The Stationmaster's Cottage

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  “I like him too. Never was allowed to have a dog and these days, well, I’m away too much,” she leaned down to whisper to Randall, “so will you let me share you a little?”

  Randall wagged his tail before dropping onto the deck with a soft grunt.

  Christie straightened and glanced at Martin, who gazed into his wine glass.

  “I’d never let a developer get their hands on the cottage.”

  “Not even your own fiancé?”

  “Derek will support whatever I decide to do with it.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’d like to keep it. Do it up and spend at least part of my home time here.”

  “Live here? You’re a city girl through and through.”

  “I’m not. I live in Melbourne because of the airport. And Gran raised me there. It’s not where my life started.” Christie’s eyes dropped to her bare feet, her toes curling at the memory of how hot the red soil of her childhood home had been.

  “River’s End has no luxuries. No beauty parlours or top end restaurants. Nothing for a woman who lives the high life.”

  “You do like to assume things, don’t you?” Christie shook her head. “I happen to have a job which requires a certain level of presentation. I can’t expect clients to engage me if I don’t appear professional.”

  “Are there new clients here?”

  “Of course not. I generally work between Hollywood and London.”

  “I see.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s your choice how you present yourself.”

  The air filled with tension.

  Then, Martin half smiled. “The T-shirt suits you.”

  Christie blushed. She never blushed, but this man who set so many alarms bells ringing in her head from their first encounter, was under her skin tonight.

  “Um, thanks. Um, I like the wine. It’s the same one I had the first night I stayed at the cottage. I’m going to take some home with me.”

  “When?”

  “When what? When am I going home?”

  Martin nodded.

  “Derek flies back on Monday.”

  “From Lizard Island?”

  “Yes. I’ll get home just before him.”

  “He went without you?”

  A chill shot through Christie, evaporating the warmth of the night. Real life was just around the corner. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “You came to your grandmother’s funeral and he went on holiday. You’ve had to deal with it all on your own?” Martin spoke with such gentleness that it was all Christie could do not to shed those tears in front of him.

  She raised her chin and forced her emotions down, just as she always did. “I’m okay with it.”

  Martin took her left hand, as he had done at the lookout. Holding her fingers, he studied the engagement ring. “You shouldn’t be okay with it.”

  His touch was electric. Christie knew she had to leave. She started to pull her hand away but Martin tightened his hold a bit. Her back was against the railing. He moved closer and Christie caught her breath. She had nowhere to go and nowhere else she wanted to be. Her hand was on fire and it was radiating through her. She had to stop this.

  “He never knew Gran. He wanted this holiday so much. What would you have done?”

  “It’s irrelevant he didn’t know your grandmother. He knows you.” Martin let the words sit between them, released her fingers and turned back to the ocean. “It doesn’t matter what I’d have done.”

  Christie rested her now empty wine glass on the railing.

  Martin glanced at it. “I’m happy to refill that, but you’re not driving home tonight.”

  “I’m fine to drive and I don’t want any more wine, thanks.”

  “You need something to eat. I’ll make something.”

  Martin stared intently at Christie, who somehow regained control of her emotions, forcing them below an icy weight in her stomach. Five minutes earlier she would have agreed to eat with him but now he had reminded her Derek let her down the one time she needed him. Staying here would only confuse her further.

  “It’s fine. I’m going to go now.” Christie picked up her clothes and handbag and slipped on her shoes. She dug around in her handbag for her keys without success.

  “I’ve still got them. You can stay in the guest room or you can walk, but you’re not driving home.” Martin crossed his arms. “Don’t bother arguing, Christie. Now, which is it?”

  “Why?”

  “You’re not serious. In your world, do you drink two full glasses of wine on an empty stomach and drive?”

  “No. Of course I would never do that! Okay, I get your point. But I’d like my keys back thanks and I’ll pick the car up in the morning.”

  “Nope. You can drop the T-shirt back to me and swap it for the keys. End of discussion. Here, give me your phone for a moment. I’ll put my phone number into it.”

  “Why?” Christie fished the phone out of her bag and handed it to him.

  He tapped away at it. “Text me when you get home please. I want to be sure you’re safe.” He handed her back the phone.

  The wine was going to her head, or the salt air and hunger. Or all three. Christie did not know if she wanted to answer to him. She was a grown woman who travelled the world and was quite able to walk a couple of kilometres home.

  “Or,” he continued, “you decide to do the smart thing and stay in the guest room, which has a lock by the way. There’s a storm coming... you should stay.”

  “I am so angry right now!”

  “Then have another glass of wine and a meal with me. You can be angry but you’ll be safe. I promise you, staying here tonight is a safe option.”

  Christie doubted that. There was nothing safe about this man, although she was unafraid of him. Just of her emotions.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t do that to Derek.”

  “Do what, Christie? This night isn’t real to you, is it? You’re meant to be on a tropical island sipping cocktails with your fiancé. I think you’re with the wrong man.”

  “You’re right about that!” Irrational feelings of rejection and disappointment powered through Christie. Without a backward glance, she ran down the steps and into the night.

  CHRISTIE RAN UNTIL she reached the bottom of the hill and had no more running in her. She had to stop and take deep, shuddering gulps of air to clear her head and refill her lungs. Why had she accepted that first glass of wine and followed it up with another? What on earth possessed her to get so comfortable with a man she had known for less than a week?

  Somehow, ridiculously, it was as though she had known Martin all of her life. Nobody had ever spoken to her the way he did, so direct and uncompromising. It was both challenging and refreshing and he by-passed her defences as if they were mere whispers in the wind. But he did not know her, he did not understand she was happy with Derek and would mend whatever had broken. She had to get the stability back.

  The road crossed the river and Christie thought about walking home along the beach. Only the knowledge she would have to go past the graveyard on the way stopped her. That was one thing too many tonight.

  There was a lightning flash in the distance and Christie hurried up. All she wanted now was to get back to the cottage and close the door behind her. Shut out this day and find a way to put her life back into perspective. Tomorrow was her last full day here. Somehow, that only made her sadder.

  MARTIN STOPPED IN THE shadows of the trees over the road from the cottage, relieved Christie made it home without him having to reveal his presence. He heard the back door close and saw a light come on inside. When she’d hesitated on the bridge, he’d willed her to stay away from the beach with the incoming storm.

  Perhaps in her world it was normal for someone to wander around in an unfamiliar place in the dark. Not in his. From the moment she’d stepped onto the deck tonight in his T-shirt, he’d wanted to protect her. Her still-damp hair had tumbled down her shoulder
s, the sunset reflected in those eyes. She’d appeared so vulnerable and so unaware of the effect on him.

  This evening should have been different. By now, Christie should have agreed to sell him the painting. She had no need for it and he did. The opportunity had presented itself and he stuffed it up. He should have kept things light, not let his guard down and upset her by pointing out her fiancé’s deficiencies. It was none of his business.

  How could any man treat her that way? Why did she accept it? Martin shook his head, wondering what would happen tomorrow when she came for her car keys. He needed to think things through and not ruin what might be the last chance he had.

  Fourteen

  CHRISTIE STOOD IN THE middle of the kitchen. She had stripped the T-shirt off almost the minute she got home, and now wore her dressing gown. She needed to eat but only some grapes and feta remained, along with the bottles of wine. She ignored the food and took out a bottle, pouring a glass which she raised to the fridge.

  “To bad decisions and poor forward planning,” she said aloud, unsure whether to laugh or cry, deciding instead emotions were a dangerous waste of time and energy.

  One glass down and Christie gave in and finished off the meagre offerings from the fridge. Her stomach was growling and she wondered what Martin would have cooked. She dropped onto the chair at the kitchen table and opened the next letter, dated only two days after the last one.

  Her engagement ring was on her closed laptop and she wore Martha’s solitaire. Somehow, it brought her closer to her great-aunt, a woman she had never met and probably never would. All she knew of Martha was the person she saw through Thomas’ eyes. Someone worthy of his deep and abiding love. Someone with spirit and fire, compassion and intelligence.

  Beautiful girl,

  What words can I use to bring you home? I am out of ideas and it has become clear either you are not receiving these letters, or have changed your mind about us. I will not accept the latter, so write this without expecting a response. Perhaps Dorothy is keeping these from you or perhaps you refuse to open them.

  Even so, it puzzles me you would not seek me out. Better than anyone, I know how strong and honest you are, and you never, ever break a promise. Not if you can help it. Why not come home and finish this properly, if that is what you want to do?

  No, something is wrong beyond what happened that night. I plan to ask for time off work next week and come to find you.

  I fear you may come home whilst I come to seek you, but I must take the risk. You are worth it.

  I love you always,

  Thomas.

  Thomas had waited so long afraid he would miss Martha returning. How difficult it must have been back then, with no internet or mobile phones. There was no mention of him trying to phone Martha.

  Who was stopping these letters, for surely Martha would have responded at least once to them, even if just to say goodbye? It pointed toward Gran. Christie pushed the possibility away.

  She picked up the next letter, realising with a shock that this was the last one.

  Dear Martha,

  There has been a change of plans, which I hope will not upset you. Instead of me coming to Melbourne, your best friend will bring you a letter...

  Thomas and Frannie sat outside the corner café in the sun. Thomas drank black coffee and Frannie nibbled on a cupcake between sips of white tea. Thomas was uncomfortable, one finger tapping the side of the cup.

  “Tom? You look so worried.” Frannie ventured.

  “Hm? No, not sure about your idea. Though I appreciate you wanting to help.”

  “You’ve said yourself you’ve not once been to Melbourne and have no idea of how to get around. What if you get lost?”

  “I’ll ask for directions.”

  “It’s not like she’s right in the city now. If what my contact says is true and Dorothy moved to that new part of town, well there’s not even public transport there yet.”

  “I’d walk a hundred miles if I had to.”

  “But what if you go all that way and don’t find her? What if she comes home at that exact time?” Frannie persisted.

  Thomas drank his coffee.

  “You write that letter to Martha and I’ll guard it with my life and put it into her hands and her hands alone. Cross my heart.” Frannie was determined to win this one and she had many more arguments in her favour if this one failed. She watched Thomas closely, seeing the conflict on his face.

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose on you and I know it must be hard to go and see her, after everything. What if it makes things worse for you?”

  “Martha and I will always be friends. Sometimes you have to take a chance. She is not replying to your letters so either she doesn’t want to come back, or she has not read them. Well, make your words special and she will remember why she loves you so much!”

  Frannie reached a hand across and rested it on one of Thomas’. “You know, I care a lot about you and what happens with Martha. Let me help. Please?”

  She smiled at Thomas, who nodded and removed his hand from hers.

  “Well, I am leaving the day after tomorrow, so you had better go and write that letter. And with a bit of luck, when I come home next week, Martha will be with me.”

  I am not sure how she knows Dorothy moved, but that might explain why you have not replied to my letters. And why the phone rang out when I finally got a number.

  There is no point me sending this one, but I feel I have to. Maybe Dorothy still collects her mail from her old address. At least I know there will be one letter that will find you. A letter and a painting, to remind you of your promise. Please my darling girl, please read it with an open heart and come back to me.

  Love,

  Thomas

  That was it? Christie stood up and fruitlessly searched the shoebox for another letter. Did this mean Martha’s friend succeeded in getting it to her? Or did Thomas never write it? Was that how the painting got to Dorothy?

  Folding the letter thoughtfully, Christie found the whole thing mystifying. Who was this “best friend” Thomas trusted enough to act as intermediary. Would Martha’s closest friend not have already spoken to her about the separation? Best friends tended to share as much as sisters did. There had been mention of a friend in other letters. Frannie, who took their photographs on the beach.

  Christie flicked through the photo album to find the picture of them both again. The love in their eyes was real. As before, Christie was struck by the similarity between Thomas and Martin, who must be his grandson. Somehow, she had to find the right way to ask him this tomorrow. She toyed with the idea of offering him the painting in exchange for a frank and honest conversation, but discarded that. The painting was staying here until she had sufficient information to make a decision.

  One by one, Christie put the letters back into the shoebox. Deep in thought, she turned off the light and headed off to bed, more than ready for today to finish. A long, low rumble of thunder filled the air.

  MARTIN STOOD ON THE deck in the morning sun, admiring a large yacht sailing by. Long, low, and sleek, it cut seamlessly through the water. He sipped on white coffee as he considered the boat. He heard the soft swish of feet through grass and half smiled.

  “Like boats?”

  Christie stepped up onto the deck and followed his line of vision. “Oh, I love them. Particularly yachts. So beautiful.”

  Martin turned to give her his attention. She was dressed simply today. Jeans and an emerald green, short-sleeved shirt showed off her slim figure. Her hair was in a ponytail and her minimal make-up gave a natural glow.

  “Yes. Beautiful.”

  “Stop flirting. I’m engaged, remember?”

  “Coffee?” Martin walked into the house before she could reply, so she followed him.

  Inside, Martin was in the kitchen at a coffee machine. “What can I get you?”

  “Um, anything’s fine.”

  Martin stopped with a pained expression on his face. “So, what would you
like?”

  “Flat white?”

  “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Martin turned to the coffee machine and Christie perched on a stool. The kitchen was spacious, with stainless steel appliances, including a double sized stand-alone oven with gas cooktop. At the end of the counter was a bowl with fresh apples, oranges and mangoes and Christie gazed at them with longing.

  “Did you miss breakfast?” Martin placed coffee in front of Christie.

  “Oh, thanks. Yes, ran out of food so I’ll get something on the way home.”

  “When did you run out? No, don’t answer. Do you eat eggs?”

  “Love eggs.”

  “Drink your coffee.” Martin pulled a frying pan out of a drawer and went to the fridge.

  “Oh, you don’t need to feed me!”

  “What makes you think this is for you?” Martin placed eggs and cream on the counter, and found a bowl in another drawer. “I haven’t eaten yet. If you’re lucky, there may be enough for you.”

  “Oh.”

  Taking a cob loaf, he deftly sliced it, then tossed two pieces into a toaster. As the frying pan heated, he cracked eggs into the bowl, added a slurp of cream and lightly whisked the mix. From an overhead cupboard, he took two plates and collected cutlery on his way past a drawer. After placing these on the counter, he took the eggs to the stove and poured them into the pan, swirling them once then walking away to get a spatula.

  The toast popped and Martin glanced around from his place back at the stove.

  “Can you get those, and check the fridge, should be butter and some jam if you prefer.”

  Christie did so, putting a piece of toast on each plate and opening the fridge. It was stocked with fresh vegetables and fruit, juice, milk, a selection of cheeses, yoghurt and seafood, plus beer and a couple of bottles of wine. She found the butter and took it back to the counter as he brought the frying pan over.

  Back on her stool, Christie watched him slide half of the scrambled eggs on to one plate, then the other. Perfectly cooked, soft ribbons of yellow with flecks of pepper he added toward the end.