What I do know is I still see our future together as clearly as ever. Our plans remain in place. Our wedding – well that was postponed but when we do marry, it will be away from here. I have been working a lot and saving for us. We can go to Paris if you wish and be married at the foot of the Eiffel Tower.
We can live there or in England or Amsterdam... all places you long to visit. I will go because you inspire me to. You inspire me by being in my life. Our children will be raised in a home filled with laughter and love. With you as their mother, they will learn to enjoy life and be generous and kind. As their father, I shall teach them to draw on inner strength and to strive for the stars. Such lucky children we shall have!
One day, in the far future, our grandchildren shall sit on our laps as we gaze out over the ocean. We will share our stories and teach them to be strong, loving, and self-aware.
Imagine this. It will be ours, my love, starting the moment you come home.
With all of my heart, my soul and being, I love you Martha.
Thomas
Christie read the letter twice. Knowing now they never married, she could only assume Martha never read this letter. If she had, how could she have stayed away from Thomas Blake, whose love was true?
If only that kind of love was in her life. If only Derek loved her this way and knew exactly what to say to make her pain go away. Was anyone out there like Thomas?
MARTIN’S STUDIO WAS in darkness, save for a spotlight near the window, where Martin sat on the floor, sketching in an art book. Deep in concentration, he worked on a portrait like a labour of love.
After a while, he sat back and picked up a glass of whiskey. Sipping it, he stared at the portrait.
It was Christie on the steps at the beach. Leaning down to pat Randall, her eyes were alight with happiness. Around her neck was the diamond and emerald pendant from the jewellery shop.
Martin shook his head at himself.
“Fool.”
He closed the art book and finished his drink.
Eleven
CHRISTIE WOKE TO ROLLING thunder, followed by a downpour. Staring out of the window at the heavy, dark clouds, she was tempted to snuggle further under the covers and go back to sleep. Instead, she went over Gran’s note in her mind, at least, the little she had deciphered.
Dearest Christabel,
My last request is you find my sister and give her the diary. In the box. It is...
The words became too hard to read. Maybe Angus would know about a diary in a box. She would see him once she went home. With a reluctant yawn, she slipped out of bed and stretched.
On the way to the kitchen, the dark lounge room took her attention. She stared at the fireplace, admiring the marble mantelpiece. Above it was a hook in the centre of the wall, as if waiting for a painting to hang. The seascape would be perfect there.
The single light bulb made little difference. The walls had brown striped wallpaper and the heavy curtains allowed no light in at all. So dark a blue, they were almost black, and as worn as the sofa. They also refused to slide along their rod.
“Hm.” Christie stepped back. It was time these curtains came down. Until she got some light in here, it was hard to visualize the room with a bit of work and love.
THE RAIN STOPPED BY the time Christie, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, went hunting for tools in the garage. The double doors were hard to open but with enough pressure, one yielded with a groan. Inside, the floor was hard dirt and a single light globe hung from a beam. Along one side, narrow shelves held old pots, some gardening tools, and a collection of empty glass jars. At the end, a wooden ladder leaned at an angle.
There was nothing else of any substance, so Christie took her toolkit from the boot of the Lotus. It was basic, with a hammer, a screwdriver set and mixed screws, tape, some nails, a paint scraper and a wrench. She had bought this kit during her house-sharing days, finding it easier to fix most things herself than wait for a landlord. Derek thought it ridiculous she would take on the work of a tradesperson, so the kit ended up in the Lotus for emergencies.
After shooing a couple of spiders off the ladder, Christie part dragged, part carried it into the cottage and set it up in the lounge room. It was old and wobbly but seemed stable enough. It was oddly exciting to be doing something for the cottage and she could hardly wait to see the room in decent light.
IN THE COTTAGE DRIVEWAY, Martin stood holding the painting - wrapped in a sheet - in his arms. Shaking his head, he turned to leave. A thud emanated from inside, and another. Instead of going, Martin hurried to the back door and knocked.
From somewhere deep inside came a muffled “It’s unlocked. I’m in the lounge room!”
Martin shook his head again as he opened the door. He glanced at the mind map on the table on his way to the lounge room, where he stopped.
Half of the curtain rod had been liberated, its end almost on the floor and the curtains in a pile around it. Christie was near the top of the old ladder, leaning at a precarious angle as she worked on a screw with both hands. The rungs creaked loudly with every move.
Martin placed the painting on the sofa before stalking to the window.
“Are you crazy?” he grabbed the supports.
Christie glanced at him in surprise. “Oh, I thought you were one of the tradies.”
“Get down, now!”
“Oh, that’s better. Stay there for a moment please. I’m almost done.” Christie put all of her strength into turning the screwdriver.
“I’m not joking! This thing is about to collapse and you with it.” Martin wanted to reach up and remove Christie from her perilous position, giving her no say in the matter. Instead, he gripped the timber until his knuckles turned white.
Christie was oblivious. “Can you spare a hand in case this falls... oh!”
The rod fell with a bang, narrowly missing Martin. Christie gaped at him in horror.
“Climb down now or I’ll lift you down.” The controlled fury in his voice got through to Christie and she clambered off her perch.
At the bottom, she spun around, trapped between Martin’s arms and the ladder. He felt the heat of her body so close to his. Those gorgeous eyes were bewildered.
“Are you always so bossy?”
“Do you always put yourself at risk?”
“You mean the ladder? I don’t just put makeup on human faces; I work on larger than life creatures and effects and know my way around scaffolding.”
“This isn’t scaffolding. Your door was unlocked. You don’t know what sort of person might come into your house.”
“I can see that.”
The words hung between them.
Martin contemplated Christie, and then released the ladder and walked away. Amusement flooded his face as he unwrapped the painting and leaned it against the back of the sofa. As Christie joined him, his expression instinctively hardened.
“It’s so beautiful!” Christie knelt down to see the painting better, her eyes bright and happy. “You are amazing, Martin! Thank you so much.”
She smiled up at him. “Thanks for bringing it to me, but I would have been happy to have picked it up. Saved you the trip.”
A long, uncomfortable silence fell.
“What’s wrong?” Christie ventured.
“I wish to buy it.” Martin said.
“The painting?” Christie got back to her feet. “I couldn’t. It was Gran’s.”
“No, it wasn’t. Regardless, I’ll pay whatever you ask. So?”
“If it wasn’t Gran’s, then whose? Martin, who owns it?”
Martin stared coldly at Christie. “How much? That necklace you admired at George’s is worth seven thousand—.”
“You think I’m so shallow?” Christie stepped in front of the painting protectively. “It’s not for sale.”
“It is no more yours than it was Dorothy’s. Think about selling.”
“Who should own it? Please tell me!”
Instead, Martin spun around and stalked off. A
nother minute and he’d succumb to her confused plea.
“Martin! How much do I owe you?” Her words followed him as he left, slamming the door in his wake.
ONE BY ONE, CHRISTIE threw the remains of the ladder in the garage. As soon as the door slammed, the ladder groaned and fell in a heap. Another thing to replace.
Martin was impossible. One moment bossing her around, then the cold mask came down. She had seen him smile at her implied insult, so she knew he had human emotions. The secrecy about the painting’s ownership was ridiculous. As if she would wilfully keep it from its true owner.
She pushed aside the way her body responded to his closeness. The scent of the sea still lingered on her skin. Then she’d insulted him. Again. At least I didn’t apologise.
This cottage and its secrets weighed heavily in her thoughts. Those who could help, would not. Either deliberately, like Martin, or unintentionally, like George and Daphne. Her instincts told her to go home and forget all of this. Stop worrying about a mystery from half a century ago.
Christie sighed heavily and wandered to the front gate. The sun was drying up the puddles from the earlier downpour. Over the road was a parked, black Maserati. Three men were huddled around a large map laid out on its bonnet. One of the men was John Jones.
Curious, Christie picked seaside daisies along the side of the driveway, making them into a small bouquet as she kept an eye on the men. They were deep in discussion, turning to point at the parcel of land next to the cottage.
John saw Christie and raised a hand in greeting. One of the other men walked over the road toward her, straight into the driveway and extended his hand to shake.
“Hi, I’m Bryce Montgomery. Lovely day.”
Christie shook his hand. He was about her age and handsome in a well-dressed, slicked back hair kind of way. He wore a Rolex and a diamond stud through one ear.
“Yes, lovely morning now the rain has cleared.”
“So, John mentioned you inherited this place?”
“Did he?”
Bryce checked Christie out. “You don’t strike me as being a country girl.”
“I don’t?”
“A Lotus. You have excellent taste.”
“Thank you.” Christie glanced at John, who headed her way.
“Interested in selling? The cottage, I mean.”
“You don’t seem like a country boy.”
He smiled, but his eyes were hard and cold. Like Derek’s when something was out of his reach. Must be a property developer trait.
John joined them, red faced. “Morning, Miss Ryan.”
“Christie, please. Nice day for a drive?”
“Oh, um, Bryce and Allan are interested in local real estate. Just showing them some of the areas that might be worth considering.”
“Ah, property developers.” Christie said.
“You make it sound like a dirty word.” Bryce said.
“Not at all. My fiancé is one.”
Bryce glanced sharply at John, who shrugged his shoulders and turned away. “We’ll leave you in peace.”
“Please say hello to Daphne.”
Bryce held out a business card. “I like this area. A lot. I’m prepared to negotiate with your fiancé.”
“He doesn’t speak for me and the cottage isn’t for sale. Enjoy your day.” Christie ignored the outstretched card and wandered back along the driveway. She glanced at the Maserati as the three men got in. After a moment, it did a U-turn and drove back toward the main road.
She stopped and stared up at the cottage. “You’re not for sale, are you? Just like the painting, you’re not for sale.”
CHRISTIE PERCHED ON the arm of the sofa with a cup of coffee, happy with the results from a two-hour cleaning spree. The daisy bouquet adorned the mantelpiece in a glass from the kitchen. Above it, the seascape added warmth and vibrancy to the room.
She was calm and in control again. She would renovate the cottage with the help of Barry Parks and decide whether to sell, or keep this as her hideaway. With images in her mind of how pretty she would make the cottage and its grounds, she knew Derek would love her plans. This could be their weekend retreat.
The painting caught her attention. What was its significance in all of this? Gran had custody of it, hidden away in an unsuitable cylinder as though it meant nothing. Perhaps it meant too much and Gran could not bear to see it.
Back in the kitchen, Christie sat before the mind map. What was the connection between the painting and the cottage? Was there one, or had Christie assumed so because Angus left it here for her? What did she know about it? Christie picked up a pencil and scribbled under the word Painting.
- Artist Thomas Blake lived here
- Subject is the jetty Martha fell off in a storm
- Painting hidden for years in a cylinder by Gran
- Martin wants to buy painting for persons unknown
That last point bothered Christie the most. From the first moment, he recognised it, or its artist. If, as Christie suspected, he was related to Thomas, perhaps he had more of his paintings. It may be he collected them and wanted this one for himself.
If Martin was the last of the family, assuming was the case, and wanted the painting as some sort of heirloom, he could have asked. All the theatrics mystified Christie. As did her response to him.
Over the past few years, Christie had been close to attractive men. Actors, including superstars who made hearts flutter across the world. Make-up meant being a hair’s breadth away, touching skin, hair, lips. In spite of the physical closeness, she had never been tempted to be other than professional. Even before Derek, her relationship with her clients never went beyond the job. Since Derek, her sole focus changed to him. Her man, who made her feel safe.
Martin did not make her feel safe. Instead, he shook up her senses with his eyes and confused her with his words. She barely knew the man, but he intruded into her thoughts too much. His scent was like the ocean and if she touched him... Stop it!
She pushed the mind map away and stood up. What she did need to do was pay him for the work on the painting. Maybe, if she kept her cool, he would answer her questions this time.
Twelve
PATRICK RYAN’S GRANDFATHER won Palmerston House in a game of poker. Built in the 1850s from local limestone and surrounded by timber verandahs, it was an iconic homestead in the small community and home to generations of the Ryan family.
The driveway circled around an ornate, but unused fountain dating back one hundred years. Christie nosed the Lotus past it and pulled over to park. On her way to see Martin, she found herself taking the other fork in the road.
Out of the car, she gazed around in awe. The gardens were extensive and immaculate. Not only perfect, but clearly loved. The plants were heavily European rather than native, which given Gran’s Irish heritage, was understandable. This was where Gran grew up.
Christie noticed a curtain on the upper floor open. It closed again and she lost interest. Going up several steps to the double front door, Christie wondered what life here would have been like in Gran’s childhood. A plaque on the wall beside the door proclaimed this was Palmerston House. Below was a modern sign asking visitors to enter and wait in the lobby. Christie pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The lobby was a vast and open common space featuring a curved staircase with beautiful timber railings leading to the mezzanine level. Behind the staircase, a picture studded hallway lead to the service areas of the house. Beside the staircase was a small desk with a phone, old-fashioned guest book and a selection of brochures on local attractions.
Behind the desk sat Elizabeth White, who acknowledged Christie with a faint smile. “How may I help you?”
“Hello, I’m Christie Ryan. I’m staying in the area and believe this beautiful home once belonged to my family.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “I see. That does seem unlikely though, as the original owners moved back to Ireland many, many years ago.”
“Oh. I un
derstood Dorothy Ryan’s parents owned Palmerston House at one time?”
“You’re related to this Dorothy Ryan?”
“Gran passed away a few days ago and I came to her funeral. You didn’t know her?”
Elizabeth fussed around straightening the items on the desk before glancing up. “I wish I could be more help, dear. All before my time, I’m afraid.”
“Oh. I was hoping...” Christie let her words trail off.
“What, dear?”
“It’s just I’m searching for Dorothy’s sister, who may still be alive. Her name is Martha. Martha Ryan.”
Elizabeth took a moment to reply. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Now, if that is all, I do have to leave. To shop.”
Christie opened her mouth to ask another question but Elizabeth’s closed body language told her to tread lightly. She nodded. “If you should think of anything, I’m staying at the old Stationmaster’s Cottage up the hill. I’ll be there for a couple more days... if you remember anything?”
Elizabeth stood up. “You’re leaving soon?”
“In a day or so, yes. Palmerston House looks lovely.”
“It is. I’m sorry I can’t give you a tour. Perhaps on your next visit?”
“I’d like that. Well, thanks for your time.”
Elizabeth nodded and hurried up the staircase.
Christie let herself out and wandered to the car. What a strange encounter. Maybe Elizabeth thought Christie would make some claim on the property. Or, was it possible she was hiding something?
“Along with everyone else in town!” Christie muttered to herself as she started the motor.
ELIZABETH TAPPED ON Martha’s half open door.
Martha rested on the made bed, staring at the sky through the window.
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