Picking up a tissue box, Christie hurried to Belinda. “She’ll be fine, you know that?”
Belinda took a few tissues and wiped the tears away, nodding.
Christie squeezed her hand. "Where're those eclairs?"
AT ALMOST SIX O’CLOCK, there was a soft tap on the back door. Christie had finished packing up everything off the table. She opened the door to find Belinda and Jess’s mother standing back near the steps.
"Hello, good timing, Jess is almost ready." Christie held the door open, but the other woman did not move. Her expression was stern.
“Would you like to come in?”
“No. Thank you. I’d rather speak outside for a moment.”
"Sure." Christie stepped onto the small porch and closed the door behind her. "I'm sorry, we've never been introduced. I'm Christie." Christie held her hand out, and after a moment, the other woman took it and shook it without any pressure.
“I’m Sylvia. Sylvia Crossman.”
“You have two wonderful daughters in there! Belinda adores Jess and Jess—“
“That’s what I want to talk about.” Sylvia interrupted. “I know you think you’re helping and it’s generous of you to put some makeup on Jess, but she can’t start believing things will be different. She’ll end up sad and disappointed.”
Christie saw the worry in Sylvia’s eyes and her fingers twisting around each other.
"You've raised her so well if you don't mind me saying. Jess said you've told her the birthmark is part of her and not to let others upset her. Wise words."
“She said that?”
"She did. The way I view covering up scars and blemishes and the like is that it doesn't change you; it gives you a bit more control and confidence. Don't know about you, but when I was about Jess' age, I thought everyone was staring at me and whispering about me."
“Because you’re so beautiful! And rich. People stare at what they don’t understand.”
Christie was stunned. "Oh Sylvia, if only you'd seen me! Gangly and awkward and shy and not at all what you think. But what you said hits the nail on the head. People do stare if they don't understand. So, Jess now knows a couple of simple tricks that not only make the birthmark less obvious but will protect her skin. Just having that ability will give her a bit of confidence and every teen needs that."
Sylvia listened, unconvinced.
“Why don’t you come and wait inside? Belinda is helping Jess with her dress.”
Before Sylvia could answer, Belinda opened the back door. “There you are! Okay, now stand back, well don’t fall down the steps or anything. May I present...” she glanced over her shoulder. “Mum’s here! Come on. So, as I was saying, may I present Miss Jessica Crossman, ready to dance!”
Standing back with a big grin, Belinda watched Jess walk to the doorway, where she stopped. Sylvia gasped and put a hand over her mouth. Wearing a short blue dress and matching shoes, Jess could have been dressed for a school dance in any city. Her hair was in a sleek high bun with loosely waved tendrils around her face.
“Jess? Darling, you...” Sylvia shook her head, not able to go on.
“Oh, Mum, don’t get all soppy.” Belinda laughed. “She doesn’t look that amazing!”
“Hey! Mum. Is this okay? The dress?”
Sylvia took a deep breath. “It’s lovely. You’re lovely.”
Jess’ makeup was natural, her eyes highlighted to match her dress and her lipstick a soft pink. There was no sign of the birthmark at all.
“Is it time to go?”
“Yes. If you’re all ready?”
“I need my bag thingy.”
“Clutch.” Belinda reminded her. “I’ll get it.”
Jess hugged Christie. "Thanks. Thanks, lots, Christie."
“My pleasure. Make sure you have the best time tonight. Remember what we talked about, okay?”
“Every girl is a princess. Sometimes they look like one and sometimes they are a mess, but they are still princesses inside.”
“Hmm. Don’t remember saying a mess, but you’ve got the gist of it.”
"Come on, Belinda! I'll be late!" Jess called out, and everyone laughed.
CHRISTIE STOOD AT THE top of the stone steps; breathing in the ocean air. Those couple of hours with Belinda and Jess had been rewarding, but hard work. Mostly with Jess, who took convincing almost every step of the way. The difference in self-confidence between the girl who had been almost afraid to walk into the kitchen and the one who virtually dragged her sister back out was incredible.
Even Sylvia changed. Christie had walked with them to their car and Sylvia grabbed her hand. Not to shake, but to hold it for a moment and squeeze the appreciation she could not vocalise. Belinda’s earlier tears reinforced Christie’s love of this side of her work.
The sun was low in the sky as Christie made her way to the beach. The air was balmy, and she was pleased she had changed into shorts and a T-shirt. As soon as she reached the bottom, she slipped her sandals off and dug her toes into the sand, grinning in almost childish pleasure.
She found the engraving in the cliff face and traced it with her finger. So much had happened since finding this poignant symbol of the love-that-was-no-more. T loves M. There for eons in the limestone until natural erosion took it forever. How often had Thomas stood at this spot, remembering the day he carved it for Martha?
Christie took a few photos, and afraid of losing them, emailed them to herself. She turned her attention to the jetty, capturing its image from near the cliff, and right at the waterline. The tide was rising, and as she stood on the edge of the wet sand, her attention on the photos she was taking, warm water unexpectedly rushed over her feet.
She jumped back, dropping her sandals – and almost the phone - into the waves. Hurrying onto the dry sand, she buried the phone in a pocket, heart racing. As she stood there, chiding herself for such a ridiculous response and rechecking the phone, her sandals began to disappear into the sea. Another wave scooped them up and carried them further away from Christie.
She watched the water recede, trying to judge whether she could reach them between waves. It was a battle between woman and ocean. Or, her logical side corrected, woman and woman's phobia. Christie ventured back to the wet sand. She counted the seconds between waves. One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand. Three-one-thousand. The waves were quick and coming up the beach a fraction higher every time.
As she hesitated, the sandals drifted further away with each onslaught of water. She wanted to get them, to prove to herself she could. A wave rushed in, almost to her toes. She watched the foam sparkle on the sand as the water retracted. There was no way she was following that wave back out. Tears of frustration and despair filled her eyes.
“Do you intend on polluting the sea?”
Martin was at her side, watching the sandals float in and out again with the surf. “I would imagine a sea creature might become entangled in those.”
Panic overwhelmed Christie, replacing a whole other set of feelings that bombarded her when she heard Martin’s voice. She had to get those sandals. In her mind, she was running into the surf and getting them.
Unable to speak, she anxiously turned to Martin. Seeing the fear in her face, his own expression softened. Without a word, he strode into the ocean and scooped the sandals up in one motion. There he remained.
“Christie, it’s safe. The tide’s still pretty low.”
She stared at him with wide eyes. He held a hand out. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Come here.”
She wanted to. Martin knew the sea. He knew the area and the tides, and he was only in knee-deep water. She was being crazy. His hand stayed outstretched as he watched the struggle in her face.
Christie shook her head.
Martin dropped his hand and waded back out of the sea. He stopped in front of Christie with the sandals. She took them, her head down to escape Martin’s puzzled expression.
Randall raced across the sand and Christie dropped to her knees to throw her
arms around him, burying her face into his coat, loving his wet dog smell. Randall licked her face, and she laughed.
After a moment, Martin wandered away in the direction of his house. He called, “Are you coming?”
Christie thought he meant Randall.
Martin stopped. He half-smiled at his dog and Christie, still cuddling on the sand. “We need to talk. Walk with me.”
It was a command, not an invitation. It took all of two seconds for Christie to get back to her feet and jog after him, Randall in tow.
Twenty-Two
MARTIN WAS CONTENT to walk in silence, so Christie fell into step with him, Randall trotting alongside. She kept checking her pocket to reassure herself the phone was still there. Apart from the photos, she kept most of her contacts in the phone, including Angus’ number and she could not bear to lose touch with him again.
At the edge of the shallow lagoon, they stopped. Randall happily plunged in, splashing around like a puppy.
Martin stared into the clear water. “The river that feeds into this lagoon starts right up in the mountain range. There’s a lake, several hours hike into the bush. It’s in a valley that barely sees the sun, so steep are its sides and so dense its growth of old forest.”
Wondering where this was leading, Christie contemplated Martin, who was still intent on the lagoon.
“In the scorching heat of summer, when you finally reach the lake, it is utter bliss to dive into its icy waters.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“I did say several hours hike. In pretty rough conditions.”
“Are you inviting me to go hiking?”
“Could you keep up?” Martin only now raised his eyes to meet Christie’s.
She unconsciously rechecked her phone.
"Must be an important phone," Martin commented. "Expensive. New?"
“Oh. I’m a spy. It has classified information.”
“You almost dropped it in the ocean. What sort of spy are you?”
“Pretty bad one. You’re right though; it is new and has a couple of phone numbers on it I don’t want to lose.”
Martin stared at Christie. She wondered if he still believed she was only interested in expensive toys, as he once put it. He needed to stop thinking that.
"I destroyed the last one. I threw it at a wall, and it shattered. Shall we walk on the jetty?"
“No. Don’t change the subject. Why did you throw it at a wall, Christie?”
“To stop it ringing, if you must know.”
Christie stepped into the lagoon and waded across to the other side. She laughed when Randall followed and shook himself, spraying water all over her. Martin watched from the other side as she tried to brush the droplets from her hair, all the while talking to Randall.
After a moment, he crossed the lagoon and kept walking along the beach. Christie joined him again, squeezing water out of the front of her T-shirt.
“You’re not afraid of water.” It was a statement with a question behind it.
Christie sighed. "I can even swim. Quite well. The ocean thing is a childhood fear, and I want so much to get over it."
"I'll help you," Martin said. "When the tide is low."
“Oh. It’s okay; I can sort it out myself. Thanks.”
Martin gave her a sceptical glance. “Yeah. That’s been working so well.”
Christie went quiet. Inside, the fear bubbled away. Fear of the waves, fear of failing in front of Martin. The only way he would get her in the ocean was to carry her, and she would never let him do that. She needed to get his mind off her phobia.
She stopped. “Martin? You said we need to talk.”
Martin checked his watch, and dropped onto the sand, stretching his legs out.
"Sit," he said.
With a small, bemused sigh, she joined him. Randall flopped beside them.
“Who was calling?” He glanced at her ring-less left hand.
“What?”
“When you threw the phone at the wall?”
“Derek.”
“I see.”
“I left him.”
Silence fell again. Christie was puzzled. That was all he had to say. No more questions or probing stares?
“So, what did you want to talk about?”
“Are you staying for a while?”
“Yes.”
“No London?”
“No. I don’t want to talk about this right now.”
"You only ever need to tell me what you want to, Christie. Just because I ask a question, doesn't mean you have to answer."
Christie stared out at the beautiful early evening sky over the sea. It was still quite light. Part of her longed to unburden herself onto him. To share what happened and listen to his perspective and uncanny insight into the situation.
“I hadn’t expected you back so soon.”
“This is about the painting, isn’t it? You want to hold onto it for longer?”
“I’d like to. Just for a day or so, then we can talk again about its future.”
Randall rolled onto his back, and Martin scratched the underside of his chest, his eyes on the dog. Christie watched them, loving the strong connection between man and dog.
“Let me ask you one question. And give me a straight answer.”
“One question and you’ll leave the painting with me?”
Christie nodded as Martin turned his attention back to her.
“I saw one of your own paintings at Crown Casino. Sole Survivor.”
Uncertainty crossed Martin’s face.
“It is an incredible work. You are so talented.”
“Is there a question in there?”
"No. while I'd suspected it, the description with the painting confirmed you are one of the Blake family."
“I could have told you that. Anyone in town would have.”
“So, my question is this. Are you Thomas Blake’s grandson?”
“That’s the question?” Martin raised an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“I am.”
Christie remembered the first time she had seen a photo of Thomas Blake. His strong features, intense gaze and undeniable good looks. So similar to Martin. Now, the resemblance was even more apparent. Particularly the eyes. So expressive and so quick to bring the shutters down when challenged. Was that one of Thomas’ traits as well?
“You realise you’re staring at me?” Martin sounded amused.
“Oh. Sorry.” Christie’s mind worked overtime. “So, if you’re his grandson, you would know if he ever lived in my cottage?”
Martin's amusement disappeared, and he got to his feet. "I answered your one question."
Christie gazed up at him. “I know, but I have so many more. Please?”
He held his hand out, and she took it, standing in one fluid motion. He kept a gentle hold on her fingers. A current blazed through Christie, and she prayed it did not show on her face as she tried to focus on his words. "I'll keep the painting safe. Thank you."
“But no more answers?”
“I have to go. Stay away from the sea. We’ll work on that fear of yours another day.”
Martin released her hand and strode away toward his house.
"I think I said I could manage," Christie called after him.
“Perhaps I’ll be the judge of that. Low tide is late morning.”
Randall realised his master was leaving and took off after him. Christie stood on the sand watching them. Martin reached to pat the dog's head, and Randall's tail went crazy. Their sense of belonging to each other was tangible, and Christie wished she could run after them.
Shaking her head at herself, she wandered back toward her end of the beach. She could not, must not become attached to them. She rubbed her fingers, troubled by her reaction to his touch. Martin had made it abundantly clear in the past he was only interested in the painting, and while his view of her may not be as cynical as in the beginning, he was every bit as guarded. He had been quick enough to shut her down after answer
ing her question.
Stopping near the jetty, she wondered why she asked about his relationship with Thomas rather than a hundred other questions. She answered herself. Knowing Martin was Thomas’ grandson was the closest she would ever get to meeting Thomas Blake.
RANDALL BOUNDED UP the road to the house ahead of Martin. Parked outside the gate was an old Land Rover, caked with dried mud and dust. Randall ran around it in excitement. Martin kept going, straight through the open gate and to the house.
The sliding glass door was wide open as usual, and Martin had to step aside as Randall, like a bullet, rushed past him, straight to a man sitting in an armchair near the window, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
“Well, well, Randall. Just as well it’s only me, not some thief, the way your master leaves the place open.” The man put his glass on a table beside the chair so he could scratch under Randall’s chin. The dog lay at his feet adoringly, his tail thumping the ground.
“It’s a peaceful community. No thieves around here.” Martin stopped in the middle of the living room.
“Growing community. Since when were there houses up past Palmerston?”
“Not long.”
“Not happy about it.”
The other man used his hands to push himself up from the chair and stepped over Randall. Crossing to Martin, he extended his hand. When Martin took it, he pulled him in for a hug and patted him heartily on the back. “Pleased to see you, my boy.”
Martin stepped back. “And you too, Thomas.”
CHRISTIE LET HERSELF into the cottage as night fell. She had detoured back past the river and up the hill, wanting to avoid the graveyard.
No wonder Martin had been upset at the intrusion that day. There to tend his grandfather’s grave at the same time of the funeral of the sister of Thomas’ first love. Assuming Martin knew all of that.
Either way, Christie doubted he would be forthcoming with the information she needed, just because he answered one question. She still had to work this out on her own. As much as it bothered her, she might have to read Gran’s diary.
The Stationmaster's Cottage Page 20