Vivian’s Return
by
Tracy Cooper-Posey
Copyright Tracy Cooper-Posey 2012
Smashwords Edition
For five years Vivian and Paul were together, constantly challenging each other to greater and more daring feats. Paul flew helicopters and often helped in sea searches and rescues. Vivien won championships in all the dangerous sports—windsurfing, scuba diving, rock climbing, and flying. Through it all, Paul was right there beside her.
Until suddenly and without explanation, after a sea rescue that went horribly wrong, Vivien left town.
Seven years have passed and Vivien has returned. Why is she back? And what will happen when she meets Paul?
STORIES RULE PUBLICATIONS
A sole proprietorship owned and operated
by Tracy Cooper-Posey
This is an original publication of Tracy Cooper-Posey
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2012 by Tracy Cooper-Posey
Text design by Tracy Cooper-Posey
Cover design by Dar Albert
Wicked Smart Designs
http://wickedsmartdesigns.com
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No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
FIRST EDITION: December 2012
ISBN 9781927423400
Cooper-Posey, Tracy
Vivian’s Return/Tracy Cooper-Posey—1st Ed.
1. Romantic Suspense—Fiction 2. Action 3. Romance—Fiction 4. Western Australia 5. Australia 6. Geraldton 7. Flying 8. Diving 9. SCUBA diving
Chapter One
Geraldton, Western Australia. Today.
Against the vivid red and orange flames of Atlanta burning, Scarlett stood indignantly with her fists on her hips, watching a distant Tiger Moth plane fly out of her life. Gone With The Wings, the poster’s title proclaimed.
The mounted poster hung against an otherwise empty wall. The opposite wall was dominated by a clock with a five-foot diameter. The hands of the clock were old propeller wings and they both lay over the “1” mounted directly onto the wall.
Between the two walls lay a wide cool expanse of dark green linoleum, redolent with wax and good care. Two thirds of the room was divided by an old-fashioned wooden shop counter, complete with flap and swing door and behind the counter stood an eclectic collection of battered tin, steel and wood office furniture. Against one wall stood a scarred student desk, holding up an impressive array of state-of-the-art electronic radio equipment.
At one desk sat a man as old and knocked-about as the chair he slouched in. He was hunched over a newspaper, his chin resting on both fists. The pose was a familiar one.
Vivien shook her head. “Some things never change, do they?”
The grizzled head behind the chipped counter jerked up and the crinkled eyes focused on her, then widened. “Vivvy! Vivien Galloway...my little vixen.” Morris got to his feet, pushed aside the counter flap and crossed to where she stood by the door. “Come here and give me a hug, you gorgeous creature.”
Laughing, Vivien threw her arms around him, feeling bubbles of delight well up inside. Even if nothing else good came of it, her return to Geraldton would be worth it just for this moment. Morris was—had been—dear to her.
She stepped back and they both began talking at once, tripping over each other’s words, laughing at each other and trying to sort out who would talk first, babbling inanities. Finally they both became silent, smiling at each other.
Abruptly, Morris’ craggy face fell, shadowing as if the sun had slipped behind a cloud. “Hell’s bells,” he said softly. “Don’t tell me you’re the relief pilot they sent us?”
Vivien frowned. “No.” She looked over Morris’ shoulder, through the large observation window to where a five-seater helicopter sat on the helipad, the rotors bowed forlornly. It was a Gazelle. “You’re waiting for a pilot?”
Morris nodded and swore softly under his breath. “The damned man is late and we’ve got a situation on our hands...”
“So what’s new?” Vivien asked with a smile. “I can’t ever remember stepping in here when there wasn’t something happening. Is time critical?”
He nodded. “Everyone’s at lunch, I’m left to run the radio when all hell breaks loose. The Port Authority’s got a lost catamaran. It prob’ly got caught up in the trade winds and blown out to sea. They want us to go out and spot the damn thing before the people on it flip it trying to run against the wind.”
“I’ll go up and spot it for you,” she said, heading for the counter flap.
“You know Gazelles, then?” Morris asked calmly.
Vivien grinned at him over her shoulder. “I own one.” It was almost true. The bank still had a huge interest in it.
Morris grinned back at her. He crossed to the counter and reached over it for a key ring hooked on the peg board at the end of the counter. “They’ve been out of sight for thirty minutes now, so they’ll be well north. Can you remember your landmarks?”
“It’s only been seven years, Morris,” she chided, reaching for the key ring he held out.
“I’ll take those keys, thank you,” said a new, quiet voice.
They both turned toward the front door and the voice. Just inside the slowly shutting glass door stood a tall man, with blue-black hair. His black eyes were the most dominant feature, tending—as they were now—to stare without wavering or compromise. Sharp cheekbones marked the vertical plane of his cheeks and the smooth olive skin covered a square jaw every bit as daunting as the eyes.
He was staring at Vivien, his gaze boring into her.
The stare of a panther. Vivien had locked gazes with a black panther at the zoo, once and this man’s stare was every bit as intimidating as that one. There wasn’t a skerrick of compassion in his eyes.
“Hello, Paul,” she said softly, trying to still her heart as it fluttered under the impact of surprise. Get a grip, she told herself. She’d known she was going to see him sooner or later. It was just that he’d sneaked up on her, as she had done with Morris.
Paul folded the sunglasses in his hand and slid them into the breast pocket of the charcoal gray jacket of his suit. “Vivien,” he acknowledged. His voice was still quiet. It was a cold quietness, not born of reticence but remoteness. She could sense steel behind the calm countenance, the way he held his body so still and kept his shoulders squared.
Well, she hadn’t expected him to fall all over her. Anger was just about what she deserved.
Behind him, the door opened again. “I told you they were under the seat—” a young, sweet voice began and stopped as the speaker stepped into the office and sensed that something out of the ordinary was happening.
Vivien glanced at the girl. Woman, she corrected but only just. She was a young and very pretty blonde, dressed in formal office attire. Vivien resisted the desire to pull at her own travel-creased shorts and T-shirt and squashed the impulse to pat at the thick bronzed braid of hair falling down between her shoulder blades. She had no need to feel inferior in her casual clothes. She had been driving all morning.
The blonde’s blue eyes glanced from Paul to Vivien, puzzled. Vivien could see she was alerted by Paul’s unnaturally still posture and ha
d correctly attributed the change to Vivien. The blue eyes narrowed and she lowered the manila files she had been brandishing. “Hello,” she said. “Can we help you?”
Her words seemed to break the tension that had gripped the room. Paul stirred and looked at the blonde. “Jenny, this is...an acquaintance of mine—ours,” he corrected, glancing at Morris. “Vivien Galloway. Vivien, this is Jenny O’Connor, our receptionist and radio operator.”
Vivien painted a smile on her face. “Hello.”
Jenny’s eyes widened. After a small, hardly noticeable pause she nodded and smiled back. The smile was stiff and professional.
She recognizes my name, Vivien thought.
Morris spoke up. “Paul, the Port Authority wants us to go look for a missing catamaran. Vivien was about to take the Gazelle up for us.”
“So I gathered,” Paul replied in the same even, controlled voice. “Where’s the relief pilot?”
“He hasn’t shown up yet.”
“I don’t mind—” Vivien said quickly.
“I’ll go,” Paul decided, not even looking at her. He held one large hand out for the keys, which Morris tossed to him. “Morris, you keep looking for that relief pilot. Jenny...”
He turned to the girl, who hadn’t left his side. He picked up her hand. “Thank you for your company at lunch,” he said gently, looking into her eyes. “I’ll talk to you later, all right?”
Vivien forced herself to look away, a small dart of pain spearing her. Paul had always treated her like a lady too.
She felt a small movement of air around her bare legs as the counter flap was pushed aside and looked up, straight into Paul’s eyes. He stood, holding the flap aside with his leg, one hand on the counter, the key ring threaded onto the forefinger. His gaze flicked away from her, as if he couldn’t quite look her in the eye, then came back to settle firmly on her face. “Whatever the reason for your return, it will have to wait. Right now, I have an emergency to deal with.”
Then he was gone, striding out through the door that led onto the helipad and swinging himself up into the helicopter with the lithe grace she remembered so well.
Vivien watched the helicopter take off, Paul’s figure obscured behind the tinted glass of the cabin. She winced against the noise of the engine despite the muffling effects of double glazing, padded doors and thick insulation. When the helicopter had disappeared from sight behind one of the huge wheat silos on the wharf, she turned and caught Morris watching her.
“Well, he’s happy to see you,” he remarked.
Vivien grimaced. Morris didn’t need an answer. She glanced at Jenny, to check the girl’s reaction to what had just happened.
The blonde was sitting in front of the radio, wearing headphones and adjusting the set with a competence that surprised Vivien. She began speaking as Vivien watched, her voice soothing and pleasant.
Vivien turned away, unsettled. There were changes over seven years. She had expected that but not the differences she had found. Morris had grown old. Paul had grown remote. He had developed some polish too. The suit and the general air of success was an improvement over the man who’d spent his days in jeans and kept his long hair pulled out of the way with a leather thong.
Yet some things hadn’t changed at all. Paul was still dashing off on his mercy missions, forcing her to remain behind. He was still blinkered, his perception limited to his version of how life worked. Unlike Morris, Paul hadn’t for a moment thought that she might be the relief pilot for whom they were all anxiously awaiting. The possibility wouldn’t have occurred to him.
Vivien took a quick stock of her feelings. She had spent the last week wondering how she would feel when she saw Paul again. Now she had seen him. In what state had her feelings emerged from the encounter?
Thank goodness...I don’t love him like I used to. The thought was tinged with relief.
She turned to Morris and smiled. “Morris, is that old motel down on the Point still running? And where can I get scuba tanks refilled? Oh and is that Mexican restaurant on the wharf still doing takeaway? I haven’t had lunch yet and I’m starving.”
* * * * *
Geraldton was just ahead, three minutes away and the family on the catamaran had been pulled to safety. Everything was right once more...or should be.
Paul watched the pin-prick shadow of the helicopter trace the coastline below him, steering the craft along with absentminded precision. There was a ball of hot feelings in his stomach, roiling around, making him restless and uncomfortable.
Vivien was back.
Since he’d climbed into the helicopter, the fact of her return had persisted in popping into his mind, despite his concentration. Each time he remembered it, he would react one of two ways—wild exaltation, or bitter anger. The anger he considered appropriate, but the excitement? How could he possibly feel any pleasure at her return?
Yet he did feel pleasure. It was the sort of warm joyous excitement that came from something good unexpectedly happening in your life, like pulling off a feat despite outlandish odds. Winning the sweepstakes. Or just plain good luck that appeared out of nowhere and made you dizzy with the impact.
The sort of pleasure that made you walk around with a stupid grin on your face, staring at the world through rose-colored glasses.
He scowled through the tinted canopy at the blue-green sea below. It was better to hang on to the anger.
Vivien’s back.
God, she looked good—even crumpled and worn from driving. Those legs of hers went on forever.
He dropped down to a height of a few hundred feet. He would skim across the harbor to let the Port Authority know he was back. The harbor waters were a dull dirty green and appeared as still as a pond from this height, while on the other side of the breakwater, the sea churned up clean, green waves and threw them against the rocks.
There was a figure sitting on a rock at the very end of the breakwater.
Vivien. Who else would pick such a remote place to sit? Who else would risk a soaking from the unpredictable waves?
He flew directly over the top of her and just caught her head turning to watch the helicopter pass over, before the breakwater slipped beneath him.
The resentment roared back, a miasma of heated molecules building tension throughout his body. Paul gritted his jaw and concentrated on slipping the helicopter sideways over the top of the office and letting it lower down to the helipad, acutely aware that Vivien was only a stone’s throw away and watching him handle the craft with a critical, experienced eye.
He turned off the engine and climbed down to the ground. The quietness sounded like silence, after the noise of the engine. Then gradually Paul picked up the sound of seagulls and heard the crash of the sea against the breakwater.
The office and yard sat upon a flat piece of land reclaimed from the sea when the harbor was first built. It nestled into the protected corner of the harbor where the breakwater began. From the front of the office, there was a view over the harbor and from the large picture window at the back of the office, if you looked past the helicopters, you saw open sea and rolling waves. It was a prime piece of land, and it was his. After years of hard work, he had finally achieved one of his most cherished goals.
It was strange the way it did not seem so grand a dream now that Vivien had returned.
Scowling at the train of his thoughts, Paul walked back into the office and hung the keys back on the board. Morris glanced up from behind his desk in the glassed-off office and waved and Jenny lifted up a small pile of yellow slips.
“Only six messages,” she told him with a sunny smile.
Paul flipped through them. Nothing urgent, nothing unexpected. Same circus, different day. He sighed and looked out the front window. From where he stood he could see the end of the breakwater and the figure on the flat rock. She’d untied her hair some time while he was out and even from this distance, the glorious titian mass shimmered and burned. She sat patiently waiting.
Vivien had always been
good at biding her time.
The astonishing fact of her return made its acquaintance with his conscious mind once more. She was actually there. In person. The novelty of that idea kept lingering, turning around in his mind and surprising him all over again.
I am not going out there.
Why had she come back?
Let her come and find me.
Why now, after so long?
She turned her head, watching a seagull fly past and her whole face was alight with the simple enjoyment of the moment.
I am not going out there. I’m not.
Paul sighed and glanced at Jenny. “I won’t be long.” He slipped past the counter and walked out the front door, heading for the breakwater.
* * * * *
While Paul was out rescuing the catamaran people, Vivien completed several chores. She climbed back into her Range Rover and drove to the motel that Morris had assured her was still operating and booked herself a room. She showered and changed out of the travel-creased Bermuda shorts and shirt she’d worn for the four-hour drive up from Perth and dressed in a cool cream-colored A-line miniskirt and top more suited to the spring sunshine, which was stronger at this latitude. She’d tied her long hair up off the back of her neck.
Then she’d gone in search of lunch, for both the motel kitchen and the Mexican restaurant were closed. Her hunger dealt with, she had returned to the headquarters of the Batavia Coast Air Charter Company—Paul’s company, she had been shocked to discover only a week ago. When she had left Geraldton, he had been one of a handful of employees, a call-out pilot.
She wheeled her big car into a parking space in front of the low, long building and looked out across the harbor water toward the ships at berth along the wharf. The land the company buildings and helipads sat on was probably some of the most expensive in Geraldton. It was strategically placed at the base of the peninsular called Point Moore. It meant the helicopters were close to the harbor, the town and the open sea on the other side of the peninsula.
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