by Ella Carey
She brought her hand up to her forehead, while slumping back in the chair.
“I’ve booked you on a train back to Melbourne tomorrow.” His voice, disembodied from everything, went on.
Rebecca had no words.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “This is no place for you. I can’t do what I wanted to do now.” Final. If she knew Edward, she knew that every word he uttered was well thought.
Cold, brutal, truth.
He didn’t love her enough back. So, she’d been mistaken. Had been under an illusion, was that it? Was she, then, some distraction, before he settled down with someone, God forbid, like Edith?
Her teeth started to chatter in shock.
And then anger swept through her. She wanted to throw her book in his face. After all his talk, after all their dreaming, he was going to regress? Duty, family, society, expectations. He hadn’t meant any of what he’d told her. And what did he expect she would do? Ask him to abandon his mother and sister? She would never do such a thing.
“You don’t mean this,” she said. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Rebecca,” he said. “We cannot continue on. And I have thought about it. Everything has changed. I cannot commit to you. I’m sorry.”
She jerked herself out of the chair, moved toward him. “Tell me you don’t mean it,” she whispered.
“I mean it,” he said. “No more. It won’t work.”
“Edward, I love you,” she said, and her voice cracked. “I want to get through this with you. I want to help.”
“You don’t understand. My responsibilities, the stations. All those people—employees who rely on my family. I can’t walk away. And Edith . . .”
Rebecca couldn’t stop a laugh that rose, bitter, in her throat. “Edith?” she whispered hoarsely. The word spun a hole in her thoughts about supporting him, about helping his family. He would prefer Edith did that? “You are joking, Edward.”
She looked up at him, and he looked straight at her.
And she knew.
It was at that moment that she saw the seriousness in his expression. He meant it.
She drooped back down in her seat. “Edith?” she said, as if repeating some line in a play. “Edith?”
“She knows how to run things. You deserve a career.”
“And what of love? And what of the fact that I will support you? I’m committed to that.”
“I think we both know that the world doesn’t take kindly to love, Rebecca. Not in war, not in peace. It’s a poet’s dream.”
“And yet you are a poet,” she whispered back. “Your dream was to be one. Why can’t we,” she measured out her words, “why can’t we do as John and Sunday have done? What is stopping us? We can still be there for your family—it doesn’t have to be a complete break. If we could talk to your mother. Vicky is intelligent . . . we can still support them both and help them get things organized until they are on their feet.”
“I’m no John Reed. I can’t do what he and Sunday have done. Don’t you see, don’t you see how incredibly fortunate their position is?” His voice churned out words. “Believe me, their situation is unfathomably different from mine. I can’t simply walk away from everything. Surely you can see that. It would destroy you, destroy us. It might work for a few years, maybe one or two, but eventually life would catch up with us. Rebecca, please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
Rebecca set her head in her hands. “Could we not try staying together, getting through this dreadful time? Goodness knows you were there for me when I needed you. Don’t you need the same from me?”
But he shook his head. “It’s no place for you here.”
“Oh, don’t be so stubborn, Edward. I can live with you, support you.”
“It’s the last thing I want. You playing that role.”
“What?” She was losing control of her voice.
“You’d become simply my wife. It would kill you, Rebecca. Forget about me.”
She looked up at him, her throat constricting.
“If you think I could ever forget you,” she said, “then you have never known me at all.”
He didn’t look at her. “It’s best you go. I want you to go.” He enunciated the words with great care. As if each one were measured.
Rebecca felt a bolt hit her, another blow at her chest. “You don’t know if you meant any of it?”
“Rebecca. Enough.”
Rebecca stood up, clasped and unclasped her hands. Paced across the veranda. “That night on the beach . . .” It seemed like another place now.
But still, he shook his head.
Rebecca let out a sob.
“Our lives are too different.”
She nodded. So, appearances again. Just like her mother, just like his mother.
“You’re taking the easy path,” she murmured. “She won’t make you happy.”
He turned to her, his eyes with that searing, gasping pain that she felt.
And she waited. One last time.
“Please, go and do what you want to do. Live freely, Rebecca. I have no life to offer you now. It is over. I have nothing more to say.”
And Rebecca stood there, she didn’t know for how long. Cold realization washed over her. Her mind set itself, and in the end, when she spoke, her voice was hard.
“I simply want to love you,” she said.
His entire body sagged.
She walked into her bedroom. Breathing was hard. Her eyes stung, but she moved around the room with the determination of a woman on a singular path. Her own path. That was what it was going to have to be. On her own. By herself. No mother, no family. No Edward. She choked down the emotion that welled up in her throat. All on her own.
She retrieved the envelope that contained all the savings she had. Meager, but it was something, from her job and the money that her uncle had given her toward her education. She had only spent one term’s worth. And suddenly, as she flicked through her savings, an idea presented itself. It was the answer. It was the only one.
Silently, she packed some things in a knapsack, three drawings, a couple of changes of clothes, things that were light. Her tread was silent on the soft dark lawn as she made her way to the beach.
Moonlight radiated on the sea, glistening from some far-off place.
Rebecca rowed out to the island. The still water lapped against the oars. There was only one option. Only one thing to do. She would take things into her own hands. Carve out her own fate.
Rebecca pulled the boat ashore on the beach on the island, not caring that her espadrilles were soaked. And made her way along the path that wound toward the wild open sea, where she settled herself on her rock.
She picked up her sketching materials, placed them on her lap, and drew in great brushstrokes. Edward. She had fallen in love. Love had been fleeting, but then, so was life. And then she stopped, staring out at the inky sea. Perhaps she had it all wrong. Maybe love was not about holding on; maybe love was about letting go.
Her chest rose and fell as if in time with the sweep of the waves. She laid her drawings aside on the rock. There was only one way to do this.
She looked at the sketching materials that Edward had bought her at Haslemere.
Rebecca leaned down, scattering her drawing things across the rocks. Her pencil, her charcoal black pencil, bounced and slipped downward, tumbling like her heart, landing on a ledge, remaining there, glimmering in the moonlight. She let her sketching book go next, but the wind picked it up like a kite, and it dived and wheeled until resting almost down at the churning water’s edge.
There. They would find them. That was all they needed for this to end.
And she eased herself off the rock, trudging back toward the causeway that linked the island to the town, wrapping her cardigan around her slender shoulders, her face down in the breeze.
Carmel-by-the-Sea, 1987
Rebecca set the glass of water she’d poured herself down on the table on her terrace and stare
d out at the inky sea. Memories that she’d pushed aside for decades, heaving them away and sinking them deep into quicksand, were coming hard and fast now. She could not stop them coming, she could not sleep, she could only ride with them until, like waves, they had all broken on the seashore, only to pull away from her again and bury themselves in the ocean, where she swore they would never surface again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
New York, 1987
Tess stood at the window in her office, looking out at the never-ending sea of movement that was Manhattan. She had to tell Edward she’d found Rebecca, despite the fact that she’d told Rebecca she wouldn’t. There was simply no way Tess could keep this to herself. When the phone rang, she glowered at the distraction. Anything else seemed trivial now.
“Tess Miller,” she said, running a hand through her hair.
“I’m sure you know why I’m calling.”
Dread curled into her heart.
“How can you possibly justify—”
“Edward.”
“How dare you.” His voice was a growl.
Tess leaned her head in her hands. “Please.”
“No. You couldn’t resist delving into this in order to make a bloody buck. Your reasons are bogus, but you don’t understand that. I don’t think you ever will.”
Tess’s heart beat time like a metronome. She had to defend herself. Had to make him see sense. “Edward. It was not like that. I would never, ever have done what I did for publicity.”
“You had no right to do any such thing without my consent. I was not convinced about you from our very first meeting. And now, I know that my sense was right. You are not the right editor for my book. You are clearly unable to separate your own need for material gain from the fact that you should be looking after your authors and their work. End of story. You had no right to go and disturb some woman in California. You will not be working for me anymore. Leon will tell you this, but I’m afraid that I wanted to have my say too.”
Tess almost ran her teeth through her tender bottom lip.
“How you thought that contacting a famous artist on my behalf, without my permission, risking my reputation, my career, telling her my personal story without telling me a thing was even remotely acceptable as a professional is beyond me. Leon has had the decency to apologize on your behalf, and he’s engaged James to edit my book.”
“Edward!”
But then, he was gone. Just like that. He’d hung up.
The room spun. James? She couldn’t hold back the laugh of cynicism that bit into her throat. He’d taken Edward.
She started toward her door. And collided with Leon.
“I want to talk, and now,” he said.
Words, half-formed, danced on her lips. But she could only shake her head. Her hands gripped each other like steel. Leon sat down at her desk.
“Sit down, Tess,” he said.
His blue eyes were a pair of glittering jewels. Tess held his gaze, chin up.
“Edward Russell has requested that James edit his book.”
“It wasn’t for publicity, Leon,” she said, unable to form any other words. Her thoughts scattered like flotsam. But she sat as firm as a boulder. “I informed both you and Edward that I suspected the subject of his book was living, not dead. I felt I had a duty to everyone involved to find out, Leon. Rebecca could have made a terrible problem for the house and for Edward.”
“You are an editor,” he said, placing his glasses back onto his nose, looking at her over them, “with a project that I thought was going to push you into new depths. That was your job. I thought you were ready. Clearly, I made a mistake. Edward Russell could well sue the press if that artist reveals your visit, and you didn’t tell me that he’d explicitly asked you not to see her.”
Tess looked down at the floor. Did Edward know her at all, or Rebecca, for that matter?
“She won’t say a thing,” Tess said. “I’m sure of it.”
Leon leaned forward. He enunciated his words with great care. “I want you to sign a waiver stating that you will not reveal any information about your dealings with Edward Russell or Rumer Banks to a soul. The legal team is preparing that document now. You are to tender your resignation this minute and leave the office immediately.”
Tess gasped.
“Leon.”
Her whole body shook. James. He’d been playing the long game. No wonder he wanted in on the dinner in Rome.
Leon stood up and straightened his bow tie. She sent him a silent plea. But he shook his head and walked away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Victor Harbor, 1946
Rebecca stood alone on the main street of Victor Harbor. A couple of paper bags, remnants of someone’s shopping expedition to Bell’s General Store, fluttered up the road in the sea breeze. Two men lingered outside the Hotel Victor on the corner opposite the park at the end of the causeway, swaying with the effects of a night on the grog. Rebecca shuddered and gathered her arms around herself.
She clutched at her handbag, feeling instinctively for the money that was her lifeline now. It was a funny thing, that. The very notions that she and Edward had railed against—money and wealth, and everything that went along with it. But now she had to save herself. She had to work out how to survive. At least she had enough money to catch a bus from the little seaside village.
Rebecca made her way up the empty main street, passing Field’s butcher, where the Russells’ cook came to do her daily shopping, hurrying past a large boardinghouse called The Central and Bell’s General Store before stopping at the small bus shelter where all buses left for goodness knew where. She sat on the cold green bench on the sidewalk.
At five o’clock in the morning, a bus heaved to a stop in front of her. Once the few passengers had alighted, Rebecca watched as the driver turned the painted wooden sign around while the refueling was done.
Perth.
Perth was good. The other side of the country, across the Nullarbor, one of the loneliest stretches of desert on earth. Rebecca placed her foot on the step of the bus, handed the few shillings’ fare to the driver, and found a seat in the empty rows. As the bus heaved its way onto the road, she rested her head on the cold window, condensation running in droplets down her left cheek.
New York, 1987
Packing up the office took ten minutes. Tess stood and gazed around it one last time. She clutched the box that contained the sum of her things, held her head up, and moved out of the office toward the elevators.
Perth, 1946
Rebecca ran a sweaty hand across her forehead. The scarf that held her long hair away from her face was also damp with sweat. She reached for The West Australian, the newspaper that lay on the red Formica table in the lunch room at the laundry, not caring that her moist fingertips would become blackened with newspaper ink. She’d wash it off before she went back out to work. These newspapers afforded her the only link she had to the outside world, to the life she’d left behind. The women’s shelter that had become her temporary lodging was akin to a nightmare zone. But even so, Rebecca was grateful that she had a job and a place to stay.
In this hot, searing city, making it through each day was the only thing that mattered. It was a blessing in some ways, because the ritual of survival forced her to drum everything else out of her mind. Rebecca flipped the pages of the well-thumbed paper as she had done each day since her arrival here in Perth. Her arms ached from the long hours at the ironing presses, smoothing men’s shirts for the women who could afford to pay someone else to do that sort of work. When she was at the till, Rebecca smiled politely at the well-to-do wives, some of them not much older than herself, who were cosseted and loved by men. And pushed aside thoughts that she had done something wrong, while they, smug in their suburban lives, must have done everything right.
When Rebecca read the article on page six of the newspaper, something solid wedged in her throat. She stared at the picture of herself on the beach, just before things fell apart. She ra
n her hand over the image of her own face. She felt, suddenly, a wave of sympathy for that girl. The girl she had been. Even a couple of weeks later, Rebecca felt as if she were a different person. That old Rebecca was gone now. Perhaps she had disappeared into the sea after all—she may as well have. She read the short accompanying piece. So. The authorities decided she’d fallen from the rocks while sketching, just as she’d planned.
The funeral was yesterday because, after an extensive search, they had turned up nothing, no body was ever found. But the stretch of coast, the article went on, was infamous. Freak waves had claimed lives on the island before. The article went on to talk about safety, about the need to keep your distance from the edge of the rocks on such treacherous shores.
Rebecca raised her hands, checking that the scarf covered every piece of her long dark hair, her fingers running around its perimeter in a way that had become familiar, a comfort even. She tore out the article and tucked it into the pocket of her sack-like dress.
The following morning she stood in line at the docks. There was no time to be had. She had set herself up with a new name when she arrived at the shelter. Another woman resident knew what to do. But false name or not, she was recognizable now. A free passage was in her hand—organized by the same woman who made up false papers—in exchange for work to be carried out in the laundries on the ship.
She clutched the rucksack she had brought from the beach house, bulging with two shapeless printed dresses that the women’s shelter had provided for her on her arrival in Perth. Among her other pathetic things. No pencils, no paper. Every penny had to count. In her handbag were her sacred false papers, her new name—Rumer Banks. The woman who’d organized it told her it was unusual, classy. Had eyed Rebecca and told her that she looked like a woman of class. Rebecca had turned away and told her to just get on with it. She didn’t want discussions. Didn’t want to get involved. Not with this woman.
Not with anyone.
That was it. A new life. A new way of living. Rebecca Swift was gone for good.
New York, 1987
Tess focused on the copy in front of her. Did not allow herself to be distracted by Caroline, sashaying around the office with a model in tow and a man pushing a rack of designer clothes in their wake. Caroline’s hair hung in soft ringlets around her shoulders. On her left finger, her diamond engagement ring sparkled and her wedding ring sat snug beneath that. Caroline’s stomach showed off a tiny baby bump.