Despite my malaise, or because of my meds, happiness began to bloom softly in my chest at the thought of being with Martin again, at seeing the newly constructed house he’d bought for us on the banks of the Bonny River. He’d sent photos. It looked spectacular. The house was an architecturally designed double story with lots of glass and clean lines, and there was a boathouse with a dock, he’d said, which would be ideal as my studio.
A streak of lightning speared through the clouds, and the plane tilted as we headed into a steep, bumpy descent toward a bay fringed with yellow sand.
The lone flight attendant ordered us to restore seats to the upright position and stash loose belongings beneath them. She’d remained buckled into her fold-down seat next to the door for the duration of the short flight from Sydney’s international airport. The pilot announced we were about to land in Moruya. He said it was unseasonably hot and that the storm was moving south of us. Moruya was a short drive from Jarrawarra Bay. Martin would be waiting.
Crosswinds buffeted us, and my stomach surged as a foreign landscape whirled up to greet us—a twisting chocolate-brown river and estuary thick with mangroves. Spindly gums bowing to the wind. Oyster beds in the river with decaying pilings and docks. A crane flew low over the water. As we lowered, I saw kangaroos grazing along the side of the airport fence. We hit the runway with a jolt, bounced, and hit with another hard bang, and then the plane rattled and shuddered all the way to the very end of the runway, right past the tiny airport building. After the pilot finally managed to bring us to a stop, we turned and taxied slowly back to the building. The heat grew stifling inside the cabin. I peered through the tiny window at the squat, tin-roofed structure that passed for the Moruya Airport. A patio in front with tables. A fence. A gate . . . I saw him. My heart kicked.
Martin.
Tall. Deeply bronzed. Wearing shorts. His hair gleaming like gold. He shaded his eyes, scanning the windows of our plane as we came in. I could barely restrain myself from unbuckling and ferreting my stuff out from under my seat. I wanted to see it all. Right now. I wanted a hot shower, a clean bed. I wanted to feel my husband’s arms folding me into this new and exotic adventure of a life we’d chosen.
The seat belt sign pinged off.
The flight attendant opened the door. I could smell the sea. She extended the foldout stairs. We all waited, sweating, as the pilot and copilot climbed out first.
I was the first to descend after them.
Hot wind slammed me as I stepped onto the stairs. It carried the scent of eucalyptus trees and a tinge of smoke from distant forest fires. Martin’s hand shot up as he saw me. He waved wildly, and I hurried down the stairs, over the tarmac, and in through the arched gateway. He lifted me off my feet and hugged me as he spun me around in a circle and kissed me. Tears poured down my face—of happiness, relief, pure exhaustion. I was done.
He set me down, moved my bangs back off my brow, studied me a moment, then gripped my face in both his hands. Looking at me, right into me, his blue eyes all the more blue against his deep tan. He said, “Welcome to our new home, Ellie Cresswell-Smith. I have missed you so much. How was the trip?”
His accent was markedly Australian—much stronger than when I’d seen him last.
“It was . . . okay.” The baby who had screamed the entire way from Vancouver, the claustrophobia at being stuffed into a flying tin can, the anxiety bordering on panic, the zero sleep . . . It all fled my mind. “You look so tanned, so . . . Australian.”
“And what does that look like? Crocodile Dundee?” He wiggled his eyebrows.
I laughed, thrilled to be back in his aura and feeling the throb of his energy once more. “Thank heavens, no. I’m dying to see our new place. The photos looked amazing.” I pointed out my bags on the trolley that had been pushed from the plane. Martin dragged my two suitcases off the cart. His flip-flops flapped as we made our way from the airport building to his truck—our truck. All this was mine, too. This life.
Kangaroos watched us from sparse, dry grass near the parking area. Heat pressed down. I heard beetles. Birds screamed—harsh and unfamiliar sounds. Sweat beaded and trickled between my breasts. My hair felt sticky against my scalp and cloying down my back. I could smell the old sweat on myself. I literally ached for a hot shower, a firm bed, fresh sheets.
“Our new ute,” Martin said proudly as he drew back a tarp that covered the back. He hefted my bags into the high bed. They landed with a thump. I wanted to tell him to be careful with the suitcase that contained my art supplies, but I held back.
“I cannot wait for a shower,” I said, moving toward the passenger door. “And sleep. I don’t even know how many days I’ve been awake now.”
“Oh, babe—” He hesitated.
I stopped with my hand on the door. He looked crestfallen.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I brought us a picnic. I thought we’d drive straight on up to Agnes Basin so I could show you the site office and development right away. After all, that’s the whole reason we’re here, doing this thing, right?”
My heart sank. I wavered, feeling dizzy suddenly. “I . . . I hope we’re here for more than just the development.”
His gaze locked with mine. His features turned unfriendly. I blinked. I was imagining it. The world—the sunlight—everything was too harsh. Too bright. Too hot. Too discordant. The meds, my hangover, the jet lag suddenly making my ears ring. I dug into my purse, found my big sunglasses, put them on. “It’s fine.” I cleared my throat and focused on speaking with an easy, breezy tone. “I’m just hella tired, that’s all. And maybe a bit hungover.” I laughed lightly. “I thought some drinks on the plane would help drown out a screaming baby. But no luck.” I forced another light laugh. “Poor mother.”
I didn’t mention the lorazepam.
Martin didn’t need to know about that.
There was something veiled in his eyes as he watched me, which unsettled me further. “So shall we go up to Agnes, or not?”
“Sure we should. It’ll be fine—I’m fine. I want to see it now,” I lied. I was reluctant to displease him. Not on our first day back together.
THEN
ELLIE
A big grin cut across Martin’s face the moment I said I “wanted” to drive up to see the development right away. His eyes and body danced back to life, like those of a child who’d just been handed back a new and prized toy that had been in imminent danger of being confiscated.
“And I’ve got just the thing for that hangover!” he announced as he drew back the cover on the ute bed again, exposing a cooler box. He popped the blue lid off the cooler and like a magician pulled out two bottles of chilled cider. Beads of moisture slid down the outsides of the glass bottles. My thirst was suddenly ferocious.
“Hair of the dog.” He wiggled the bottles, his grin deepening to reveal his dimples, then cracked open a bottle and offered it to me. I took it and immediately glugged down a quarter of the contents as he opened his own.
“Got plenty more of these in the esky,” he said as he closed the cooler. “And wine. And roast chicken. Potato salad. French bread.” He clinked his bottle against mine. “Cheers and welcome home, babe. Here’s to our new life.”
We took long swallows together, climbed into the ute—me almost getting into the wrong side. We set our ciders in the cup holders, and Martin started the engine.
“We won’t be at Agnes long, I promise. We’ll be home before dinner.” He pulled into the road on the “wrong” side and tossed me another smile. “Besides, if you try to adapt to the new routine right away, it’ll help head off the jet lag.”
I took another deep swig of my cold cider, feeling the buzz of alcohol spreading fast through my weary lorazepam-addled veins and sleep-deprived brain. But he was right. Hair of the dog. It worked. And who cared about jet lag—this was our new world, a new adventure. And the development was the reason we’d come. I could sleep later.
Just go with the flow. No rules. Shape your ow
n narrative.
But by the time we were on the Princes Highway and driving through a narrow and never-ending tunnel of monotonous gums with dry, drab, sharp-angled leaves, I’d finished my drink and was nodding in and out of a syrupy stupor. Martin put on the radio. Music played softly.
I must have drifted off deeply, because suddenly my head slammed against the window and I jerked awake in shock. My eyes flared open. I struggled to orient myself. We’d swerved to avoid roadkill. I winced and rubbed my face. My chin was sticky with dried drool. My body odor smelled strong. My face was sweaty. Martin cast me a quick glance. Something like distaste flitted through his features; then it was gone. Perhaps I’d imagined it. He returned his attention to the road, but I saw his hands fisting the wheel.
I sat in fuzzy silence for another several kilometers as the forest whizzed by. Occasional kangaroos and wallabies lay dead along the side of the road. A sick feeling filled my stomach. I should have insisted Martin take me home first.
“How far is it?” I asked as we passed yet another massacred roo, or whatever the tawny-colored creature was.
“I told you already. Agnes is about a twenty-five-minute drive north of Jarra.” His voice was cool. A sense of doom spread black and oily through my chest. My father used to use that same tone when I was unable to live up to his expectations.
I looked out the window, then jumped as a giant prehistoric thing with dragon wings over three feet in span came flapping down the side of the highway along the fringe of gums. It was followed by another, then a whole swarm. “What in the hell?” I spun around in my seat to watch them, my heart hammering.
“Flying foxes,” he said, voice clipped. “They’re a species of giant fruit bat. Largest flying mammal there is.” His gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, his neck muscles taut. “Bloody things started migrating into the region in swarms when some of the gums started to blossom early due to this weird hot weather. More than one hundred thousand at last count have set up camp in this area—like a fucking megabat epidemic.”
I blinked. I’d not heard Martin swear in casual conversation. Once again I noted the thickness of his Aussie accent, the changes in his features. Or was I seeing things crookedly through my haze of malaise? A thread of fear curled through me. Paranoia had been a side effect of my drug and alcohol abuse after I’d let Chloe slip through my hands and drown. I’d fought back from it. Maybe I should not have taken the sedatives on the plane. Maybe I would slip again.
“The shire has set up a task force to figure out how to deal with the buggers because they’re a protected species and you can’t just kill them. They shit over everything. Foul-smelling orange guano.”
I stared in horror as another mass of giant bats flapped along the line of gums where the trees had been cleared to make way for the road.
He slowed and put on the indicator as we approached a sign that pointed to the Agnes Basin. We turned off the highway and onto a smaller road that led toward the ocean. We passed a placard affixed to a post. It was torn and flapped in the wind. Letters big and black.
STOP AGNES MARINA!
“Martin?” I turned in my seat. “Is that aimed at us?”
“It’s nothing. It’s normal. Every development gets that stuff. Bloody greenies.”
I saw another poster, edges torn and snapping in hot wind.
NO! TO AGNES MARINA
A few hundred meters farther, several placards had been hammered into trees.
MAKE A PARK, NOT A RESORT FOR MILLIONAIRES,
SAVE THE ENVIRONMENT, STOP AGNES!
SAVE THE FISH EAGLE
SAVE OUR FISHING HABITAT
Martin took the ute onto a smaller side road. As we rounded a curve, we were warned by a forest of red signs planted like election banners into the dry verges.
STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP.
DEATH TO THE MARINA.
VOTE MAYOR OUT!
Kangaroos grazed between the signs, looking like giant rats with malformed hands. Wind gusted. Branches and twigs crashed down from the gums, and leaves dry from drought scattered across our path. My head felt thick, as though I weren’t really here and I were seeing all this through some viscous filter from far away. Pressure began to build inside my ears. A heavy sensation pressed down into my gut. My own words to my father when I’d told him about our venture filtered up into my memory.
Besides, how wrong can it go?
“Martin,” I said softly, trying to pull myself into focus, “this seems—”
“Most people in this shire, Ellie, including the majority of councillors plus the mayor, are more than pleased at the prospect of construction jobs,” he said crisply. “They’re pro the development. And new jobs mean more votes, and the new houses will bring more taxes for the shire coffers, and new houses will mean more residents for the constituency, and that means more state funds.”
Another tattered sign flapped on a fence.
SAVE THE FISH EAGLES, KILL THE MARINA
“But the environmental study is—”
“In the bag, dammit, I told you! The consultants were chosen because they’re on my side. They’ve promised it will be positive. It’ll be good.”
“I thought environmental consultants were supposed to be neutral.”
He swore under his breath. “You can be so naive. Don’t worry about it—I said it’s fine, okay? Everything is going to be okay.” His voice turned quiet. But his neck was corded and so were his arms. He flicked a glance at me, and he must have seen the extent of the shock in my eyes because his features softened almost instantly. He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, El.” He took in another deep, regulating breath. “I realize this development stuff is all new to you, but every project has to jump through these hoops, and it always comes with bumps. And those bumps can be frustrating. Creating a marina that requires deep channeling into an estuary thick with mangroves where local fishermen hide illegal crab pots and do what in the hell they like—of course you’re going to get objections. But the bottom line is, approvals are on track, presales are going gangbusters. I’ll show you the numbers when we get home.” He forced a smile.
We passed a shed with corrugated metal siding. Painted in bloodred, angry letters were the words:
DEATH TO THE CRESSWELL-SMITHS!
THEN
ELLIE
“This is it! What do you think?”
I stood with Martin in front of a prefabricated building that squatted on a freshly paved parking lot next to a sullen tidal river.
A sign creaked in the hot sea wind: AGNES MARINA SALES OFFICE. Sulphur-crested cockatoos, white and surreal, screeched in the branches that hung over the building. Surf thundered in the distance. A shag—a black bird some might call a cormorant—perched atop a rotted piling, wings spread out to dry like a cape. A flotilla of pelicans bobbed on the surface, eyes like giant marbles watching us.
I shielded my eyes against the glare. The sky had turned hazy but no less harsh, even from behind my shades. I was disoriented, wobbly on my feet, and the world seemed to sway with the ripple and push of the river. Topmost in my mind was that slogan in dripping-blood paint.
DEATH TO THE CRESSWELL-SMITHS!
“They threatened us both personally, Martin,” I said quietly.
“Oh, come on—it’s just some nutjob. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“It’s not even worth it.”
“Are you sure? And why drag me into it? It said, ‘Cresswell-Smiths.’ That’s both of us.”
“You’re my wife. We’re equal partners and some crazy is trying to spook us, that’s all.”
“Well, it’s working.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, El. Come.” He took my arm and opened the door.
The air-conditioned interior was cool and furnished with a gleaming white desk, leather chairs, and a marble-topped counter that hosted an espresso machine and was fronted by barstools. Television monitors screened footage that showed laughing couples on ya
chts, private marinas, surfers in barreling waves, deep-sea divers, aerial shots of the inlet and estuary, exotic meals, flowers, fancy drinks, swimming pools, tanned girls in bikinis, men with smiles that belonged in toothpaste ads, and children who grinned from ear to ear.
Stacks of brochures covered glass-topped tables, and posters showed sunny images of an idealized lifestyle. I picked up a brochure. It advertised the various ownership models available, from a quarter share to a half share to full ownership, with potential to put properties into a rental pool.
“This is Lennin, my on-site sales ace,” Martin said proudly.
I looked up and blinked as Lennin exited an adjacent office. Lennin was female. In her mid- to late twenties. She wore a red T-shirt and white shorts. Really short shorts. Her legs were long and sunbrowned, her arms lean and muscular. She sported a huge white smile and a mane of chestnut-colored hair that bounced softly around her shoulders. I was momentarily stunned by her in-your-face radiance and the fact that Lennin was a young woman. When Martin had told me he’d hired a terrific salesperson named Lennin, I’d just assumed it was a guy. And older. She reminded me of the ubiquitous ever-youthful employees at high-end health clubs where—despite my wealth—I’d never felt I fitted in. Or one of those reality television stars who crewed on exotic boats and looked totally unreal.
“G’day, El,” she said in a hearty Australian accent. “Martin’s told me so much about you.” Lennin offered me her hand. “So great to finally meet you.”
I shook her hand and was suddenly acutely conscious of my wintery jeans, the damp perspiration marks under my armpits, my unwashed hair. The fact that I could do with a shower. The notion that I’d never in my wildest dreams have a body like hers. Martin watched us as though he was weighing us, one against the other. For some absurd reason I felt he’d done this on purpose—juxtaposed, contrasted me against Lennin—so I could take note of my own shortcomings, my age, against Lennin’s youth and vitality. Even while I knew it was an absurd idea, resentment pulsed through me.
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