by Kim Petersen
Scott took in the scene before him with a broad glance. He noticed the tremble of her slight body, the almost empty vodka bottle cast aside in the sand next to her, and limp golden hair hanging bleakly around her shoulders as he drew closer. He looked to the only woman he could ever love with a sense of despair. He brought his arms around her and kissed her forehead. She turned and reached for him, nuzzling dry lips against his. He was surprised that his presence evoked a response in her that he hadn’t seen in years.
He brushed the tears from her face and gazed down at her. “Shhhh,” he soothed, “What’s going on, baby?”
Vulnerable blue eyes looked into his with the innocence of a small child. “I need help,” she whispered. She fell against him as she abandoned herself to the confession that had escaped through cracked lips.
It didn’t require much strength to hold her quaking body. Scott saw a flicker of hope as she wept in his arms. Relief flooded through him as his own tears joined hers as he realised how deep hers words scorched through him. All thoughts of the man he suspected might be her estranged husband faded from his mind as Scott lost himself to the joy this moment gave to him. All that consumed his mind now was Lilly and her willingness to sober up. He took a long breath and tentatively began to explain to her his plan for the rehabilitation clinic.
***
Nestled in a reclusive little niche amid the lush rainforest and hinterland of the Numinbah Valley on the Gold Coast was the white homestead style mansion of The Rosebud Retreat. Kate found on this bright morning that it was abstinence treatment that brought her here. The willingness to change the boozy life that she had acknowledged while sitting at the beach a few days ago, stuck with her. But it wasn’t enough to stop the emotions that bubbled unchecked beneath the surface of her delicate demeanour. She knew the detoxifying days that lay before her would be difficult and lonely and she already felt like she was entering a barren stretch of no-man’s land.
The car finally pulled to a stop in front of a broad grand verandah that wrapped around the whole of the building. Pale yellow window panes dotted with colourful flowers among their sills, along with the vast growth of hanging baskets that hung cheerfully from its eves, gave the homestead the comforting feel the owners set out to achieve. Kate could see there were other smaller cottages scattered among big trees behind the manor. A stable with horses stood beside a paddock. She sighed and swallowed hard to shift the lump taking refuge in her throat as she regarded a well-loved garden. In the garden were a sprinkling of people perched quietly, each before an easel and engrossed in their painting. She looked to Scott, unable to conceal her anguish that increased with every beat of her heart. She was to stay here for three months. Three whole long months! Oh my goodness! She could barely breathe.
He smiled down at her and caressed her cheek. “It’s okay,” Scott assured her. “It’s all going to be okay, I promise.”
She gave him the bravest smile she could manage to summon before they both alighted from the car and walked hesitantly towards the house.
Kate removed her large sunglasses as they stepped into the foyer. She gazed around the house with foreboding, while clinging to Scott’s arm with the skittish manner of a wild, frightened animal. Do I really have the strength to do this? she wondered. She looked back at Scott and found herself consumed with the love she found there. It was the boost of courage she needed to keep going. She was well aware now that her abstinence hinged on much more than just her own personal interests. She knew the future of the relationship she shared with the man walking next to her rested on her cleaning up. And maybe... just maybe, she contemplated, one day soon my children might allow me to visit with them.
A woman called Deborah greeted them warmly. “You can call me Deb,” she said. Her smile revealed a depth of kindness that glowed behind brown eyes.
She took them through the proper formalities in her office and showed them to the quarters that Kate would call home for the next three months. Deb sat down with them in the living area of the casually decorated suite and explained the twelve-step program that Kate was about to embark on. She emphasised the self-determination that Kate would need to sustain, as well as the support she would need from her partner. She arose to leave Kate and Scott to their goodbyes, and turned to them with a gentle smile. “It gets easier. You are in good hands.”
***
Her body twisted beneath him while she purred like the engine of a finely tuned sports car. Yeah, sports car. For a moment the idea enticed him as he toyed with images of a sleek red Lamborghini while he pushed himself into her. Many of those sports cars are named after Spanish legends. He opened his eyes a little and caught a glimpse of the bubbly blonde squirming under him. This one is far from an exotic Spanish beauty, he thought, while the purrs escalated to an irritating screech as he reached the height of the mediocre sexual rendezvous he had managed to squeeze in between lectures. A slight groan involuntarily released itself, and without another thought to the young woman who had shared her bed with him that afternoon, he rolled off in one swift, athletic movement.
“Hey! Come back here. I wasn’t done!” she protested
The bulge in her grey eyes protruded to the point that he wondered if they might pop out of her plain face. He grinned at the thought. “Oh, I’m sorry sugar-puss.” Dirty blonde hair fell over one eye seductively while he turned on the charm. “I’m late for class.”
He pulled on his jeans and strolled casually up as he perused her naked body. She does have a great body, he thought. Pity about the face though.
“How about we finish this later?” He swept her lips in a brief kiss. “Can I have your number?”
Her expression relaxed under the alluring magnetism that oozed from him. She grinned back and scribbled her name and number on a yellow Post-it note and handed it over to him with as much seduction in her movements as she could possibly conjure. Cathy had been chasing this guy for months and it had only been yesterday that he finally realised she was, in fact, alive. She wasn’t about to let him go that easily.
She looked up at him hopefully. “Promise you’ll call me?” Cathy giggled nervously.
He suppressed a rising sigh. Way too overeager. “Sure,” he replied. His smile held her mesmerised.
He swung the black leather biker jacket over broad shoulders and pushed his sunglasses on his nose before straddling his prized Harley-Davidson Softail Heritage. The bike roared to life and a smile played on his lips as he felt the usual arousing sensations that spiked their way deliciously through him when the engine purred beneath him. Placing it into gear, he thundered his way off campus towards home. If only a woman could evoke such feelings in me as this cherished Harley easily accomplished, I might actually keep one around for more than a few days, he pondered. He hardly understood why he had so little respect for the girls that paraded through his life in quick succession. All he knew was that they came too easily, and with it, too willingly. He found no challenge in finding an eager woman. They were all the same. They were all like her. Perhaps one day someone might surprise him. However, he was highly doubtful. They were all “bitches” as far as he was concerned; bitches that could not be trusted, just like her.
Some 30 minutes later he pulled up out the front of the house he shared with his father, and breezed through the empty house, relieved to have it all to himself for a while. Taking full advantage of his time alone, he played the tunes of Third Eye Blind at full volume. To the strains of a Semi Charmed Life, he pulled out a boxed package of black hair dye from his backpack, stripped down and made his way to the bathroom. There, he spent a few minutes of admiration while he scrutinised every inch of skin that appeared in the mirror before him. Only after he was completely satisfied with the image, did he pull the bottle from its packaging and begin to apply the tint to conceal his natural dark blonde mane.
His blue eyes became transfixed by the thick liquid that clung to the strands of his hair, almost as if he were in a trance. And like the dye in his hair,
he felt as if he was victim to a black trance he could not escape. He had learned long ago that it was useless to fight it, and in doing so, had completely succumbed to its dark will, allowing the dense fog to dim the light he used to be. He didn’t possess the strength to fight its grim force, as he had spent more and more time alone over the last few years in his growing manhood. It was all the time needed for the demonic thoughts to ensnare him in its roots until it became a part of him. He had become an expert at concealing the demon to those he knew, even to his own father, who he was sure still thought of him as his little boy. His father was quite proud of the strong ambition his son had in his studies towards a Bachelor of Science, majoring in Astronomy. His lips curled into a twisted smile. He knew his father was “clueless” as he put it. The set of his high cheek bones distinguished a handsome face, which contorted as his thoughts turned to her. Soon, the dark force whispered through the recesses of his soul, you will know her whereabouts.
He watched with a slight twist of the head as black droplets fell like the tears of a weeping devil from his hair. Another slight twist sent the dye dripping down the pale skin of his face in a cavort between light and dark. Oh! He gazed at the gruesome reflection, How beautiful! And Oh, how I have longed to see her!
Chapter Twenty
T he sounds of laughter interrupted the brush stroke on the canvas before her. She turned to peer towards the giggles of the child, and her expression softened with the warmth of her own giggle.
“Mummy! Mummy! Look!” the child shrieked. “I am a butterfly!”
Little arms flapped about while tiny feet skipped along in the wake of the two white butterflies that fluttered through the sunshine at Rockton town park. Russet coloured hair tumbled in waves to the bottom of Arella’s tiny waist, and bounced in a veil as she ran about in circles after the butterflies.
“I always said you were,” laughed the five-year-old’s mother. “You’re my little butterfly.”
Millie drew in a deep breath as she watched Arella play make-believe butterflies, until finally the tiny insects fluttered out of sight.
Arella fell panting against the open arms that awaited her. The blue-greens of her almond eyes gazed up towards her mother dubiously. “Mummy, why do you call me butterfly all the time?”
Millie planted a tiny kiss on the tip of Arella’s nose. “Because butterflies are a symbol of transformation,” she explained, smoothing out the furrow on her daughter’s brows. “They remind us to keep our faith. You remind me of that every day, my little butterfly.”
Arella contemplated her mother’s explanation for a moment. “I love butterflies,” she declared.
The child’s eyes squinted at the canvas, skimming every detail of the almost completed painting. She examined the layers of pigments that had been applied, revealing a glimmering scene of the bay. The lights in the background of the painting reflected against the water, frozen in gentle swirls that gave the surface of the water its magical shimmer. And when her eyes beheld the image of angel wings suspended in the cloud drifting over the bay, she gasped.
“Oh! I love this too!” she said, flashing a smile at her mother.
Millie laughed. “I’m so glad you like this painting, baby,” she said, sweeping Arella onto her lap. “It means a lot to me.” Her voice became wistful while a glimmer of a teardrop stung the corners of her eyes safely concealed under her sunglasses.
From the moment she could walk and talk, Arella had been an exceptionally bright child, impressing those around her with the fast progress she had made with meeting all the childhood milestones unusually early. She was stringing together full comprehensible sentences with ease by the time she had reached eighteen months old. At three, her little fingers were able to grasp and direct a pencil with the competency of a child more than twice her age. Writing out the alphabet and her name became normal. Millie had found her daughter to be extremely sensitive to the world around her, and particularly receptive to other people. Arella would often tell her mother who they might bump into when they left the small apartment they had shared since she was born. She could also foretell who might call them on the phone that day. When she began to accurately predict events, Millie knew her daughter’s gifts went beyond an academic level. Strangely, Millie found comfort in her daughter’s clairvoyance, as it gave her own metaphysical experiences validation. However, it was becoming a challenge when she wished to conceal something personal from her daughter, because as Arella grew older, so too did her receptive attributes.
When she knew for certain that she was pregnant, despite her planned enrolment to attend art school the following year, Millie knew there was no choice to be made. After adjusting to the enormity of the news, she welcomed her impending motherhood and she wrote to Damon excitedly to tell him the news. She waited anxiously for his reply and when none came, she accepted his silence with a stony heart. Although she knew her life would never be the same, she ignored the cries of protests from her father, but took her mother’s departing advice and listened to the whisper within her.
During the early days of her pregnancy, Millie had managed to secure a job at the art gallery in Rockton. The small gallery, along with displaying and selling local Australian art, supported budding artists by holding their own workshops twice a month. There, she learned to explore basic elements of design, to recognise and identify the timeless qualities of great art, as well as developing and improving upon her own artwork. After recognising the natural talent of Millie’s art, her employer, Mrs Bartlett, welcomed her talent, and soon they had formed a special bond.
The two women worked together tirelessly on improving and renovating the gallery’s interior design during the months before Millie gave birth. Mrs Bartlett had been especially impressed with the elegant modern touches Millie had added to her small shopfront, promising Millie not only the security of returning to her position after some time off with her new baby when she arrived, but also offering Millie a small corner of the gallery for displaying her artwork. Mrs Bartlett had gained a reputation over the years for her sharp eye in the art world, and despite her flamboyant and eccentric clothes, she had earned her acclaimed reputation among even the most articulated of art connoisseurs.
“Every piece of art is an expression of God,” Mrs Bartlett often told Millie over the course of their liaison. “We are but clothed in different skins; but do not forget my young friend, we are all but one.”
Mrs Bartlett had become a close dependable figure in Millie’s world over the years, and an aunt to Arella who often accompanied her mother into work before the start of her schooling.
Arella’s birth was followed with a few months spent at home in the unit Millie shared with Emily. Her father had begged for their return home, offering to help with the costs of raising his granddaughter, and although Millie considered his offer, she could not bring herself to return to her father again. She had confused emotions about her father, who could mete out such brutal abuse yet had such a love for his children. Glen seemed to dangle on the thinnest string of light, and if she were to exile him from her and Arella’s life, she knew it might be just enough to sever that shiny thread.
Millie came back to the present as her daughter looked at her with a perceptive eye.
“Are you okay, Mummy?” Arella said.
“I’m fine baby girl,” she replied, chastising herself silently for revealing the slight hint of sentiment that the painting had evoked in her. “Now, let’s go home. It’s getting late and we are meeting Craig for dinner tonight.”
“Yippee!” Arella hurriedly helped her mother to gather their belongings.
Millie was glad her daughter had taken a shine to Craig, as he was the first man since Damon had left that had really captivated her own interest. She regarded the diamond solitaire that ornamented her left hand, and she smiled at her daughter. It was the first time in years that she had allowed someone in close enough to touch the heart that had waited for the return of first love. The softest of caresses was al
l it had taken for Craig to shatter the past she had clung to with a stubborn hope. Or perhaps the past still clung to me, Millie wondered while fingers twisted at the half-heart that hung around her neck. Arella reminded her of Damon with every storm in those aquamarine eyes, and every shrug of the dark veil that cascaded down her back. Nevertheless, her heart had been freed to love another again. Craig was a good man, and soon would be her husband.
***
Spirits soared as mother and daughter pulled up outside the tan-brick block of apartments which housed their own two-bedroom condo. Arella caught the colourful whirl of her new wind-spinner that was embedded in one of the many pot plants that filled up almost every bit of spare space on the tiny balcony that spilled out from their lounge room.
“Look Mummy! My wind-spinner is going crazy!” Arella laughed.
Millie peered up at their balcony and the recent gift Craig had bought for her daughter when picnicking the weekend before.
“It sure is! I think we are going to go wind-crazy too if we don’t get inside.”
Millie shut the car door behind her and carefully juggled the canvas against the growing gale. She hugged the creation against her chest before setting off after Arella who had already raced ahead and disappeared into the entrance of the building.
“Millie!” Emily called out over the wind that gusted across the bay.
Millie was surprised to see Emily pushing the double stroller that carried her twin boys towards her.
“Emily! What are you doing out in this weather with the babies?” Millie nodded towards the building. “Hurry, let’s get inside.”
Once the six-month-old twins were settled among the toys and pillows on the floor of Millie’s small lounge room with Arella watching over them, the two women talked in the kitchen while making tea.
“I’m sorry for just turning up like this, Pussy-cat. I just had to see you,” Emily said.