Daphne beamed. “You have?”
“He’s well regarded in the industry. I’m Derek Hobbs from Hobbs Development International.”
"Oh, a developer! Well, there's plenty of opportunities around here. Is there something, in particular, you're interested in?"
“More a someone.” Derek winked. “My fiancée is here, staying in her newly inherited cottage and I’ve come to make a surprise visit.”
“You’re Christie’s young man! Well, it is lovely to meet you. I didn’t know she was back in town.”
Daphne went back behind the counter, thinking about the last time she had seen Christie. It had been to leave the painting for Martin to collect.
“So, how may I be of assistance?”
“Just after some directions.”
“Easy. Head straight back toward Melbourne and turn left right after the cemetery. Then, on the right a little way past the railway line.”
“Thanks. Is there a florist nearby? Can’t go there empty-handed.”
“Just over the road. What a lucky girl Christie is.”
"Appreciate your help. Will have to have a chat with John once Christie agrees to sell."
“He’ll love that! You give Christie my best now.” The woman had an odd expression on her face. As if she knew what he was up to. Ignore her. He nodded and left. The sooner he fixed this problem, the better.
CHRISTIE FINISHED PACKING the last of Thomas’ belongings into the shoebox. All of his letters were in the bottom, then, the rings in their box. The pendant was inside one of Christie’s own ring boxes. She did not know what to do with the photo album. Perhaps she could send him copies of them once she had some made.
She put the lid on and tied it up with the velvet ribbon. Even though the box was a bit soft, it held together well enough with the ribbon in place. Thomas already had the painting, presumably, so that was everything. Now, she had to find the nerve to drive to Martin’s house once again.
Last time she was there, Martin called her city girl and told her to go home. This morning, on the beach, he virtually repeated himself.
“Anyone would think you’re trying to get rid of me.” She murmured aloud, trying to push down the jumbled emotions threatening to spill over all the time. At least she might get to see Randall again which was almost worth the angst.
Deciding she might as well get this over with, Christie went to her bedroom to find her sandals. She remembered picking them up from the top of the stone steps earlier in the day where Martin left them.
She was not in love with him. She had only just broken up with Derek. Except, she reminded herself, and love for Derek had long gone, pushed away by his narcissistic personality and interest in Ingrid. What she felt for Martin was different.
Not that it matters, she thought as she went back to the kitchen. Martin doesn’t even like you. He thinks you’re terrible for reading private letters and he might be right.
Even if Thomas Blake had been dead, he still probably would hate her for reading his grandfather’s writings.
Before she could pick up the shoebox, there was a sharp tap on the door, and she hurried to open it, worried. What if it was Martin? Maybe he wanted to talk or tell her off some more.
Thomas Blake stood on the porch. Resting against the wall beside him was the seascape.
He stared at Christie for a long moment.
She gazed back, not believing her eyes.
When he spoke, his voice was exactly as she imagined it would be. “I’ve come to get what’s mine.”
Twenty-Five
THOMAS STOOD INSIDE the door, the painting in his hands. His eyes darted around the kitchen, but his face was expressionless.
"Please, sit down Mr Blake," Christie said.
“It’s Thomas, and I’d rather stand, thank you.”
“Oh, okay. Would you like coffee?”
“No, but I’ll have a whiskey if you have any.”
“I wish I did. Not one trace of alcohol, I’m afraid.”
“You don’t drink.”
“I didn’t say that. All I have is a sadly empty wine bottle at the moment.”
Thomas glanced at the bottle next to the sink. “You’ve got good taste.”
He crossed to the kitchen table and placed the seascape on it. “I don’t want this. Your grandmother left it to you, so here it is.”
“I think she meant for me to return it. To you, Thomas.”
“Martin told me you won’t sell it to him.”
“It was never for sale. And besides, he refused to tell me why he wanted it.”
Thomas chuckled, his whole face relaxing.
“I thought you were...” Christie stopped, not knowing how to phrase it.
“Dead? Not yet, young lady. You’re not much of a detective.”
"I never set out to be one. I didn't even know about this place or you or my great-aunt until Gran died and I've done the best I could to work uncover these secrets she so desperately wanted to be known."
“There are no secrets. Just terrible mistakes. I’d like my letters please.”
“They’re here. Back in the shoebox I found them in.” Christie straightened the ribbon before picking up the shoebox. “This was inside a trunk in the attic.”
“Here? They were in this cottage?”
“Yes. And there’s more you need to know.” Christie held out the shoebox.
“No. Not another word about it.” Thomas took the shoebox and tucked it under his arm. “This is none of your concern so leave it be.”
He headed straight for the door. As he opened it, he glanced back at Christie. “You’re so like her.”
“Do you mean Martha?”
Thomas flinched. Christie watched him curiously, not understanding how after all these years, and after he had broken Martha’s heart, her name would elicit such a response. Thomas gathered himself and nodded to Christie, before stepping outside and closing the door with a firm click.
CHRISTIE GAZED AT THE seascape, hanging again over the fireplace in the lounge room. Her short meeting with Thomas taught her a lot about Martin. The same expression that shut out the world. The determination to keep information to themselves. Even the same engaging laugh and glimpse of humour in their eyes.
The back door opened and there was a footstep in the kitchen. Christie froze and realised Thomas must have returned. Perhaps he checked inside the shoebox and wanted to ask Christie questions. His knock must have been too quiet for her to hear.
Almost running into the kitchen, a smile on her face, Christie skidded to a stop.
"Hello, baby," Derek said, dropping a bunch of orange lilies on the table. "So this is where you've been hiding."
Shock reverberated through Christie and the smile vanished.
“No welcome kiss? Never mind, soon you’ll be back where you belong.”
"You let yourself in," Christie said. "This is my home, Derek."
“The door was unlocked. Besides, you’re my fiancé.”
“Not any more. Why are you here?”
"Why are you so hostile? I'm here to make amends. See, expensive flowers and I have your ring with me. I spoke to a celebrant, and we can be married before Christmas."
He glanced around the kitchen, unable to disguise his disdain. “This place is a dump. Thank goodness the land is worth so much. Kind of makes up for all the chaos you left behind. Friends asking where you are. Bills arriving that need paying.”
“Just send me any bills, Derek. I’ll get everything redirected.”
“You didn’t bother to leave an address. All I ever wanted was to look after you.” He changed his tone, smiling as he held his hand out. “I’m sorry I messed up.”
Christie shook her head, taking a step backwards.
“Don’t be afraid to admit you’ve made a mistake. I forgive you for leaving. Look, here’s your ring.” Derek took the ring from his pocket and lunged forward, grabbing Christie’s hand.
“Stop it!” Christie cried out. “I want you to
leave!”
"You're going wear my ring and marry me, Chris." Derek held her wrist and tried to unclasp the fist she instinctively formed. Christie struggled to pull away from him with all her weight, but he was far too strong, and her feet slipped from under her. She fell to her knees, desperately aware of how vulnerable she was.
Derek loomed over her, his face enraged in a way she had never seen. One by one, he forced her fingers to unclench.
“Just go, Derek,” she sobbed. “Get out of my home!”
“What’s yours is mine, baby.”
“She said get out!”
Swinging around in shock, Derek released Christie.
Martin stood in the open doorway, fury radiating from every inch of his body.
“Who the hell are you?” Derek postured.
Ignoring him, Martin strode to Christie and lifted her onto the edge of the table, as though she was a precious child.
“Okay?”
She nodded.
“Stay put.”
Christie could have sworn he winked at her before turning back to Derek.
"You're still here," Martin said in surprise. "Don't let me reach zero."
“What the hell are you—?”
“Five.” Martin interrupted, taking a menacing step toward Derek.
“Now, just you listen! Do you have any idea who I am?” Derek stepped backwards.
“A bully?” Martin suggested. “Four.”
"I own one of your paintings if you call them that. Christie liked it, so I bought it for my office."
“The money goes to disadvantaged kids, so you’ve done something worthwhile with your investment.”
“So you’re the reason she’s here instead of with me. You’ll find she’s ordinary without the makeup. Pity, her dinner parties were something special. Doesn’t matter, we lived together long enough for me to get half of this place.”
Martin moved swiftly into Derek’s personal space, towering over the other man but not touching him. “Three. Time to leave.”
Derek glowered at Christie. “This won’t be the last time we meet.”
“Two. Get out, Derek.” Martin’s voice was like steel and Derek tore out with Martin on his heels.
“One.”
Christie heard Martin's footsteps hard on the ground behind Derek and a moment later, the roar of a car engine. Her heart pounded out of control, and her stomach was tied up knots.
Martin rushed back inside, closing and locking the door behind him.
“Breathe, Christie.” He took her left hand and extended each finger out, caressing them ever so tenderly. “He’s gone. He’d be a fool to come back.”
Christie stared at her hand in his, still shocked by the past few moments and so relieved he was here. “He can’t have some claim over the cottage?”
“Only if he’s happy to give up half of his empire in return.” There was almost humour in Martin’s reply, but he sighed. “Christie.”
Christie raised her eyes to meet his.
“Did you let him in, or did he let himself in?” His tone was stern.
“The door was unlocked.”
Martin tightened his hand in frustration. “What have I told you about that?”
“You were right.” Christie’s voice was almost inaudible.
“Yes, I was right. He could have harmed you.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Martin dropped her hand. “How can you have any tears left?” He spotted a box of tissues. “Here. Have a dozen.”
Christie pulled some out and wiped her face. “Why are you here? I mean I’m so glad you are... I don’t know what I mean.”
"Derek went to see Daphne, and she was suspicious about his intentions. She rang me."
“Why?”
“Because she knew I’d come and check on you.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank Daphne.”
“I will. So, about what happened earlier today...?” Christie stared at the floor.
“Nothing’s changed. I’m still angry with you. But I know Thomas is not, which may count for something.”
Christie’s eyes flew up to his. She wanted to say so much, but some wise part of her brain told her to stay quiet.
“May I get off the table?”
Martin laughed. “Yes, Christabel, you may.”
He offered her his hands, which she ignored, annoyed with herself now for asking him if she could get off her own table.
“Only my Dad called me that. And only when I was in trouble.”
“Which you are.”
Colour rushed to Christie’s cheeks. She busied herself filling the kettle, wondering why her legs were unsteady.
“Would you like a coffee?”
Before he could answer, there was a knock on the door, and Christie almost dropped the kettle in panic. She spun around as Martin went to open it. It was Sylvia, who stared at Martin with surprise. He held the door open, and she cautiously came in.
“Hello!” Christie plugged the kettle in. “You’re just in time for a coffee.”
“I can’t stay. Shouldn’t you be checking on George?” Sylvia directed this to Martin.
“Yes.” He turned to Christie. “Lock the door behind me.”
Sylvia waited until Martin left, closing the door behind himself.
"It's about Belinda." Sylvia was upset. "She's coming to see you, and you mustn't do what she asks."
“What do you mean? Won’t you sit down?”
"You've put all sorts of ideas into Belinda's head, and now she wants to enrol in some fancy school in Melbourne! You have no idea what you've done!"
"We talked a bit about how I got my qualifications, but that's all. I've not spoken to her since Friday night."
"I think you've done more than that! She wants you to help with her application, and I'm telling you not to. Her place is here, in River's End, not Melbourne!"
Sylvia raised her voice, and she twisted her hands around each other as she had the other night, showing her anxiety over Jess. Christie's heart went out to her.
“Sylvia, if that’s what Belinda wants to do, I’m most happy to help her. It won’t be as bad as you think.”
“No, I told you not to help! You should go back to where you came from instead of upsetting people and giving them ideas above their place in life!”
The door swung open, and Martin stepped back in with the same pained expression on his face as from his breakfast with Christie.
“Okay, enough. I could hear you from the driveway.”
“You’re defending her?” Sylvia put her hands on her hips.
"Christie won't lead Belinda astray, and it's about time you loosened those apron strings."
“You don’t understand!” Sylvia almost cried in anguish.
“Probably not, but attacking Christie isn’t dealing with the problem. Please, shelve this for a day when you are not upset, auntie. Say bye and walk away.”
Sylvia glanced at Christie without a word, before hurrying out.
"Come here, please." Martin was still by the door, and from his tone, Christie knew exactly what he was about to say. It took all of her willpower to make those few steps.
“I’m not coming to your rescue anymore today. What are you going to do when I leave?”
“Lock the door.”
"Lock the door. Didn't I ask you to do that last time I left?"
Wide-eyed, Christie nodded. Martin slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close against his body, forcing her to look up at him.
“The day for a discussion about respect, and now, about putting yourself at risk, is getting close. Before you leave this door unlocked again, think about how much you value sitting down to eat dinner.”
He let the implication sink in. Christie's eyes got even bigger, and she stopped breathing. Red-hot fire radiated through her body and she did not know whether to throw her arms around Martin's neck or run away.
“You wouldn’t!”
“Try me. Ge
orge can wait a few more moments.”
He stared at her face as if trying to read her emotions.
“I think George needs you.” Christie tried to speak normally.
“Wise choice. Lock the door.” Martin dropped a careless kiss onto her forehead then released her. Closing the door behind himself, he left without another word.
Christie turned the lock. A few seconds later, the door handle rattled, and she heard Martin chuckle.
EVEN ON A SUNDAY NIGHT, the pub was busy. Martha and Elizabeth found a table near the window and settled in while their meals were being cooked.
“This was a lovely idea, dear.” Elizabeth took a sip of red wine.
“Indeed. This will be a wonderful memory, so thank you.” Martha raised her glass of chardonnay to Elizabeth, who smiled broadly in return.
Over the music, the unmistakable sound of the Lotus drew Martha's attention, and she glanced out of the window as it pulled over a little further up the road.
The smile left Elizabeth’s face. What if Christie came in? Would Martha recognise her? Would Christie see Elizabeth and come over? Would this be the best or the worst thing that could happen?
It was taken out of her hands when Christie went into the bottle shop and emerged only a moment or two later, a bottle of wine in hand. She wanted so much to run out and stop her. Ask her to come in and see Martha.
But she didn't move, just sipped her wine and agreed with something Martha said. Tomorrow, Martha was going home to Ireland, and maybe this was all for the best. No upsets, no what-ifs anymore. Time for Martha to go back to a world she knew and understood, rather than the memories and pain this little town gave her.
Twenty-Six
AS NIGHT FELL, MARTIN wandered out of the house to find Thomas. In the oven a seafood lasagne bubbled away, so he poured a couple of glasses of wine.
Thomas was in the shed beside the house. The motorbike was in pieces, and Thomas was bemused.
“Is that how you tune one of these?” Martin held a glass out for Thomas.
"I think it's the valve heads. Or pistons. Either way, I need some tools and parts, and those are back home." He wiped his hands on a rag before accepting the wine.
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