Colleagues at his legal practice became concerned when Mr Goodmann did not arrive at work yesterday morning. The police were alerted to his disappearance by his partner, Mr Martin Delamont, who had been unable to contact him by phone.
A backpack found on the beach has been identified as belonging to Mr Goodmann. It contained a tracksuit, towel and running shoes. His personal assistant, Ms Kim Jansen, told police that Mr Goodmann always took the backpack on his morning trips to the beach.
Ms Jansen said, ‘Mr Goodmann swims every day of the year. No matter what the weather. I’m always begging him not to swim in bad conditions, but he just laughs and says not to worry.’
Mr Delamont commented, ‘That’s Geoff for you. He’s a man of great determination. He won’t let anything stand in his way. His single-mindedness is what makes him such a successful lawyer.’
Flynns Bay magistrate Tony Broughton, a longtime friend of Mr Goodmann, issued a statement: ‘Geoff is a pillar of the local community. I don’t know what we’d do without him. Let’s all hope and pray that by some miracle he’s still alive.’
A resident of Flynns Bay for more than two decades, Mr Goodmann is commodore of the sailing club and president of the golf club. Twice divorced, he has two sons and a daughter. Police say there are no suspicious circumstances surrounding Mr Goodmann’s disappearance and it is likely that he drowned in the rough seas.
After staring at the article for a long time, Angie put the paper aside and searched through her wallet for Martin Delamont’s card. Then she went into the powder room, checked the cubicles were empty and dialled his mobile number.
He answered on the third ring.
‘Martin, it’s Angie Simmons.’
‘Angie! I wondered if I would ever hear from you again. I suppose you’re calling about Geoff’s disappearance.’
‘I just read about it in the paper.’
‘It’s quite a shock. But I don’t suppose either of us will be shedding any tears.’
‘I suppose not. Has there been any news?’
‘You mean have they found the body yet? No. And I doubt they ever will.’
Angie felt ill. She had wanted him punished, but not like this.
‘Martin, there’s something you need to know. I rang him earlier in the week to tell him I was going to the police. Do you think that’s what prompted this?’
‘Are you suggesting he’s done a runner? Not likely. Anyway, the police routinely check bank accounts in these situations. Everything’s intact. No unusual transactions.’
‘Actually, I hadn’t even considered the idea of him running away. When I read the article, I pictured him swimming towards the horizon until he was exhausted and then just slipping under the water.’
‘Suicide? I can’t ever imagine Geoff taking his own life. Too confident. Too much bravado.’
‘I hated him, Martin, but I didn’t want him dead. Well, only in my dreams. Do you think you can wish someone dead?’
‘Like voodoo? No. Otherwise, he would have been dead years ago.’
‘It’s sad for his daughter though.’
‘True, but now he’s gone, she’ll be able to maintain her image of him as a hero. And you shouldn’t feel guilty about this, Angie. He used to go swimming regardless of the conditions, even when the beach was closed. He actually boasted about it. And every time he came back unscathed, he was more convinced of his own invincibility. It was the way he led his life.’
‘That may well be true, Martin, but I can’t help thinking my phone call pushed him over the edge. And now I’ll have to live with that.’
Angie spent the afternoon cleaning. Domestic chores could numb the brain like nothing else. Immersed in dusting every crevice, she was able to block out the disturbing thoughts. At four o’clock Richard phoned from Cockatoo Ridge. Just the sound of his voice was soothing.
‘We’re about to head home,’ he said.
‘Why don’t you come here for dinner then? I’m making braised lamb shanks.’ They were his favourite.
‘Sounds good. By the way, Ange, did you hear the news about Geoff Goodmann? It was on the radio. Missing, presumed drowned. To be honest, I can’t say I’m sorry. Somehow it seems right that he’s been punished deus ex machina.’
When she didn’t respond immediately, he added, ‘That’s when the ending is unexpectedly dealt out by the gods or fate or whatever.’
‘Yes, I know what it means, Richard,’ she said softly.
‘I really believe it’s the best possible resolution for both of us.’
Angie’s throat went dry. ‘Both?’
‘Diana and me. It’s brought justice for her after everything she went through. And she’ll never have to worry about him harassing her again.’
‘And what about you?’
‘I’ve spent years loathing that man, and now it’s over. Let sleeping dogs lie.’
In the background a horn sounded briefly.
‘I’d better go. Troy’s waiting for me in the ute. See you tonight, Ange. I’ve really missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you too,’ she said, tears welling in her eyes.
She had never loved him more than she did at that moment. Kind, irascible, pedantic, dependable Richard. He was the wisest person she knew.
Two weeks later Angie drove down to Flynns Bay. She didn’t tell anyone she was going. In fact, she wasn’t even sure why she was making the trip at all, except that she had dreamt about the place several times since Geoff’s disappearance. When she reached the township itself, she drove straight past the shops and continued a further two kilometres south. Turning left, she headed towards the exclusive waterfront enclave of Pelican Point, partly hidden among a forest of whispering casuarinas and fragrant tea-trees. After parking the car, she glanced up at the big cream house with its vast balconies and rolling lawns. Then she put on her straw hat and walked down to the sand, famous as the whitest in Australia. The beach itself was empty – not a single person in sight. But what had she been expecting? To find Geoff Goodmann’s body washed up on the shore?
For a long time she watched the waves breaking and retreating. Gradually a series of tidelines formed on the white sand, each one marked by a detritus of ragged seaweed, broken shells and plastic bottle tops. Angie had always found the ebbing tide to be such a sad thing, but it also held the promise of a turning point. A low tide is invariably followed by a rising one, washing things clean, taking the flotsam and jetsam out to sea and bringing the possibility of a fresh start.
Then she walked back up the beach, shook the sand out of her shoes and got into the car. If she drove at the speed limit rather than five or ten kilometres under it, as she normally did, she would be home in two hours. Just in time to give the alpacas their dinner.
When Angie reached Millbrooke, the sun was low in the sky. As she pulled into her driveway, she spotted Richard’s ute parked near the alpaca paddock, and her heart did a little somersault. She hadn’t expected to see him today. She jumped out of the car and wandered down the hill, forcing herself not to rush.
Richard was seated on a boulder facing the creek. Not far away five-month-old Nefertiti was napping beside her mother in the shade of the old elm. Tutankhamun was rubbing his muzzle against Snow White’s neck, while she pretended not to notice. It was the gentleness of the gesture that made Angie smile. So much like Richard, the man who continued to treat her like a crystal angel, barely touching her in case she might shatter. Yet, she didn’t feel breakable any more.
As Angie stood at the top of the paddock, Tutankhamun pricked his ears and turned towards her. Richard turned too and waved. Beside him she could see a lidded basket.
A twilight picnic, she thought to herself. What a lovely surprise.
By the time she reached the creek, Richard was removing a bottle and crystal flutes from the basket. ‘Would you care for some ginger wine, Ang
e?’
‘I’d love some.’
He filled each flute to the top.
‘Cheers,’ he said as they clinked glasses.
When Angie took a sip, she said, ‘Mmm, it’s delicious. Did you make it yourself?’
‘Freshly brewed this morning with ginger and limes from my garden. You can drink as much as you like – it’s non-alcoholic.’
‘That’s a relief,’ she said, concealing a smile.
‘I’ve brought some treats for the alpacas too,’ he said, producing a paper bag containing diced carrots, which he fed to the trio gathered around him.
‘Those carrots had better not give them diarrhoea,’ she warned.
‘They’re the alpaca version of Swiss chocolate, Ange. Which I just happen to have brought with me.’
‘Home-made wine and chocolates. What’s the occasion?’ As soon as she said it, she knew the answer. ‘Why don’t we save them for later?’ she whispered, leaning over and kissing him on the mouth. When she drew away, she chuckled at the startled look on his face.
‘What are we going to do about this very long flirtation, Richard Scott?’
‘It’s up to you, Ange.’
She was about to give him a nudge in the ribs when she realised he was smiling. By the time they packed up the basket, the sky had turned charcoal, except for a thin slash of orange near the horizon.
Hand in hand, they walked up the hill to the Manse. Strangely enough, neither was in a hurry. The anticipation remained tantalising.
In the paddock Tutankhamun was nuzzling at Snow White’s long neck, but she didn’t spit at him. In fact, she didn’t discourage him at all.
EPILOGUE
It was a few days before the official opening of the Millbrooke Gallery and the painting ladies were busy hanging canvases and filling the cedar shelves with objets d’art. Ben, the ceramicist cum waiter, had created a special collection inspired by the emporium – jade-coloured vases, temple jars and bowls. Meanwhile, Richard was outside, adding the finishing touch to his restoration project: a brass commemorative plaque beside the glossy red front doors.
When the women gathered in the office for morning tea, Angie couldn’t help noticing that the room was unnaturally quiet, as though everyone was anticipating a big announcement.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked, shifting her gaze from one face to the next. With their shining eyes and expectant expressions, they resembled a bunch of children awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus.
‘We have a surprise for you, Angie,’ Moira said.
‘Ooh, I love surprises,’ she replied, wondering what it could be. A box of chocolates perhaps, or a bunch of flowers.
‘We know you’ve been busy with your council work,’ Moira continued, ‘so we took it upon ourselves to find someone to open the gallery.’
Angie adopted an enthusiastic smile, thinking, Oh no, I hope they haven’t asked the local MP. Speaking aloud she said, ‘I’d like to invite Mark to do the honours. After all, he’s James Miller’s great-grandson.’
‘But wouldn’t you prefer a Chen to a Miller?’ asked Narelle. ‘No offence to Mark,’ she added with a glance towards Jennie, ‘but it’s Mr Chen’s Emporium. It never had anything to do with the Millers.’
‘There aren’t any Chen family members remaining in Millbrooke,’ Angie said, ‘and I’ve phoned every Chen in the Granthurst district phone book. Not one of them seems to have a connection to Millbrooke.’
‘What would you say if I told you we’d found a direct descendant?’ asked Moira.
‘You’re joking.’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Narelle.
‘But how?’
‘We placed a notice in the Sydney and regional newspapers: “Seeking descendants of Charles and Amy Chen, who lived in Millbrooke in the late nineteenth century.” ’
‘And someone actually replied?’ asked Angie.
‘She sure did,’ said Jennie.
‘She?’
‘Don’t keep poor Angie in suspense any longer,’ said Louise.
Moira produced her newly acquired tablet device. ‘Here’s the email she sent me.’
Dear Mrs Johnson,
My name is Cathy West and I live in Sydney. I am replying to the notice you recently placed in the paper about descendants of Charles and Amy Chen. I’m their great-great-granddaughter.
The Chen name disappeared from our family line when my grandmother, Ethel, got married. She was the only child of Charles and Amy’s son, Charlie. Ethel had three children including my mother, Jean. My mum never met her grandfather, who died ten years before she was born. I looked up his military records in the National Archives and discovered he was a hero in the First World War.
Are you a family member, Mrs Johnson? If so, I’d love to continue our correspondence and share information and photos with you.
In the meantime, I’ve attached a picture that might be of interest.
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Kind regards,
Cathy West
‘Open the attachment, Angie,’ Jennie urged.
With a trembling hand Angie clicked on the jpeg, which bore the title, ‘Old Painting’. When the image appeared on the screen, her heart missed a beat. It was a full-length portrait of a handsome Chinese man wearing a dark suit and a silk waistcoat. In his lapel was a single orchid.
‘It’s Charles!’ she exclaimed, glancing up to see a circle of smiling faces.
‘The artist might have based it on the miniature in the museum,’ said Tanya. ‘Or it might have been the other way around.’
‘I have a theory,’ said Moira. ‘That Amy commissioned it after Charles died – as a memorial.’
‘Do you think it still exists?’ asked Angie.
‘Why don’t you ask Cathy?’ said Moira. ‘And you could invite her to open the gallery at the same time. I’ve just forwarded the email to you.’
Angie wiped an errant tear from her cheek. ‘Do you really think she’d come? It’s such short notice and it’s not as though she’s a local.’
‘I have a confession to make,’ Moira said. ‘I sent her a reply mentioning the opening date, but nothing more. I didn’t feel it was my place to ask her to do the honours – that’s up to you.’
‘And did you hear back?’
‘Last night, actually. She said she’d like to come.’
Angie could barely contain her delight. ‘In that case I’ll send her a note right away and ask her to be guest of honour. I can offer her a bed at the Manse too.’
‘You’ll be able to show her the room where Amy slept,’ said Louise.
‘And the exhibit at the museum,’ added Jennie.
‘And the graves at Millerbrooke,’ Narelle chipped in.
Angie hugged each of the women in turn. Then, drawing a deep breath, she said, ‘What would I do without you?’
After Angie sent the email, she began compiling a roster of helpers for opening night. She didn’t get far. Her mind kept drifting back to the oil painting of Charles. She was dying to take another look, enlarge the details and linger over the liquid eyes and shimmering skin, yet for some reason she felt guilty, as though she was about to embark on a secret assignation with a long-lost lover.
Furtively she picked up her phone and opened the email Moira had forwarded to her. As she clicked on the image and the portrait appeared in front of her, she let out a little gasp of pleasure like a teenager sighing over a pop star. Nobody noticed though. They were all too preoccupied, arranging pots on plinths, checking paintings were level, adding price tags. She peered at the picture until her eyelids felt heavy.
Isn’t it time you grew up, Angie Wallace? she chided herself. Why do you persist in this strange infatuation with a man who died in 1873, when you’re perfectly happy with your twenty-first century partner?
When she finally opened her eyes, Charles was standing in the doorway between the gallery and the office. Whether he was an optical illusion from staring too long at the screen on her phone, or simply a creation of her overactive imagination, she wasn’t sure. Probably the latter. Millbrooke could do that to you. It was a place where past and present could merge in the strangest ways.
She continued to gaze at Charles for what seemed like minutes, desperately trying not to blink. When she finally gave in to the urge, he disappeared as suddenly as he’d materialised. She half expected to find a yellow orchid lying on the floor where he had stood. But those kinds of things only happened in sentimental old Hollywood movies.
Nevertheless, she was inclined to believe that events had come full circle and Charles Chen was back in his beloved emporium, the place where he belonged, observing the restoration of the building, reading the inscription on the brass plaque, watching the shelves being stocked with ornamental wares and keenly awaiting the opening ceremony. It was a comforting thought.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ANGIE’S CLASSIC FILMS
Lost Horizon (1937)
Directed by Frank Capra, with Ronald Colman
Based on James Hilton’s novel of the same name, the film could be described in some ways as a 1930s version of Lost. When a plane crashes in the Himalayas, the passengers are taken to a magical place called Shangri-la where problems are solved and illnesses miraculously healed. Ronald Colman plays a British diplomat whose life is changed forever by his experiences there.
Now, Voyager (1942)
Directed by Irving Rapper, with Bette Davis, Paul Henreid, Claude Rains
This is the tale of an introverted thirty-something spinster, Charlotte Vale, played by Bette Davis, who escapes her mother’s domination, has a makeover and falls for Paul Henreid’s Jerry. Meanwhile, Jerry’s daughter is at the same clinic where Bette Davis is trying to rebuild her self-esteem under the care of psychiatrist, Claude Rains. However, there’s an obstacle to the romance between Henreid and Davis – he’s a married man. Then Bette Davis takes on the care of his psychologically fragile daughter, and although Davis and Henreid yearn for a physical relationship, their sense of morality prevents it. The title is taken from Walt Whitman’s poem and the book was written by Olive Higgins Prouty.
A Place of Her Own Page 29