My car shimmies to a stop.
I look at the house, the black car, the shed, and back again. Other than those two waving towels, there’s no sign anyone is around.
But two towels?
Brayden’s never lacked for female company. He’s hardly likely to come all this way for a romantic weekend alone. Maybe if I reverse straight back the way I came, I can slip away before I’m seen? Before I ruin his dirty weekend.
Or romantic weekend, of course.
Then Seb lets out his loudest wail yet. In the rearview mirror, his cheeks are red cherries. The front of his shirt is soaked at the collar.
Teeth. He’s teething.
We can’t stay in the car any longer, it isn’t fair. I have to let him out. I twist the key, and my car shudders itself still.
I open my door to a hit of salt-scented beach. For one beautiful second my brain sighs in pleasure, and then I’m out and around the car, reaching for my son.
Tears flood his neck. His chin is slippery with a mix of snot, tears and dribble. I cuddle him close to my chest, bouncing him in the cooling breeze, wiping at his face with the falling-apart tissue that’s been stuffed in my bra. I’m close to crying myself.
Why didn’t I pull into one of the rest stops along the highway? I should have stopped, somewhere, anywhere, on the side of the road.
‘Sorry, little man,’ I shush him.
Balancing Seb on my hip, I grab the nappy bag from the passenger footrest and sling it over my free shoulder.
When I first saw his car, I hoped Brayden wasn’t here. Now I’m hoping he is inside. I need the toilet too, and I don’t fancy ducking behind the shed to pee if the house is locked, or changing Seb’s nappy on the front seat of my car.
‘Jennifer?’
I whip toward his voice. My tummy does this liquid slosh, like a water balloon bouncing, until my torso aligns with my spinning head, and I see him.
Brayden.
‘Hi,’ I say. It sounds dreadfully inept.
There’s him: Bare-foot, unshaven, and he still looks like sex on legs.
Then there’s me: travel-weary, toddler screaming, a snail-trail of snot and dribble on my collarbone.
It’s no contest.
‘Emmy didn’t think anyone would be here. I’m so sorry. I hate to barge in on you like this.’
‘Hi yourself. You’re a surprise.’ He descends the ramp. The steps bow under his weight and the entire house complains. ‘You’re hardly barging. I’ve never seen anyone take that driveway so slow, and don’t blame Em. She doesn’t know I’m here. What are you doing here anyway?’
Seb is all huge blue eyes, his attention captured by this big, broad stranger. For the moment at least, he’s forgotten his sore teeth, and that’s a blessing.
‘I’ve — ’ I break off. I’ve what exactly? Come to get away. Come to recharge my batteries. Come to escape my two-timing ex. ‘I’ve come for the weekend.’
Brayden steps lightly off the bottom step. He’s wearing a blue-checked shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow — unbuttoned — over a white T-shirt with a faded yellow Corona logo. Charcoal-grey shorts finish just above his knees.
I’ve forgotten how overwhelming he is. I’m tall, but there’s so much of him to go round. It’s a bit like watching Thor, but without the hammer.
I heft Sebby higher on my hip. ‘Sebastian, this is Brayden. This is Aunt Emmy’s big brother.’
‘Hi, mate,’ Brayden says, and his hand swallows Seb’s fist and half his arm in a shake.
Seb’s eyes open even wider, and he smiles.
Then this mass of man reaches for me. ‘It’s good to see you, Jenn. You look great.’
There’s an awkward moment where he has to dodge my son to press a kiss on my cheek. I get a hint of chocolate on his warm breath, and something jelly-sweet I can’t place, before his whiskers tickle my skin and make me shiver.
‘Sorry.’ He stands back, pinching his beard where it glistens gingery-gold at his jaw. ‘It takes some getting used to.’
‘Kissing a man with a beard is like eating a peach through a blanket,’ I say, without thinking.
‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Then he really looks at me, turning me inside out with those Viking-blue eyes. ‘How are you, Jenn? It’s been a long time.’
Three years and about, oh two months. ‘I’m good,’ I say automatically, bumping Seb higher.
‘Which one shall I take?’ he asks, and before I can answer, he wraps his hands around Sebby’s ribs and lifts him. Without my ballast, I almost tip like the proverbial teapot.
From his vantage point, Seb’s head swivels to make sure I’m coming too.
‘We won’t stay long. If I can just use the toilet and I need to change his nappy.’ I fall in behind as Brayden turns for the stairs.
‘Stay as long as you like,’ he says, over his shoulder.
I pull a face. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture the girl waiting in the beach house right now. If she heard his invitation, I bet she’s cursing the ground I walk on. I bet she doesn’t want me to stay as long as I like.
My son’s hand stretches to Brayden’s whiskers. At the last minute, Brayden shakes his head like a burly bear, making Seb snatch his fingers into his belly and giggle. Two seconds later, those tiny fingers creep out again. Brayden plays the game.
Like Emmy, he’s good with kids. There were always youngsters running around their parents’ place. Don and Lottie Culhane have generous hearts and they’ve often given refuge to troubled kids. A lot of those foster kids — teenagers now — still come to the Culhanes’ to share lunch on Christmas day. It’s one big extended, happy family.
I wait while the two of them ascend the stairs, unsure about whether those steps will take our combined weight. Brayden asks Seb if he likes making sandcastles. ‘And what about chasing seagulls? Do you like that too, mate? Can’t let seagulls steal all the chips.’ Then the screen door squeaks open and the shack absorbs them.
I take a last gulp of ocean air before I start the climb.
Inside the house, it’s warm but not stuffy. I’d expected it would take a few hours of airing to rid it of that shut-up feeling, but Brayden has done that already. I wonder how long he’s been here.
There are coffee cups and plates, rinsed but not washed, stacked at the side of the kitchen sink. On the laminated countertop, a white plastic chopping board is sprinkled with breadcrumbs and tomato seeds, a tub of butter beside it. A jar of peanut paste hasn’t been returned to to the pantry.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ Brayden says.
‘You weren’t expecting company.’ Not my company, anyway.
I drop the nappy bag at my feet and take a proper look around.
The Culhanes transported this house here when they bought the block in the late eighties. It came from a sheep farm somewhere north-east of Perth and I think Emmy told me it began life as shearers’ quarters.
It has two main bedrooms, one at the front off the lounge and one at the back, off the kitchen. The couch unfolds into a sofa bed, adding to the sleeping options. There is one bathroom, two toilets, a laundry, and the kitchen has a breakfast nook set into the window.
Low cupboards make window seats in that breakfast nook. We used to sit on them while we ate our toast or cereal because there were never enough of the green swivelling kitchen chairs to go round.
Even the old clunky lime-green Kelvinator refrigerator is still there with Mrs Culhane’s list of beach house instructions on the front. It says things like: no cleaning fish on the porch; wipe out the fridge when you leave; make sure all doors and windows are locked; last person out please turn off the water at the meter.
I don’t need to read that list. I remember it by heart.
A box of chocolates is on top of the fridge, and as I see it, something clicks in my brain. That’s the scent I caught on Brayden’s breath. Turkish Delight. His favourite. Mine too.
Mrs Culhane’s shell collection spills over a three-level shelf tacked above the microwave. That’s one thing that’s changed — more shells. Otherwise, the brownish carpet is more worn, and the curtains are a faded shade of creamy yellow. That’s it. In eight years, that’s all I can see that’s different.
‘Nothing’s changed,’ I say, looking at him. Except he has, he’s cut his hair. It’s still long and thick, but I’m not sure he could catch it in a pony-tail anymore.
‘It could do with a coat of paint. The folks don’t want to spend any money on it.’
‘The value is in the land, not the house,’ I say, my eyes on the lines where they etch the corner of his eyes and his mouth. Those lines are new.
Brayden cocks an eyebrow at me. ‘I forget you’re in real estate.’
‘Not in real estate, I just write about it.’ What does he see when he looks at me?
‘Sell it. Write about it. Same thing.’ Brayden puts Seb on the floor. My son wanders through the interconnecting doorframe and into the lounge.
‘Is there anything he can get in trouble with in there?’ A blonde hiding in the front bedroom?
Brayden shrugs. ‘We sold the Ming vase, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I should tell you right now, Seb doesn’t abide by the laws of you break it, you bought it.’
He laughs, and the sound warms my toes. That hasn’t changed, either.
‘Do you mind if I change Seb’s nappy here?’ I ask.
He waves his hand. ‘Be my guest.’
Unzipping the nappy bag, I rummage through it for wipes and a nappy. When I find them, I go hunting for Seb. He’s in the front room, about to pull tissues out of the box on the coffee table.
I lay him on the carpet, peel off his wet nappy, dump it in a nappy sack, lift his bottom and put on a fresh one. It’s a quick change. Before I was a mum, I’d never changed a nappy. Now I could do it in the dark. Brayden’s in the doorway, watching. I can see feet, long toes, and the solid muscle of his calves. His foot taps a couple of times in the corner of my vision.
‘So how’s life with Tiger Woods, Jenn?’ He drops Jack into the room, like a cat might toss a dead rat across the floor.
‘I wish Jack was Tiger Woods,’ I say, with a lightness I don’t feel, smoothing Velcro tabs across Seb’s tummy. ‘Then I could replace the Ming vases my son breaks.’
Tugging a T-shirt over Seb’s head and Thomas Tank Engine shorts up his stumpy legs, I let him loose.
He heads for the tissue box.
‘How ’bout I take that, young man.’ Brayden’s hand descends, and he lifts the box to a high shelf on the bookcase. From the look in Seb’s eyes, it’s like a giant crane just stole his fun.
I get up with the wet nappy swinging in the bag in my hand.
Through the front window, there’s a patch of bright orange gazanias in the weeds on the opposite side of the road. They’re dancing in the breeze and it’s as if the grass is on fire.
When I turn back, I catch Brayden’s gaze on my face. The breath bumps in my throat and it takes me a moment to find something to say.
‘What about you, Brayden? What have you been up to?’
His eyes slip away. ‘Not much. Work. Airports. Airports. Work. You know the drill.’
‘I do.’ I smile as I say it, but Brayden’s smile in return doesn’t reach his eyes. That’s when I realise the lines on his face aren’t all age-related. He’s exhausted. ‘You look tired, Bray.’
He rubs the back of his neck. ‘Yeah, I’m on extended leave. Got a couple weeks off.’
‘Sorry I rocked up to spoil your fun. We’re not staying.’ I wave the nappy sack in my hand. ‘Soon as you tell me what I can do with this, I’ll get out of your hair.’
‘Where will you go?’
There’s a question. “Somewhere cheap” springs to mind. ‘We’ll find a hotel or something.’
‘You’re welcome to stay here. There’s plenty of room and Mum keeps all the linen stocked up. It’ll be fun to have company. You’ll help take my mind off… things.’
‘But, you’re expecting… other company, surely?’ A blush creeps into my cheeks. ‘I mean… at some stage. Aren’t you?’
Finally, he gets my drift.
‘I’m not expecting any guests, I promise. So stay. It’ll be fun. It’s not like we haven’t shared this place before.’ He shifts the tissue box another shelf higher and taps the bookcase, as a thought occurs to him. ‘What about you, though… you’re not expecting… anyone, to be joining you, are you?’
He means Jack.
‘So not going to happen.’ My laugh must sound strange because Seb — who’s been doing his best to get his foot on the lowest bookcase shelf to launch a rescue mission on the tissues — stops, cranes his head around to stare at me.
I try again. ‘I didn’t invite any guests.’ I add a verbal full-stop because I don’t want to talk about Jack. Not now. Not with him. ‘It’s your house and your holiday, Brayden. If you’re seriously up for some toddler company — and I warn you, 7am is a sleep-in with him — we’d love to stay for a few days. But only if you don’t mind.’
I swing the nappy sack again. ‘Now, is there somewhere I can put this? It’s only wet, it’s not toxic.’
‘There’s a bin in the shed. You get rid of that, and I’ll make sure Humpty here doesn’t fall off the wall.’
***
The shed smells of salt, oil, and musty concrete. It’s dark and even with the door open, my eyes are slow to adjust to the gloom.
All the fishing rods, squid jigs and crab nets hang on the wall, exactly where they were in summers gone by. Well kept, if a bit dusty.
Even the brag board is still here. Whoever caught the biggest crab or squid, we’d measure it. If it made a new record, we’d draw its span in centimetres and mark it with our name. We’re all on there: the whole gang — Brayden, Emmy, Jenn, Pope, Marvin.
Pope’s still got the record, but we all know he cheated. No Geographe Bay crab ever grew that big.
***
When I get back inside, Brayden has taken Seb out the front. A quick peek at them out the window is enough to satisfy me they both seem happy.
I throw some crackers and cheese on a plate — my crackers, Brayden’s cheese — and mash a banana and avocado together for Seb’s afternoon snack.
As I carry the plate and bowl outside, Brayden climbs the steps to meet me on the porch. He steals a cracker before pulling out a white plastic outdoor chair. It takes me a few seconds before I realise the chair is meant for me.
‘Thanks,’ I mumble, shunting the seat forward.
He sits opposite, slices a segment of soft cheese and paints it on the cracker.
Near the base of the steps, Seb sits rattling pebbles he’s found in a black plastic garden pot. I’m pleased to see that the red in his cheeks has faded.
‘Come have some lunch, Sebby,’ I encourage in my best Mum voice.
He ignores me of course. I have to fetch him and carry him up the steps to sit with me.
‘It’s like having a puppy,’ Brayden comments, leaning into his chair with his arms folded behind his head.
‘No it’s not. You can shut the door on a puppy and leave it outside,’ I say, putting Seb on a chair before I lasso his head with a bib and start spooning banana goop into his mouth.
The sea breeze caresses my face, warm on my throat and arms.
A kid on a skateboard slides past.
Brayden asks about my work and we fill a few minutes talking property: what the palace next door might be worth; what you could get for this shack.
‘You’re on, what, half an acre here? It depends on the planning rules but if you demolished this shack, maybe you could subdivide. Make two blocks. The shack is set back far enough, you could probably keep it if you want, build a new place here at the front.’ I nod at all the space between us and the road.
‘Shame to sell the old place though. New owners would probably demolish it straight up,’ Brayden says. ‘I love coming here. Don’t get down enough.’
‘Yeah. There aren’t many like this left.’
He doesn’t mention Jack again and for the first time in twenty-four hours, the brittle edge slides from me as we talk.
A posse of older children with zinc-plastered noses and backward caps pass the beach house, heading for the caravan park. One hops and skips on the bitumen road the way city kids do when they don’t have shoes.
‘Tenderfoot,’ Brayden says, dipping his head toward the hopping kid. His teeth flash in a grin. ‘They raised us tough in Karratha, hey? We could run over those red rocks for hours and not feel a thing.’
I nod, but I don’t answer.
I haven’t seen Brayden much in the last few years and when I have, I’ve had warning. I’ve been able to prepare myself — don my armour. Right now, I’m unprotected. Raw. He’s seeping in to me like he’s the water and I’m the sponge.
So I concentrate on scraping banana from the sides of Seb’s bowl and when he’s finished, I tug the bib over his head, wipe his sticky mouth, and let him loose.
Seb toddles across the deck, turns, and goes butt-first down the stairs, back to his plastic pot near the steps.
Where did I pack his hat?
‘Should he have a hat?’ Brayden asks, while I’m trying to remember what I stuffed in which bag.
‘Yeah, but he’s a bugger about keeping it on his head.’
Brayden gets up, goes to Seb, and lifts him — pot and all — depositing both in the peppi tree’s shade. ‘There you go mate.’ Then he looks at me for confirmation. ‘He’s okay here isn’t he? It’s not too close to the road?’
‘Seb doesn’t move anywhere fast. Not yet. He’s been a bit of a late walker. We can keep an eye on him easy enough as long as one of us is out here. Gotta say though, I wish your folks had put in a front fence. Maybe you and Emmy need to give your folks some grandkids. You won’t believe how much you’d appreciate a fence then.’
He laughs. ‘Maybe. Don’t think that’s happening anytime soon though.’
The bushes either side of the lawn make a pretty good side fence on their own. They’re prickly and straggly, and I’m sure that somewhere in that scrubby wilderness if I poked far enough, I’d find a fence of some description, however unkempt.
‘We should take Seb to the beach,’ Brayden says.
I glance at my watch. I can’t help it. Routine rules my life. ‘Let me unpack the car and get a few things sorted, that way it won’t be so hot by the time we get there.’
‘Sure.’
Behind Brayden, Seb squats near his plastic pot, a look of extreme concentration on his face.
‘I think I’ll need to do a nappy change too.’
Brayden squints at me. ‘Didn’t you just do that?’
‘That was a number one. This — my friend — is a number two.’
He screws up his nose. ‘How about you sort the nappy stuff, and I’ll bring in your gear?’
‘Wimp,’ I say, but I laugh as I push out of my chair.