The Quilt

by Carlton, Rochelle

“Have you looked at the brochures?”

  Simon continued without waiting.

  “I have spoken to Kate and she is happy to come back to work which will allow you a break over the weekends. I will be away three weeks and after what you have been through, I don’t want you to be under too much pressure.”

  “I will be fine.”

  Joanne answered without looking up from the computer screen.

  “You have all my contact numbers?”

  “Yes and yes I can take you to the airport. I have already put it in my diary that you will be here at five o’clock Monday morning and thank you for the use of your car while you are away.”

  She looked up thoughtfully.

  “I need to do something over the weekend but the mobile will be on if you need me.”

  Simon looked intrigued.

  “No, it’s not exciting or romantic, but it is something I need to do.”

  “Disappointing.”

  His eyes wandered to the three large cardboard boxes, sealed and waiting for the courier to pick up. Joanne spoke as if understanding his thoughts.

  “At least this way she doesn’t have to pack up her daughter’s personal possessions. She can open the boxes whenever she feels ready.”

  “The café won’t be the same when you leave.”

  Joanne looked up from her laptop guiltily.

  “You have seen that I am updating my CV?”

  She closed the computers lid.

  “I really want you to go away and enjoy yourself. Not go away and worry about something that is unlikely to happen in the near future. I won’t even start looking for another position until you get back.”

  Simon did not look convinced.

  “Getting my career back on track is very important to me. But you and the café take priority. Now go and finish packing.”

  As soon as Simon had left Joanne reached for the telephone and dialled the solicitors office in Nelson. An unfamiliar voice answered, she was put straight through to the senior partner, Patrick O’Donnell.

  “Hello Joanne. I was wondering when we would hear from you! I was just thinking about you the other day. How is your mother?”

  Joanne waited hoping he would clarify.

  “You left us because you mother had a sudden stroke I believe?”

  “Yes, of course, sorry. She is fine thank you.”

  “What a shame. Kelvin was quite upset that you had to leave so suddenly. But it was understandable under the circumstances. You know Kelvin retired soon after you resigned don’t you?”

  Joanne smiled. The possibility of a sexual harassment suit had obviously unsettled him.

  “Now, how can I help you?”

  “Thank you for recommending me to Logan Neil. Unfortunately, I was not able to accept his offer. I am now looking for a new position and updating my resume. I would appreciate a reference from you if that was possible.”

  “I’m disappointed. I had hoped you were calling to ask us to reinstate your position here. You know we would take you back in a heartbeat if you would consider it?”

  “Thank you, I appreciate your offer. Unfortunately, personal circumstances make it necessary for me to remain in Auckland.”

  Patrick sounded a little disappointed.

  “Your mother, of course. Do you remember that silly old Mrs Dean?”

  As a junior solicitor she had been assigned Mrs Dean’s numerous time consuming and irrational cases. They were mainly trivial disagreements between her, neighbours and family.

  “She actually contacted the Law Society to complain that you were no longer available.”

  Joanne laughed.

  “Are you sure you would not reconsider Joanne? There is a position available here and we would be happy to pay for you to relocate and also to regularly visit your family in Auckland.”

  “Thank you for being so generous. But…..”

  Patrick interrupted, “You can’t blame me for trying to convince you. I’ll have that reference in the mail in the next few days.”

  It was Saturday evening and a warm, moist subtropical breeze kissed the swaying vines. Paul turned away and walked slowly towards the tasting room. The door was slightly ajar and the breeze pushed it back and forth making a light, knocking noise as it blew against the wall. Paul looked inside the darkened room before securing the latch. In the dim light he saw Sean sitting rigid and brooding. The long expanse of the tasting table stretched out between them.

  “He was a bastard!”

  Sean stood up abruptly and leant against the table, his fists were clenched and formed tight balls on the wooden surface.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Paul watched with concern as his father settled back into a chair.

  “It’s that damned quilt! Jean asks questions that can’t be answered about a past that can’t be changed.”

  Sean was looking straight ahead.

  “You mean questions about Allan and what, if anything, he had to do with Anne’s disappearance?”

  Sean turned towards Paul as though he had only just realized he was in the room.

  “What, if anything, he had to do with your grandmother’s disappearance?” He frowned and his mouth set in a grim angry line.

  “We are nothing like him.”

  “Maybe the gene just skips a generation or two,” Paul spoke cautiously.

  Sean looked up.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  For a moment father and son stood in silence. A palpable tension filled the void between them.

  “The addictive, psychopathic personality must have a genetic predisposition.”

  Sean took a deep unsteady breath before he spoke.

  “I think it’s high time you and I had a talk.”

  Paul waited for his father to continue. Sean had a distant glazed look in his eyes when he began to speak.

  “The day before my mother, your grandmother, Anne, disappeared she came to find me. She was agitated and nervous. She kept looking around to check that bastard Allan was not behind her.”

  Sean’s eyes had reduced to slits as he recalled the last time he had seen Anne Clarke.

  “She had a black eye and her fingers were bruised and swollen, possibly broken.”

  “Looking back I should have known there was a reason she chose that day to find me. Maybe it was to say goodbye? Maybe I should have tried harder to intervene. There will always be regrets and questions.”

  He shook his head.

  “She told me that Allan was not my father.”

  Sean looked up, his eyes were haunted.

  “She asked me to forgive her. She said that James was kind and that they had formed a relationship because she was lonely, trapped and scared.

  “Before James was killed they had started to make plans to leave Twin Pines and take me with them.”

  “She said my legacy was not as Allan Clarke’s son. She needed me to know my traits were from James, not his bitter and destructive older brother.”

  “She told me Allan did not know the truth. If he did he would have hunted us down like prey.”

  Sean looked up, his eyes haunted by the guilt.

  “The next day she was gone.”

  Paul breathed in.

  “Do you know what happened to her?”

  “I can only guess. She didn’t have access to any money, that was one of the methods of control Allan used. None of the farm vehicles were missing and therefore she either walked away or was carried away. If she could have come back for me she would have.”

  He shook his head sadly.

  “That only leaves one logical conclusion. I think you know that she wasn’t officially reported missing for several weeks?”

  “She told me that she would be taking time out to visit her family. Looking back I think she wanted me to believe she was safe rather than risk me trying to follow or confronting Allan while there was a possibility she could get to help.”

  For a moment Sean lapsed into silence, his should
ers seemed to fold down and his knuckles drained white under clenched pressure.

  “If only she had asked me to call the authorities while I was away from Twin Pines. Her efforts to protect me were misguided.”

  A strange, bitter smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

  “His drinking only got worse after that night.”

  “So, why the hell did you stay? You must have known that you were in danger?”

  “Allan was a coward like most abusers. He picked on people smaller or weaker than himself. His health was failing by that stage. He used to urinate himself and he didn’t even seem to notice.”

  Sean visibly shuddered at the memory.

  “I stayed because I had a farm to run. There was no man named Allan Clarke left in the house. He was just a vile shadow that vomited and fouled in the corners leaving a trail of empty bottles in his wake.”

  “A couple of times I almost told him the truth, it would have been satisfying. But even a small glimmer of hope that Anne was alive kept me silent. Towards the end, Allan probably would not have had the mental capability to find her, but who knows what drives someone like that.

  “She was pronounced dead seven years later.”

  “So you never really got closure?”

  Sean looked up and smiled bitterly.

  “Closure, son? I was given life but I am not sure what price my mother paid for it.”

  The sun had welcomed in the new day with a spectacular display of orange and gold as it erupted over the horizon. Paul watched the long tentacles of colour finger their way across the velvet surface of inky water. He sipped at a strong, rich cup of coffee and reflected on his conversation with his father the previous evening. Of course, it was history, etched in stone and unmoveable but as Paul recalled the expressions on Sean’s face he felt a certain amount of relief that the violent addictive traits of Allan Clarke were one more step further removed from himself.

  His eyes felt gritty after a fitful sleep and, although still early, the humidity and warmth of the day felt like a damp blanket over the skin. Jess shuffled up from her position at Paul’s feet. He hadn’t spoken but she sensed he was surfacing from the deep thoughts that had held him brooding and motionless for hours.

  He got up and stretched. Already the fabric of his polo had stuck uncomfortably to his back. Just visible in the bay below was a small yacht that had taken shelter overnight. The excited voices of children carried in the air despite the stillness. He stripped off the shirt and motioned for Jess to follow, before walking down the track and onto the warm, sheltered sand. The heat radiated from the surface and the air pooled heavy and sweet-scented in the curve of the bay.

  Paul waved politely as he passed the moored boat but he didn’t pause, he didn’t want to encourage conversation. He negotiated the rocky outcrop that separated the bay below Marinella and another small stretch of sandy shore. It was cradled between the fingers of rocks that had become the final resting place for the wreck of Lucky Lady. The hull was barely visible from a distance. To anyone unaware it could well be mistaken for a discarded pile of debris stark and white against a dark, granite coloured background.

  The Christmas display of blood red blooms had all but disappeared from the pohutukawa trees that clung precariously to the crumbling, sandy soil. There was still a raw beauty in the gnarled twisted limbs and exposed roots that hugged the cliff edge.

  Paul threw his towel over a branch and walked into the shallow depths of the channel. Jess had already begun her slow journey towards the buoy. It was a routine they had followed daily, although recently she had been content to only swim half way and then return to the warmth of the beach. Paul made slow headway against the incoming tide. He ignored the familiar but comforting pain of exertion in his muscles and only rested when he reached the slick surface of the buoy. He put his hand over his eyes to reduce the blinding glare reflecting off the water. Jess had safely returned to the shore and was shaking vigorously scattering tiny droplets of water like a halo around her head.

  Without having to fight against the current the swim back was much less strenuous. He stood in the shallows allowing the excess water to run down his skin and the sun to ease the dull ache of exertion. Through the salt laden haze he could see a lone figure walking slowly around the wreck of Lucky Lady. The woman seemed to pause occasionally and then kneel to examine the discarded and ruined hull more closely. Paul watched her progress for a few minutes before turning his back and towelling off the last of the salty crust from his skin.

  Chapter 35

  “The Mural”

  The old dog with the knowing eyes had arrived silently. Her coat was damp and sand clung to her greying muzzle and paws. Joanne followed her gaze towards the tall man standing motionless in the shallow water. It wasn’t until she had moved closer that she recognized Paul. He didn’t turn to face her but there was a slight tension that travelled over his shoulders and she knew he was aware that someone was behind him.

  Joanne’s eyes travelled across his broad back and over the clearly defined muscles of his forearms. Surely he must work out to have a physique like this. With a quick shake of her head she tried to expel the unfamiliar thoughts that caused heat to rise into her cheeks. What am I thinking? The ghost of Sandy normally stood between them and created a safe barrier; today she had skulked away. Joanne felt her arms move protectively across her tee shirt trying to evict the feeling of naked vulnerability.

  Paul allowed the towel to settle around his shoulders and spoke without turning to look at her. His words made Joanne jump self-consciously.

  “What are you doing here Joanne?”

  How did he know it was me? A flush of colour crept up into her cheeks.

  “I suppose I deserve that reception. Is this your dog? I don’t want to leave her on the beach alone if she has wandered away from her home.”

  Joanne reluctantly dropped her gaze from the toned, muscular body to the small working dog that was sitting obediently by her side.

  “How did you know it was me?”

  Paul had turned to face her but his expression was guarded. His eyes were the colour of a moody summer sky. She shuffled uncomfortable under the intense calculating stare.

  “Your perfume. You haven’t answered. Do you think it is healthy for you to be here?”

  His tone was icy.

  “Are you asking if I am here to relive the accident and if I am not able to move forward from that day? If you are then the answer is no. Some of my best recent memories involve the Lucky Lady and the mural on her side is one of the most unusual things Sandy ever produced.”

  Paul seemed to study the play of expressions on her face. Again, Joanne felt herself move uncomfortably under his intense eyes. Where was that ghost that had always stood between them?

  Breaking loose from the static that hung in the air around them she looked up. Her smoky grey eyes hardened and her voice became laced with the tone of a defiant child.

  “I wanted to see what was undamaged and if it was possible for me to salvage the hull.”

  Without speaking Paul pulled at the towel around his neck and started to walk briskly towards the Lucky Lady.

  “I am not asking you to get involved.”

  Oh no, not the pleading voice of that spoilt child again. Joanne felt the warm sensation of heat in her face as he turned to face her. Apologetically she continued.

  “At this stage I was only planning to put a tarpaulin over the mural to stop it deteriorating further.”

  For a moment he regarded her silently. His expression was unfathomable although a slight movement at the corners of his mouth gave away his amusement. Joanne bristled. Arrogant bastard! How could he stand there without speaking and have the ability to totally unnerve her? She noticed that his mouth had now formed into a hard set line. Was he actually fighting to contain his laughter? She tore her eyes away from his chiselled features and the slight shadow that clung to his chin. He could have stepped out of the pages of a high end women’s m
agazine. Paul had the looks of a man that could easily have left a trail of broken woman in his wake. She glanced up through narrowed eyes and struggled to meet and defiantly hold his penetrating gaze. He smiled and spoke patently as if addressing a wayward child.

  “And how are you going to stop the tarpaulin rubbing against the paintwork? The friction would cause even more damage than the elements.”

  Where the hell is the ghost that keeps contact with this confusing man at a safe distance? He waited for a reply but Joanne failed to respond and he continued.

  “I am assuming you already have a plan to transport the hull up to the road and on to a trailer. I would be interested to hear how you intend to do this.”

  Joanne felt her anger surfacing. She dropped her eyes and kicked at the sand. Damn, the heat seemed to be pooling in her face.

  “Are you still annoyed about the flowers?”

  She aimed a disarming smile at him but his face remained a grim mask.

  “The flowers are not important. What is important is that you seem incapable of graciously accepting help or friendship without imagining an ulterior motive.”

  His tone was brisk and anger had at last broken through the cool exterior. The startling blue of his eyes had become a mysterious ink colour reflecting a tide of barely contained annoyance. Jess whimpered and glanced up nervously before slinking away towards the cliff. Distracted, Paul watched the old dog’s progress before slowly shaking his head and speaking again but in a soft, patient voice.

  “The hull is not only going to deteriorate further if it is left out here but there is also a very real risk of vandalism. If you want me to have a look and see if it is possible to salvage the mural I would be happy to help.”

  He ran a hand thoughtfully through his unruly damp hair. Joanne followed the progress of his fingers and then settled on the coarse hair that ran across his broad chest. He seemed so at ease, confident and, well, so damned sexy. He also seemed to be considering his next sentence. He hesitated and looked at Joanne; she felt the colour rise as she fought to rein in her treacherous mind.

  “If you do not want me to help you only need to say. I won’t intrude any further.”