by Various
Miguel waved his arms and shouted, but the ocean drowned his words.
Determination spurred Lexi to paddle out past the break, but the moment she sat up and the swell gently rocked her board, panic set in. She rubbed her lower spine, the small ache having increased ten-fold since she’d come up with this dumb-arse idea.
The ocean is the perfect place to heal your soul. Miguel’s words echoed in her head as she took a deep breath and waited her turn, making eye contact with the surfers nearby. Watching them catch waves without anxiety pounded her confidence into the ocean floor, just like the sea had done to her body all those years ago.
‘Come on, Leonard, make your time count,’ she muttered as she passed the point of no return.
***
‘She is insane,’ Miguel paced the shore and threw his arms wide. ‘What is she trying to prove?’
‘That you were right.’ Kat smoothed down her sundress.
‘But I was wrong. I should not have pressured her.’ Was Lexi doing this because he hadn’t replied? His stupid phone had gone flat, and by the time he had found the charger and got her messages, she was already in the ocean.
‘How did you convince her to do this?’ Kat asked.
Miguel shrugged.
‘Whatever you said, it’s sparked a fire in her belly. Just know, though, if anything happens to her, I’m holding you responsible.’ She peered over her sunglasses.
Miguel didn’t argue, because he felt exactly the same way. He should have shut up when Lexi had resisted his idea. He, of all people, knew what it was like to face fears head-on. The competition was tomorrow and he was petrified of failing again, but that was trivial compared to what Lexi was about to do.
‘Oh shit . . .’ Kat rose on the balls of her feet as Miguel strained to get a better view.
‘She is up!’ Elation zapped through him, his eyes not leaving the lone figure out on the wave. Her previous experience showed through with her perfect stance, and her ability to read the wave obvious as she sped down and across, anticipating the nuances of the water.
Miguel balled his hands by his side. ‘Come on. Come on.’
The wave peeled left, the unpredictability of the ocean demanding respect. Lexi faltered, her arms flailing and Kat gripped Miguel’s arm so hard she left a dent in his skin. But the physical pain was far less than the apprehension he felt while witnessing Lexi facing her demons. A second later she was under control again, speeding towards the shore. The wave lost power and, as Lexi drifted towards the shallows, she jumped off the board. Her knees buckled and small waves crashed over her.
Miguel rushed forward, holding her upright and undoing the strap on her ankle. Kat grabbed the bobbing board as he scooped Lexi’s trembling body in his arms.
‘Are you hurt?’
She shook her head, her face pale.
‘What changed your mind?’
‘I wanted to see if you’d lied.’ She gave a lopsided grin.
‘About?’
‘You said the ocean is the perfect place to heal the soul.’ She looked up, her large blue eyes framed by long lashes, her red hair a bedraggled mess.
And that was the moment Miguel completely fell for Lexi Leonard.
***
The next day Lexi ran across the sand and wrapped her arms around Miguel. She didn’t care he was sopping wet, because she was kissing the first Brazilian surfer to ever win a pro tournament on his home turf.
Journalists crowded around them, their questions muffled by the cheering crowd. One sandy-haired reporter muscled in front of the others, shoving a smart phone in front of Miguel.
‘Most of the world had you written off. How did you break the slump?’
Miguel pulled Lexi against him, protecting her from the media as they walked up the beach towards the podium. ‘I had a wise person tell me to practise what I preach.’
‘What were you preaching?’ asked the young guy with wild hair, his smart phone poised, ready to record the new champion’s words of wisdom.
‘To stop letting past failures dictate the future.’
***
Holding the mic with one hand, Lexi adjusted her guitar strap, still buzzing from the successful concert. The Brazilians had gone wild, singing along to her hits, as well as to some of the more obscure tracks from her early days. She had no idea how they’d react to her big announcement, but the panic that used to cripple her had disappeared into the ether the moment she caught that wave in Ipanema.
As planned, the band members had left her alone on the stage and now it was just her and an acoustic guitar, a nervous smile, and a full heart. She took in the sea of faces, sparkling lights of Ipanema Beach, and the moon casting an enchanting glow on the incoming tide.
Miguel stood on the side of the stage, his gorgeous and oh-so-sexy body clad in a white T-shirt and jeans that hugged him in all the right places. Since winning the tournament only hours before, he hadn’t wiped that massive grin off his handsome face.
She gave him a wink then turned to the crowd.
‘When I was first offered this gig in Brazil, I was ecstatic about performing in a country I’d always wanted to visit. Now, having arrived on your shores and experienced your hospitality, I regret not coming here earlier.’
The audience erupted with clapping and cheering and the odd hat being thrown high in the air.
‘So to thank you for welcoming this Aussie, I am going to perform a song I wrote after meeting one of your countrymen.’ Wolf whistles filled her ears and she grinned, not caring if the world knew about her and Miguel. ‘He showed me that sometimes failure is the best thing that can happen because it can lead to wonderful experiences we could never have dreamed of. I would like to add, however,’ she spoke into the mic, but fixed her eyes on Miguel, ‘that I have absolutely no intention of failing with him.’
More whistles and cheers filled the cool night air, and she looked over at the ocean sparkling under the lights of the city that had captured her heart. Lexi strummed the first notes of the piece that had flowed from her fingers the day she’d faced her past. The same day she’d fallen in love.
An ocean of fear,
A tragedy set free,
An ocean of love,
Brings the future to me.
She sent a special smile to Miguel as her song floated out across the Rio de Janeiro sky.
Destiny in a Day
Tess Woods
Gemma wriggled her toes in a Mexican-wave type of dance, admiring the way the sun’s beams caught the glitter of the cobalt nail polish in the clear water and made the nails sparkle. The little rock pool was ankle-deep, just enough to get a taste of the sea without having to freeze to death in the Celtic Sea off the Cornwall coast.
‘Oi! Oi!’
Gemma quickly turned her head and watched the surf lifesaver standing at the water’s edge. He blew a shrill whistle, and two boys out deep, straddling their boards, looked up, saw him waving and floated in, belly-down until they reached the shallows.
‘Keep away from the rip, I’ve already told you!’ the lifesaver shouted as they stood up to receive the telling-off. ‘Do as I say this time. It’s not a joke!’
The boys skulked back out, shoulders slumped and heads down, carrying their boards under their arms.
The lifesaver stood and watched them for a while, and then walked back towards the small set-up he had, consisting of a white plastic chair sunk low in the sand, a canary-yellow rescue board, a large esky, and an A-frame blackboard sign on which he had written high and low tide times and wind and surf conditions in white block letters.
Gemma followed his long strides with her eyes. She’d been sneaking glances at him since she’d got here. She’d first noticed him on Monday, the day she arrived. He’d been here every day since, already set up by the time she wandered down mid-morning. She’d surprised herself the day before by wondering whether he would be there as she’d walked along the narrow roads that led from the cottage to Trevone Bay, enjoying the feel of the
warm sunshine on her bare arms.
Well, there you go, she’d thought as her shoes crunched the gravel under them, I am still capable of lusty thoughts. That’s nice to know!
Yesterday the lifesaver had rescued an elderly man who’d been dragged out into the rough surf, desperately flailing his arms in the air as his head bobbed in and out of the white water. Gemma, the only other person at the beach, had watched the rescue with fascination and a tight chest. Once the swimmer was safely brought into shore on the front of the lifesaver’s board and was resting on the sand, she’d relaxed and then discreetly watched with even greater fascination as the lifesaver had peeled off the top half of his wetsuit, letting it drop around his waist as he shook the sand out of his mop of wavy dusty-blond hair. He stood there puffing from the effort of paddling, hands on hips, staring out to sea. Gemma found herself peering over the top of her sunglasses at his ripped back and shoulders and his big toned arms, and at the way that his taut six-pack of abdominal muscles sucked in and out with each huge breath.
And now today here she was again, making out as if she was looking at the lush cliffs, but really just having another good long look at him.
Thank you, Lord, for providing a hot lifesaver for me to gawk at five days in a row. Please bring him back every day for my viewing pleasure.
Gemma smiled to herself and checked her watch. Twelve-thirty. Had she already been here for three hours? Time completely escaped her here. As she sat on the wide, flat rocks that were surprisingly comfortable, day-dreaming with her feet dangling in the water, the hours flew by. She pushed both fists into the small of her back and arched backwards. Sitting here for this long made her stiff, and her knees creaked as she stood up. Scooping up her stripy towel, thin pink cardigan, white canvas sandshoes and the writing journal that had remained empty, Gemma jumped the short distance off the rocks and onto the cool, wet sand. A seagull that had been resting nearby startled and flew away.
‘Sorry, little guy,’ she laughed as the bird flew high into the cloudless sky.
His seagull mates who’d been hanging around with him followed him up and away, thus clearing the beach of any sand-dwellers apart from the lifesaver. She stole one last glimpse of him now as he sat on the chair with his legs sprawled out, hands behind his head, looking out to sea, and then she stepped over the bunches of gathered driftwood where the sand met shrub and walked up the wooden steps that led to the road. Goodbye, sexy lifesaver.
When she reached the top of the beach path, Gemma turned to take in the view and sighed — Trevone hadn’t let her down. The cliffs surrounding the bay were illuminated by the noon sun to a bright emerald and, with the tide out, the scattered shells glistened along the shoreline. The deep blue water crashed into foam on the rocky break as the waves rolled in rhythmically. It was breathtaking.
Gemma hummed to herself as she walked the short distance home, turning into the narrow Cleeve Lane with its row of twelve almost-identical white-stone houses, all with overcrowded colourful cottage gardens. Even the weather was perfect here, with its mild temperatures, soft breezes and none of the humidity of home in Brisbane which caused her hair to frizz like one of The Supremes whenever she stepped outside.
Finding and then escaping to this quiet slice of heaven only a few miles from the bustle of Padstow was the best decision Gemma had made in months, perhaps years. She hoped this would be the start of better decision-making to come, in contrast to the steady stream of hopeless choices she’d made so far, marrying Ross being number one.
When she reached Sunny Cleeve cottage, Gemma gently lifted the rusty latch and with a creak pushed open the green picket gate. She walked along the cobbled path that weaved its way through lavender and rose bushes to the stained-glass front door.
***
‘There she is again, blocking the stairway,’ Mrs Harris puffed a few minutes later, clutching a pile of clean linen to her chest.
Gemma laughed and stood up, allowing Mrs Harris to squeeze past her, as she made her way up the stairs, which was only just possible given Mrs Harris’s generous size.
‘It’s your fault I’m always blocking the staircase, Mrs Harris,’ Gemma said lightly as she put the Flowers of Spain book down. ‘Leaving a stack of books at the edge of each step means I can’t walk straight upstairs without being drawn into one of them.’
One of Gemma’s favourite things about the cottage was that there were books everywhere, on the stairs, on the mantelpiece, on the kitchen bench, everywhere except on a bookshelf. She followed Mrs Harris up to the second storey, ducking down at the top of the stairs to avoid knocking her head on the exposed timber beam. She hadn’t made it through a day yet without forgetting to duck.
‘Did you start writing your book today?’ Mrs Harris asked as she efficiently tucked the linen into the antique dresser and turned to face Gemma.
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ Gemma sighed.
‘That’s what you said yesterday,’ Mrs Harris chuckled. Her chubby cheeks were red with the effort of coming upstairs, and she wiped her hands front and back on her cream embroidered apron, as was her habit after every job was done. Gemma had yet to see Mrs Harris without the apron on. She wondered if the elderly lady slept in it.
Gemma also wondered about Mr Harris. What had happened to him? Mrs Harris made no mention of him, and there wasn’t a single photo of him anywhere in the cottage. Mrs Harris hadn’t alluded to any family members either, apart from her sister, Mrs Holmes, who lived in Manchester. It amused Gemma that Mrs Harris referred to her own sister as ‘Mrs’. But then again she had introduced herself, first by email and then earlier this week in person, as Mrs Harris with no offer of a Christian name. Gemma was dying to ask about the mysterious Mr Harris, but when she first arrived at Sunny Cleeve cottage four days ago, having explained her need to escape Australia for a while, Mrs Harris had given her a warm hug and said, ‘While you’re under my roof, you’ll be left in peace with your thoughts and given time to heal privately. I’ll be right here if you need me, but I won’t pry.’
Gemma felt it would be wrong to pry in return.
‘Your phone’s been going off all morning. Somebody wants your attention, that’s for sure,’ Mrs Harris announced.
‘Argh, sorry, I meant to put it on silent.’ Gemma walked into her bedroom and picked up the phone from the mahogany bedside table. She swiped the screen and her heart sank. Five missed calls, a voicemail message and two text messages from Ross. The only ray of sunshine was an email from Jasmin. She ignored the rest and read Jasmin’s email as Mrs Harris waddled back down the stairs.
Hellooo chickadee! Miss you already. Can’t believe it’s only five days since you left, feels more like a month. So far so good with Michelangelo, he’s settled in beautifully and is my constant shadow. Little bugger stands under the bath tap and meows pitifully until I turn it on for him to drink. He won’t touch his water bowl. Don’t know how I’m ever going to give him back to you. Perhaps you’ll just have to move in with us when you come home.
Gemma’s heart leapt at the mention of her beloved rescue cat.
So how are you, really? I don’t want to hear about the four-poster bed or about the shells you’ve collected or about the Cornish pasties you’ve eaten, I want to hear about you. How are you? Is the distance helping? Wish I could kick a stiletto heel into Ross’s scrawny shin. I hope that hairy beast Geoff discovers he’s actually straight and leaves Ross for a woman. That would be perfect karma, hey?
Alright, gotta go, mouths to feed, dishes to wash.
Love you! Write back! J x
Gemma read the email a second time with a smile on her face. She was relieved that Michelangelo was happy in his temporary new home with Jasmin’s family. Leaving him behind was hard, but she’d needed to get as far away as possible from Ross, so she’d caught a flight out of Brisbane the day after settlement on the house. The same house she’d thought would be their family home, but instead became the house where she discovered him in bed with his tennis partner —
the house where her life had come crashing down.
With a long sigh, Gemma closed the bedroom door and hit play on Ross’s voicemail. The sound of his grating voice made her skin prickle.
‘Gemma, stop screening my calls and not replying to my texts. I thought we were more mature than that. Look, we need to discuss this Michelangelo arrangement. He’s my cat, too, and I’m bloody pissed off that you’ve high-tailed it to some random English backwater and left my cat with Jasmin for God knows how long. Get Jasmin to bring him round to Geoff’s, and once you’re home from your ridiculous sabbatical, whenever the hell that’ll be, we can sort out a schedule to share him. I expect to hear back from you, Gemma, or I’ll get lawyers involved and you won’t want that, believe me.’
Gemma sat with her mouth wide open and her eyes bulging. He was threatening her with legal action? And Michelangelo was not his cat, too. He was her cat. Hers for eighteen months before they were married. Ross had destroyed everything they had and now he wanted her cat? He could dream on!
Gemma fumed her way down the stairs and straight to the opened bottle of Cabernet that had been left on the sideboard from when she and Mrs Harris had enjoyed a night cap the night before.
Mrs Harris looked up from her seat at the large oak table where she was working on a piece of long-stitch and arched her eyebrows.
Gemma threw down a half a glass in only a few gulps.
Mrs Harris said nothing and continued with her needlework.
Gemma wiped the corners of her mouth with her fingertips. ‘He wants to fight me for my cat. My cat!’ she spat at Mrs Harris, who gave her a sympathetic nod.
‘Pie?’ Mrs Harris asked.
‘Yes, please.’ Gemma refilled her wine glass, poured one out for her landlady and plopped herself down on a wicker chair while Mrs Harris turned the oven on.
Every day, Mrs Harris had baked fresh pies or pasties from scratch for lunch, and something equally delicious for dinner. Even though Gemma’s board included all meals, she still felt extremely spoilt by what Mrs Harris cooked.