgive her, to trust her.
She sighed as she unplugged the tongs. She would pack up all of Thomas’ belongings and return them to him, even if it meant angering Martin further.
***
DEREK PUSHED OPEN THE door to River's End Real Estate, wrinkling his nose at the overpowering floral scent from a plugin freshener. Daphne pushed her lunch to one side, trying to swallow the mouthful she had just taken. She stared at him appreciatively, admiring his well-cut suit and handsome face. She did like a redhead, being married to one, and this young man had enough tinge of copper to get her attention.
“Don’t rush.” Derek flashed a charming smile which he dropped when he turned away to peruse the wall of properties for sale. His practised eye discarded most of them, only finding a new estate of interest.
"Please forgive me; on my own, so lunch is between clients!" Daphne stood up and came around the counter to offer Derek her hand. "I'm Daphne Jones and my husband John is the principal here."
Derek shook her hand. “Yes, I’ve heard decent things about him.”
Daphne beamed. “You have?”
“He’s well regarded in the industry. I’m Derek Hobbs from Hobbs Development International.”
"Oh, a developer! Well, there's plenty of opportunities around here. Is there something, in particular, you're interested in?"
“More a someone.” Derek winked. “My fiancée is here, staying in her newly inherited cottage and I’ve come to make a surprise visit.”
“You’re Christie’s young man! Well, it is lovely to meet you. I didn’t know she was back in town.”
Daphne went back behind the counter, thinking about the last time she had seen Christie. It had been to leave the painting for Martin to collect.
“So, how may I be of assistance?”
“Just after some directions.”
“Easy. Head straight back toward Melbourne and turn left right after the cemetery. Then, on the right a little way past the railway line.”
“Thanks. Is there a florist nearby? Can’t go there empty-handed.”
“Just over the road. What a lucky girl Christie is.”
"Appreciate your help. Will have to have a chat with John once Christie agrees to sell."
“He’ll love that! You give Christie my best now.” The woman had an odd expression on her face. As if she knew what he was up to. Ignore her. He nodded and left. The sooner he fixed this problem, the better.
***
CHRISTIE FINISHED PACKING the last of Thomas’ belongings into the shoebox. All of his letters were in the bottom, then, the rings in their box. The pendant was inside one of Christie’s own ring boxes. She did not know what to do with the photo album. Perhaps she could send him copies of them once she had some made.
She put the lid on and tied it up with the velvet ribbon. Even though the box was a bit soft, it held together well enough with the ribbon in place. Thomas already had the painting, presumably, so that was everything. Now, she had to find the nerve to drive to Martin’s house once again.
Last time she was there, Martin called her city girl and told her to go home. This morning, on the beach, he virtually repeated himself.
“Anyone would think you’re trying to get rid of me.” She murmured aloud, trying to push down the jumbled emotions threatening to spill over all the time. At least she might get to see Randall again which was almost worth the angst.
Deciding she might as well get this over with, Christie went to her bedroom to find her sandals. She remembered picking them up from the top of the stone steps earlier in the day where Martin left them.
She was not in love with him. She had only just broken up with Derek. Except, she reminded herself, and love for Derek had long gone, pushed away by his narcissistic personality and interest in Ingrid. What she felt for Martin was different.
Not that it matters, she thought as she went back to the kitchen. Martin doesn’t even like you. He thinks you’re terrible for reading private letters and he might be right.
Even if Thomas Blake had been dead, he still probably would hate her for reading his grandfather’s writings.
Before she could pick up the shoebox, there was a sharp tap on the door, and she hurried to open it, worried. What if it was Martin? Maybe he wanted to talk or tell her off some more.
Thomas Blake stood on the porch. Resting against the wall beside him was the seascape.
He stared at Christie for a long moment.
She gazed back, not believing her eyes.
When he spoke, his voice was exactly as she imagined it would be. “I’ve come to get what’s mine.”