Wayward Heart

by Cathryn Hein

  This was what mattered. Friendship. Happiness. The multicoloured magnificence and peace of the place she’d made home.

  ‘Fish and chips?’ said Em when they’d reined the horses back to a walk and turned for the return leg. She inhaled deeply, as though already smelling dinner. Sea air and a ride always made them hungry. ‘I haven’t had that in ages.’

  ‘Neither have I.’ Jas patted her soft belly. Unlike Em, who stayed elegantly slim without effort, Jas had a predisposition towards chubbiness and had to watch her waistline. ‘There’s a good reason for that.’

  Em gave her a considered glance. ‘One fatty indulgence won’t hurt and you’ve lost weight this last month.’

  ‘Only because I’ve stopped misery eating.’ Although that wasn’t quite the truth. Since the advent of the poison-pen letters she’d been too anxious to appreciate food.

  ‘You and Digby make a good pair. He’s looking thinner too.’

  Wary of the subject, Jas looked out to sea. The tide was turning. Soon the hoof prints they’d left on the sand would be washed into oblivion.

  ‘Mum’s trying dinner again on Tuesday.’

  Jas experienced a surge of sympathy for Digby. Adrienne’s anguish over her fractured family was understandable given the closeness they once enjoyed, but forcing family unity on Digby when his head and heart were still full of loss and guilt wouldn’t heal the rift.

  ‘In the kitchen this time, I hope.’

  ‘Yes. Mum’s finally agreed that keeping it casual will work better for everyone. She’s even making …’ Em flashed a grin as she drew out the suspense, ‘… spaghetti bolognaise.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘True. It’ll be homemade pasta, of course, and a slow-simmered ragout of hand-minced pork and veal, but basically spag bol.’

  ‘Wow.’ Jas blinked even more at the thought. Adrienne making spag bol was as alien as Em looking scruffy, or her grandmother wearing chain-store clothing. ‘I would never have imagined she had it in her.’

  ‘I think she’s reached the point where she’s willing to try anything. Mum’s desperate for everything to be okay by the wedding.’

  ‘You must be too.’

  Em’s mouth turned down, the pain of her brother’s lack of forgiveness and ongoing despair unmistakable. ‘I just want to see Digby happy again.’

  Jas reached across to cover her hand with her own. ‘We all want that.’

  Em twisted her fingers to squeeze hers back, a grateful smile linking them. And with the strength of that bond, that fixing of friendship, Jas wished more than ever for peace for Digby’s heart. For Em’s sake and for all the Wallace-Jones family. But most of all for the troubled man she was beginning to admire deeply for his steadfast love.

  The fish and chip shop was bustling with locals and visitors when Jas arrived to fetch an early dinner. Driving away from the house she’d felt fine, happy to run to the village, but the moment Jas stepped into the shop her feelings changed. Every nod, every glance had her returning to the awful fear she’d woken with that morning. Any one of the people crowding the shop could be her enemy, possessing knowledge that would see her reputation in tatters.

  ‘Hey, hey, Jazzygirl,’ called Elaine Woodburn from behind her counter. Her round, cheerful face was shiny with sweat and the grease of dozens of meals. ‘What can I do you for?’

  Jas pushed her way past a couple of bare-chested surfers, their colourful wetties unzipped and pulled low to their lean hips. The day might have been gorgeous but the Southern Ocean’s temperature was not. ‘Two serves of fish and chips thanks, Elaine.’

  ‘Butterfish or whiting?’ It might have been a while since Jasmine’s last visit but Elaine knew her customers. Often locals would come in, setting Elaine to work with a simple nod.

  Knowing it was Em’s preference, Jas chose whiting and paid. Then she retreated to the far end of the shop, near the soft drink fridge, and flicked through a two-day-old Levenham Leader newspaper that had been left on one of the tables. But Jasmine’s mind barely registered the headlines. Her gaze kept skittering across the shop, assessing and suspicious.

  ‘I see you’ve been getting a few visitors,’ yelled Elaine as she tossed onions for someone’s burger. Her daughter Hannah was busy cutting up a roast chicken in front of the bain-marie.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Elaine flipped over a mince patty, before shuffling to pull a basket of chips from a bubbling vat of oil. Leaving it to drain, she finished assembling the burger. ‘Flash car there this week.’

  ‘So?’

  Hannah’s shears halted mid snip. Elaine threw a quick frown before flipping the burger onto a sheet of greaseproof paper. A few heads turned Jasmine’s way. She swallowed, aware she was making an idiot of herself but so charged with anxiety she couldn’t stop. She stalked back to the counter, the space clearing as people stepped warily aside.

  Jasmine’s eyes felt like knife slits. ‘Have you been watching me?’

  Elaine’s brow furrowed deeper as she wrapped the chips in paper. ‘Derek noticed when he went past. Didn’t mean anything by it.’ Her voice was quiet, her sideways glance speculative. ‘Something up, Jazzygirl?’

  Jas fingered a point above her left eyebrow. The skin felt hot, clammy. Of course Derek Woodburn would have noticed a strange car. He drove past her house four or five times a day when travelling between farms, and Elaine was too busy running the shop for creeping around. ‘Sorry. Tough week.’

  ‘You sure? You’re not looking too flash there, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  Jas rubbed her forehead harder, trying to relieve the painful throb that had started there. ‘I’m okay. Just a headache.’

  Hannah slid a box containing a half chicken down the counter, eyeing Jas. Elaine called the surfers over to collect their meal before addressing Jas again. ‘Feed of fish’ll do you good.’

  Jas wasn’t so sure about that. The strong smell of oil and frying batter was turning her stomach. Twitching an apologetic smile, she moved to the window and stared out, hugging herself and hating the poison her harasser had injected into her life. This disquieted person wasn’t her and yet here she was—scared, suspicious and unhappy, when she should be bouncing with joy at her new-found freedom.

  There was something else that kept nagging too, a pulled thread in her mind she couldn’t source. It wasn’t until Jas was driving back to the house that it occurred to her. Derek could only have noticed Digby’s car, not Mike’s. Mike’s last visit was ten days ago and he’d hidden his car behind the house, out of sight of the road. Digby had parked out front in full view, and it was after each of his visits that the harassment had escalated from harmless poison-pen letters to a whole other level.

  Whoever it was had confused Digby with Mike.

  In the darkness of the garage, with the fish and chips turning soggy beside her, Jas sat in the car, buried her face in her hands, and breathed hard into her hands. What a mess. What a god-awful, screwed-up mess.

  To stop the harassment she would have to ask Digby not to call around for a while, or request that he hide his car from view when he did, and she couldn’t do either. The explanation would be humiliating enough, but that paled into insignificance in the face of removing the solace he seemed to take from his visits. If he had any inkling of the problem he was causing he’d stop coming. It wasn’t much, she knew. Doctor Who and a glass of wine was hardly therapy, but it was something, and she would rather scrub her front door and step a thousand times than snatch that tiny bit of peace away from him.

  Determined, she fetched up the takeaway bag, composed her expression, and went to join her friend. Digby’s haven, should he want it, would always be open. She’d sure as hell make certain of it.

  Except on Sunday morning, when Jasmine returned from a contemplative walk along Admella Beach, she found an exquisite bouquet of perfect red roses propped against the back verandah step. She stared at it for a long, long time before reaching down to pluck the accompanying note from its
small envelope.

  Sorry was written in Mike’s distinctive bold handwriting, followed by I love you.

  Longing caressed her heart and, for a moment as she reread the words, teased its way past her resolve, but her head knew the words would never be true. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. It was time to be strong.

  Grim-faced and with her jaw jutted, Jas ripped the card into tiny confetti shreds and released them to float on the wind. The roses she flung into the compost, scarlet buds smashing apart like small broken hearts. With a straight stride, she walked to her front gate, swung it shut and wrapped the bike chain in place.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Digby scratched the back of his neck as he regarded the rubber-coated bike chain shackling the steel frame of Jasmine’s front gate to the strainer post. He stared up at the house. In the lounge, a soft glow filtered from behind closed curtains, while the kitchen blazed with the eerie blue-whiteness of fluorescent light.

  He considered the chain again, not liking what it symbolised, wondering if the ‘Keep Out’ message was meant for him.

  Perhaps it was. He was hardly great company, yet he couldn’t bring himself to believe that. Jas had promised he was welcome and he was certain the words had been said with sincerity. The chain was for someone else. The more he looked at it the more he wanted to know who.

  Digby walked back to the car and rummaged in the glove box for his mobile. These days he rarely bothered with it, and it was with mild surprise that he found it held enough charge for a few calls. He swiped through his contacts, hunting for Jasmine’s phone number, and stalled as he landed on Felicity’s name. Her smile beamed at him in the darkness, an electronic ghost.

  A choked sound erupted from his throat. The Townsend of her surname seemed to mock him, like a sneer from the universe, chanting ‘sucked in, loser’. She should have been Felicity Wallace-Jones, his wife.

  His world.

  The urge to howl took hold, but it wouldn’t help. Like speeding in the Mercedes while praying for a wormhole to whisk him back in time for the chance to reclaim the few precious seconds he needed to save her. She was gone, buried in the cold soil of the Wallace family plot, before her time. The love that should have been and now never would be, slowly decomposing with her.

  He breathed past the panic and pain and eyed the bottle of wine lying on the passenger seat. He’d managed dinner tonight, even volunteering to raid Camrick’s vast cellar—a legacy of his wine snob Uncle James—for a decent red. They needed a bottle to share with their meal, plus it allowed him a moment’s respite from his mother and sister’s worried appraisal. The cellar was cool, with a comforting smell of dust and stone, of endurance and strength, and he found himself lingering, not for escape but for peace and the hope that he, too, would survive this agony with fortitude.

  As he checked racks and considered vintages, the idea of a thank-you gift for Jas slid into his mind. All eyes went to the extra bottle he carried up and left at one end of the kitchen bench. No one asked and Digby didn’t elaborate, but he felt their concern. He was mostly past that now—the drinking himself into oblivion in his apartment above the stables, away from the prying eyes of his family. Only occasionally did the agony become so bad that the only way to wipe it out was via a bottle.

  In the past, the sharp shock of seeing Flick’s face on his phone would have triggered an episode but already his torment was receding to a dull ache. He didn’t need another void. What he needed was to solve the puzzle of the lock on Jasmine’s gate.

  He took a last shuddery breath and unlocked the screen again, careful to keep his eyes unfocused until Felicity’s face and name had once more slid away.

  The first call went unanswered. He leaned on the car bonnet and considered the house, then dialled again. Nothing moved behind the curtains, no silhouettes shifted in the bright kitchen light. Digby pursed his mouth as his unease increased. He thought about jumping the fence and jogging down to bang on her door, but the worry she might not want to see him, or anyone, lingered.

  Anchored by his disquiet, he searched his phone for her mobile number.

  ‘Digby, hi. How did tonight go?’

  ‘Okay.’ He paused, fidgeting. ‘I’m at your gate.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Yes. Mmm. Sorry about that. The combination’s 4297. Come on in.’

  She sounded rattled and unhappy but the invitation was there. Digby took it.

  The front door was open when he reached it, Jas standing aside in the shadowed hall, smiling but with a pinched look about her. She was wearing jeans and a pink jumper with the sleeves pushed up, and hiking boots. Her dark curly hair was messy, as if windblown. Though she darted a smile his way, her focus kept skittering beyond him to the grey stretch of her driveway. Digby had the impression of a woman who either expected trouble or had recently experienced it.

  As soon as he was inside, she closed the door and slid the chain across, covering the action with a bright, ‘Drink and Doctor Who?’

  He lifted the bottle. ‘I brought some red. A gift.’ With a sudden surge of shyness he thrust it forward while he gazed elsewhere. ‘You know, as thanks.’

  She stroked a hand down his upper arm. ‘You didn’t have to.’

  ‘I wanted to.’

  ‘You’re a sweetheart. Thank you.’ Tilting her head, she indicated the kitchen. ‘Come on, then.’

  Digby followed, studying her as she fetched glasses. She’d sounded welcoming, yet every movement seemed stiff and self-conscious, and it was nothing like the gentle pleasure of his previous visits.

  ‘I can go, if you don’t want me here.’

  She stopped, her expression appalled. ‘No! No, don’t think that, please. I like having you call in. It’s nice.’ She smiled and this time it felt genuine. ‘I’m just a bit distracted. Work.’ She shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’

  He did. Or rather, he used to. Work seemed long ago now. He glanced around the room while Jas rummaged for a corkscrew. His late uncle James would be horrified they weren’t decanting the wine or letting it breathe, but Digby didn’t care. The faster they had their drinks and were settled, the sooner he could find out what was going on.

  He frowned as he noticed her phone. ‘No wonder you didn’t hear the phone. The power cord’s slipped out.’ He reached to plug it back in.

  ‘Don’t!’ Jasmine grabbed his wrist, shaking her head with shallow jerky movements. ‘Please don’t.’

  Digby eased away, alarm and anger churning. The grip on his arm was like a claw. Someone was hurting her. He felt icy with the need to hurt whoever it was back. ‘What’s going on, Jas?’

  As if suddenly aware of how much she was revealing, Jas released him and waved airily, the action as fake as her smile. ‘Oh, it’s just a few crank calls. Kids probably. I figured it was easier to unplug it. They’ll get sick of the game eventually.’

  ‘Crank calls and a lock on your gate. Doesn’t sound like a game to me.’

  She stilled, her eyes dropping to the floor, her tone barely more than a whisper. ‘Don’t, Digby. Just leave it. Please. It’s not—’ She breathed in hard and lifted her pleading gaze to his. ‘I can handle it.’

  ‘Handle what?’

  But she shook her head again.

  Fear made him harsh. ‘Handle what, Jas?’

  ‘It’s nothing, honestly. I made a mistake and it’s taking a bit of sorting out, that’s all. It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.’

  She returned to pouring the wine. Digby rubbed the back of his neck and studied her. Whatever Jas claimed, she clearly wasn’t fine. Her eyes were hollow and worry kept her normally full mouth small. Protectiveness simmered inside him. He’d always been a bit weak, a bit soft. Privilege and wealth had made life too easy, but loving and losing Felicity had changed him. Digby knew what anger was now, what unfairness was. Courage that had once been unreachable for him had been found thanks to Felicity, and it still burned. He wasn’t afraid to use it either. What was there to fear for himself? He’d already los
t everything that mattered.

  Except Jas mattered too. He didn’t know why, she just did. Which was why he wasn’t going to stand by and let some bastard harm her.

  ‘Does Em know you’re in trouble?’

  She slid a glass his way, not looking at him. ‘I’m not in trouble.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s why you’re chaining your gate. Well? Does she?’

  ‘Mostly.’ Clearly wanting to end the conversation, she held up her glass. ‘To friendship.’

  Digby hesitated then clinked his glass against hers. ‘To friendship.’

  They sipped, regarding one another over the rims. Jasmine’s eyes widened as the wine’s full flavour hit her. She lowered the glass and, swirling the contents, peered into it, mouth parted with awe. ‘God, that’s amazing.’

  ‘2001 Pyrenees Shiraz. One of the great vintages, or so Uncle James used to say.’

  ‘And you’re wasting it on me?’

  ‘It’s not a waste. Not on you.’

  She laughed and poked a finger his way, the old Jas bubbling through. ‘That bit of flattery will earn you “Planet of the Dead”. This one’s fun. Total kick-arse heroine.’ She began moving to the lounge, still talking. ‘I wished they’d made Lady Christina the Doctor’s new companion, she would have been cool.’

  Digby took a last glance around the kitchen, settling his grim gaze on the unplugged phone. She’d sidestepped and he’d let her, but that wouldn’t last. Whatever had her so rattled, he would discover the source and remove it. All he needed was to strategise.

  Jasmine’s prediction that he’d enjoy ‘Planet of the Dead’ was accurate. Lady Christina was sassy, clever and brave, and more than a bit cute. The episode romped along, veering between drama and humour, and featuring all-consuming metallic stingrays and creatures with heads like flies. It should have been the perfect show to take his mind off things, except it wasn’t. Digby couldn’t help sliding worried glances at Jas. Even curled up on the corner of the couch, the tension she was trying so hard to hide remained. Every now and then, she’d lift her eyes from the television and tilt her head, as though listening. Or perhaps remembering.