by Maggie Groff
‘I expect you’re tired, too.’ His tone was mischievous.
‘Why should I be tired?’ I held my breath.
‘You tell me.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Rafe. I had a very good night’s sleep, thank you.’
He laughed. ‘What are you doing now?’
‘Working, why?’
‘I’m just lying here in bed staring up at the ceiling fan so I thought I’d call you and see if you wanted to stare at it with me.’
Instantly a thrill zipped through my belly and the picture I’d conjured of him became more detailed, carnal and salacious. Rafe’s naked body, sated and damp with perspiration, sprawled across a large four-poster bed . . . black curls and the potent lines of his hard shoulders sharp against a soft white pillow . . . the gentle rise and fall of his chest . . . the vertical line of gothic black hair below his navel . . .
My own Bacchus . . .
I think my heart may have missed a couple of beats.
‘Are you still there?’ Rafe’s voice was gravelly, husky.
‘Uh-huh,’ I breathed.
‘We could have lunch after.’
‘After what?’ I teased, unable and unwilling to stop myself from participating in this delicious innuendo.
‘After staring at the ceiling fan,’ he said slowly.
‘What if there’s a power failure?’
Rafe laughed. ‘I’ll have you praying for a power failure.’
I was speechless. I was flattered. I was flustered. But most of all I wanted to run round to Rafe’s house, tear off my clothes and throw myself into the picture.
‘So?’ he said.
Infinitely conscious of my own desire, and the knowledge that to continue this verbal foreplay would mean a commitment to the physical, I abandoned all moral concepts and allowed my body’s natural reaction to make the decision for me.
‘So, lunch would have been great but I have an appointment. I should be home by six. If you’re not working tonight, we could have dinner.’ I tried to sound neutral, confident, cool, as though men made passes at me on a daily basis.
‘What am I going to do until then?’ Rafe said.
‘You’ll have to start without me,’ I told him.
I parked the Lexus in Vista Street, Surfers Paradise—the nearest available all-day street parking to the rendezvous location. Marcia and I were sitting in the car with the airconditioning on, eating salad rolls.
My attire was an eclectic mix of Greek sandals, the patchwork skirt, a black and purple cloth belt from South America (which I’d wrapped twice around my hips), a white Indian peasant top with silver detailing on the front, an olive green waistcoat and an assortment of silver bangles, chains and a large Celtic cross. Across my body I’d slung, ammunition-style, a multicoloured bag from Nepal. I’d woven a colourful tie-dye scarf through my hair, which I’d piled high on my head with wisps of hair and scarf protruding haphazardly from the top. There were so many hair clips in my hair that I felt like an advert for the Australian Steel Corporation. As a finishing touch I’d used a gallon of hairspray and a few dabs of patchouli oil.
Welcome to the world, Fantasia Jonson.
‘I don’t look like Sideshow Bob, do I?’ I asked Marcia.
‘No, more Third World meets Woodstock. The United Nations would be very proud.’
‘It would be a shame,’ I said, ‘to go to all this trouble and watch, see and decide not to meet with Cinnamon Toast if she turns up.’
Marcia frowned. ‘Are you sure?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Mark called last night,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘He got the books I sent the kids. Tommy and Christopher love them. Well, Christopher doesn’t know what a book is yet, but you know what I mean. Tommy took his Where’s Wally? to school for show and tell.’
This was good domestic talk. Safe. Ordinary. Necessary.
An older couple wearing matching navy tracksuits and carrying blue plastic water bottles powerwalked past the car. The woman wore several pieces of gold jewellery and large tortoiseshell sunglasses with diamantes. The man wore a heavy gold chain around his neck and was talking on a mobile phone. Marcia and I grimaced at each other. It was so Gold Coast.
‘How’s Mark’s mother?’ I asked.
‘As good as can be expected.’
‘And Mark?’
‘He’s a mess. I filled him in on what’s happening. He wanted to come up and help.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘To stay put and look after the boys and his mother,’ Marcia said. ‘And that you and I had things in hand.’
‘It’s only natural he’d want to help search.’
‘Yes, I know. He badly wants his Tildy back.’
We discussed the possibility that Tildy might accompany Cinnamon Toast to the meeting. If the information Dave’s son Ben had given Marcia was correct, and Tildy was a recruiting tool for the cult, then it wasn’t such a long shot that she’d turn up. I hoped she did, as it would provide Marcia with reassurance her daughter was alive, and me with the absolute certainty that Tildy was still with the cult.
Between us we formulated a game plan for Marcia’s reaction should she see Tildy. Various websites on the dos and don’ts of handling these situations all advised that the basic rule was never to confront with anger, so Marcia and I agreed that if Tildy showed, Marcia would act surprised and pleased to see her. After all, it wouldn’t be unusual for Marcia to be on the Gold Coast, given she owned a property here. On no account was Marcia to acknowledge she knew me or try to drag Tildy away. No histrionics.
For my part, Marcia, who’d been hitting websites all night, instructed me to act curious yet cautious in my conversation with Cinnamon Toast, and to remember that non-cult members were considered agents of Satan.
Once we’d finished eating, I told Marcia I had distressing information about Heavenly Brother Excalibur’s activities. Of course, Marcia immediately asked me to tell her everything.
So I did.
Marcia’s face drained when I explained about the biting. I touched her hand.
‘Oh my God . . .’ she murmured. ‘Oh, Tildy, Tildy.’
Silent tears snaked down her face and soaked into the neck of her blue top. She rocked backwards and forwards and I held her hand tight. After a while she sat upright, wiped her eyes with a tissue and blew her nose.
‘I need to toughen up a bit,’ she admonished herself. ‘This can only get rougher.’
Unsure of what to say, I didn’t say anything.
At ten minutes to two we locked the car, walked up to the beachfront and turned north along the Esplanade. Marcia had on a large blue floppy hat for disguise and protection from the elements. Unfortunately, there weren’t any hats big enough for my current hairdo.
‘One good thing,’ Marcia said.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Heavenly Brother doesn’t fancy women over forty.’
Chapter 37
Surfers Paradise looked shiny and smart, washed clean by overnight rain. The sun beat down on sodden sand, and iridescent light reflected from the windows of the tall apartment blocks that lined the Esplanade. As far as the eye could see, whitecaps sparkled on the blue Pacific.
Marcia and I walked in the long cool shadows cast by the buildings, weaving between steaming puddles on the footpath. We separated at the junction where Laycock Street meets the Esplanade.
Watching Marcia cross the road ahead of me, I thought that despite our preparations there was little chance of her remaining calm if Tildy showed up. If it were Tasha or Niska I knew I’d be hauling them away at gunpoint.
Wishing I had an umbrella to shield myself from the sun, I stood waiting under the famous Surfers Paradise sign, the arched gateway to sun, surf and party central. It’s an odd entry statement, as the uprights resemble shark fins—a peculiar choice for a beachside resort, but maybe it’s just me.
It was 2.15 pm when two women in identical lon
g blue dresses walked towards me. I recognised the tall, dark-haired woman with the beauty spot immediately. It was Tildy, and she moved with the same feline grace as her mother. Willing myself not to overreact, I casually looked around to see if Marcia was nearby, but I didn’t see her.
Tildy was a mess. Unkempt and undernourished, her once pretty features had given way to dull, sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. Sadly, her pale face bore the same vacant expression I’d seen on the women in Harold Steinman’s photographs. If she did have bite marks on her arms, the long sleeves hid them. I glanced at her stomach, relieved she showed no sign of pregnancy.
In contrast, the other woman, who I assumed was Cinnamon Toast, was heavily pregnant. She was short and fair-haired with a florid, piggy face, John Lennon spectacles and an unfortunate mouthful of English teeth. The natural beauty that usually accompanies pregnancy seemed to have evaded her.
Both women wore short white socks and jogging shoes and had their hair brushed into ridiculously high ponytails. Around their necks hung acorn-sized pine cones on silver chains—and I seriously doubted either of them knew the relevance of pine cones.
Feigning uncertainty, I smiled politely at both of them.
‘Is one of you Cinnamon Toast?’ I asked in my sweetest voice. ‘I’m Fantasia Jonson.’
‘How did you know it was us?’ Cinnamon Toast said coyly, and instantly I recognised the breathless voice from the phone.
‘A wild guess,’ I replied, ‘and the lovely dresses, just like in America.’
Cinnamon’s cheeks ballooned and her lips stretched into a frighteningly toothy smile. Her mouth, I’m sorry to say, looked like a gash in a Halloween pumpkin. I wondered if she had a devastated family, like Tildy’s, missing her.
‘This is Eternal Shadow,’ she said, indicating Tildy with a casual wave of her hand.
I said hello and Tildy nodded briefly towards me, but her eyes didn’t appear to focus.
Without another word Cinnamon Toast took off across the Esplanade, ignoring the red pedestrian stoplight, and headed down Cavill Mall. Tildy and I waited on the kerb like responsible citizens and, when the light changed to green, we crossed the road and followed in silence.
Cinnamon stopped in front of a restaurant, looked around, then moved next door to a café. She turned to us and indicated the white tables and chairs in the outdoor dining area.
‘Sit here, Fantasia,’ she ordered. ‘You too, Eternal Shadow. I’ll be right back.’
Cinnamon went into the café, probably searching for a bathroom, and Tildy and I sat at a vacant table in the shade of a large Norfolk Island pine tree. We didn’t look at each other, and neither of us spoke while we waited.
Two blonde Gold Coast Meter Maids strolled by in gold lycra bikinis, kitten heels and white Akubra hats. Meter Maids have roamed Surfers Paradise for over forty years, feeding money into parking meters so that visitors avoid fines. For once, I thought my outfit outdid them in the ridiculous clothing department.
Cinnamon returned and we ordered three chamomile teas and a bottle of water. We must have looked an odd trio as passers-by were nudging each other and staring at us with mild amusement. I didn’t blame them; I just hoped they didn’t think I was Cinnamon Toast’s mother.
‘When’s your baby due?’ I asked Cinnamon, and she touched her swollen belly.
‘I’ve three weeks to go. Have you any children, Fantasia?’ Cinnamon said.
‘No,’ I lied, ‘and I’m divorced, so I’m all alone. As I told you on the phone, that’s why I advertised—to see if anyone from Saratoga Springs was in Australia. I really clicked with the women I met over there, they were a great bunch. You know, I advertised all over Australia and I couldn’t believe it when I realised you were here in Surfers. It was meant to be, me being here too.’
Aware that I was rambling, I stopped talking. I could hear Marcia’s reprimand, ‘Scout! Curious but cautious.’
‘Yeah,’ Cinnamon said. ‘Serene Cloud freaked when he saw the Luminous Renaissance of Illustrious Light ad in the paper—he thought you were a journalist. He had a lot of trouble in the States with people writing lies about him.’
‘That’s awful,’ I said. ‘I don’t remember a man called Serene Cloud, but I hope you told him why I placed the ad. I wouldn’t want to upset anyone for the world.’
Adopting a concerned expression, I mentally congratulated myself for taking the time to make the newspaper ad sound ambiguous.
Cinnamon nodded. Tildy was wringing her hands and I noticed she hadn’t touched her tea.
‘Heavenly Brother Excalibur,’ Cinnamon went on, ‘changed his name to Serene Cloud, Mystic Master of Mars, when he came to Australia and started Bacchus Rising. You’ve got to have a new name when you start a new life and are doing important work like Serene Cloud.’
Or you’re running from the authorities, I thought.
In addition to her sickening voice, Cinnamon Toast was a motor mouth. Quite frankly, it was amazing Heavenly Brother had let out someone with such loose lips. What if I were from immigration? What if I were a journalist? Oh, yeah . . .
Mentally, I kicked myself for not having brought along a tape recorder.
‘Did any of the women come with Heavenly Brother . . . whoops, I mean Serene Cloud?’ I said. ‘There was one woman I was fond of . . . well, she was a girl, really.’
Describing Casey Steinman, I omitted details of her missing front teeth and didn’t mention her cult name, Harmony Bliss, either. Just imagine if I met her and she said that she’d never seen me before, which was the truth. With only a description, there was a safe margin for identity error, and I needed that.
‘It sounds like Symphony Starlight,’ Cinnamon said. ‘Serene Cloud brought her and two others to Australia. They’re his American wives—not real wives, that’s just what he calls them.’
So maybe Casey Steinman was in Australia, and perhaps she too had taken another name. Where did they get these ridiculous names? A pedigree dog manual?
‘Are you one of Serene Cloud’s wives?’ I asked encouragingly.
Cinnamon glowed with pleasure. ‘I am, and this is his baby.’ She rubbed her tummy and said, ‘He’s a lucky baby to have such a compassionate and inspiring daddy.’
‘How wonderful,’ I swooned. ‘May I touch your baby?’
Cinnamon grinned proudly and nodded.
It was an inspired move. I laid my hand on her tummy and closed my eyes as if in heaven, and hummed softly. After a few moments, Cinnamon placed her hands over mine and hummed as well.
‘Thank you,’ I said, removing my hand. ‘That was beautiful.’
Turning my attention to Tildy, I asked, ‘Do you have children?’
Tildy wrung her hands so hard I thought her fingers might dislocate. Then she bit down on her lip and looked about her as if she was preparing to run off.
Cinnamon Toast rested her hand on Tildy’s arm and looked at me. ‘Fantasia, I have bad news. Eternal Shadow lost both her children and doesn’t talk about it. So far, she hasn’t been fortunate enough to fall pregnant with Serene Cloud. I tell her she has to love him harder, like me, then it will happen.’ She patted Tildy’s hand in a patronising fashion.
Hiding my relief, I made appropriate noises of regret, all the while thanking the entire cosmos that Tildy wasn’t pregnant.
Cinnamon leaned on the table, cleared her throat and put her hand on my arm. Hiding my discomfort, I clenched my back teeth—this was all getting a bit too touchy-feely for me. Cinnamon looked about her in a covert way, and then turned to face me as if about to divulge an official secret.
‘Serene Cloud asked me to invite you to the Infinite Pathways to Light retreat at Bacchus Rising this weekend,’ she said. ‘It’ll be a wonderful experience and you’ll meet the best people ever. You’ll discover the true separation of darkness and light and unearth real emotions and a tenderness of spirit that you never thought possible. I promise, it’ll change your life forever. If you want to come, I’ll call Titania Pearl n
ow and book you in. It’s only a thousand dollars.’
If I hadn’t been expecting the cost I would have fallen off my chair. The absurdity of extending an invitation to someone and then asking them to pay appeared to have bypassed the few active grey cells in Miss Toast’s brain. When the genetic pack was being shuffled, someone definitely dropped her cards.
‘Oh, I’d love to,’ I chirped. ‘Absolutely love to, thank you.’
Cinnamon produced a mobile phone from a dress pocket and called a number that I presumed was Titania Pearl. I couldn’t see why she needed to do this, unless it was to reinforce her importance in the group and make negotiations appear professional. As with most cons, perception is everything.
‘You’ll have to tell me what time it starts, what to bring and how to get there,’ I said enthusiastically.
‘I’m no good at directions,’ Cinnamon said flippantly, and I wondered if her manner had changed now that she’d made the sale. ‘We usually have a pickup point and collect people in a minibus. Titania Pearl will ring you Friday evening and tell you where to meet the bus.’
It was at that moment that I saw Marcia walking briskly over to our table, holding her arms out towards Tildy and smiling like . . . well, like she’d found a long-lost relative.
Chapter 38
‘Oh Matilda, how wonderful to see you, darling!’ Marcia gushed, leaning forward and attempting to kiss Tildy on the cheek.
Tildy recoiled violently and Marcia shrugged her shoulders and sighed as if she was dealing with a small child.
‘Oh don’t be like that, darling, I haven’t seen you in ages,’ Marcia said.
Tildy glowered. ‘Go away,’ she spat. ‘I’m not your darling. I can’t stand to look at you. I hate you.’
It was the first time Tildy had spoken and her venom shocked me. Somehow Marcia maintained her composure, displaying an inner strength I’m not sure I would have been capable of. Cinnamon Toast was sneering at Marcia and I wanted to thump her piggy nose, but I didn’t move or speak. If Marcia could stick to the plan, so could I.
‘May I sit down?’ Marcia said, and when no one responded she pulled out a chair and sat down.