The Quilt

by Carlton, Rochelle

  Joanne smiled shyly and was glad he was not able to see her.

  “I will get a ticket on the earliest ferry I can.”

  I need to distance myself from this man. Well, this is sure one hell of a way to do it!

  The dull drone of the ferries engine and muted sound of a small group of passengers broke an otherwise perfect and peaceful morning. The water looked like an oily smooth mass and seabirds soared then dived like arrows into the harbour.

  As the boat slid into the bay Joanne studied her face in the bathroom mirror. Her smoky grey eye shadow matched her crisp cotton shirt and her white shorts contrasted with long tanned legs. She applied a splash of muted lipstick and ran a comb through the blonde waves of her hair that had fallen victim to the early morning sea breeze.

  Critter sat patiently near her sandal covered feet. He rested his head on a small backpack and regarded her with interest. Joanne looked again at the reflection in the mirror. Her eyes travelled from the carefully applied lipstick to the complimentary grey eye shadow. What the hell was she doing?

  The ferry bumped up against the jetty and Joanne put her hand on the basin to steady herself. Paul would be waiting for them by now. Perhaps she could remain on board and return to the mainland unnoticed. She glanced at the text he had sent confirming where they would meet and then nervously joined the small cue of disembarking passengers.

  He stood casually leaning against the terminal wall. His toned arms were loosely folded across a white linen shirt. The remarkable blue of Paul’s eyes was disguised behind Ray Bans and his hugging blue jeans gave him the appearance of a man stepping out of a man’s clothing advertisement. Behind his glasses Joanne could feel him watching her approach although nothing else indicated he knew her.

  He greeted her with a crooked smile and Joanne felt her cheeks redden self-consciously.

  “Do you always draw so much female attention?”

  Joanne indicated towards a willowy brunette standing with two friends near the terminal’s small café. The woman smiled as Paul looked towards her but her smile froze when he shrugged dismissively.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about. Can I take your backpack?”

  “I’m fine, it isn’t heavy.”

  Paul raised an eyebrow and removed the bag from her arm.

  The Range Rover wound its way up to the vineyard along the ridge which fell away to reveal small bays and houses nestled against the cliff edge.

  “The view is even more breathtaking than I remember.”

  “Definitely.”

  Paul smiled pointedly at Joanne, causing her to flush with embarrassment.

  She imagined the ghost of Sandy would be wringing her hands with delight. Note to self, I need to distance myself from this man. A few minutes later they pulled into the car park outside the heavy doors of the restaurant. The barrels of red geranium spewed over the cobbles and the sweet fragrance of roses mingled with rich fresh coffee filled the heavy still air.

  “You look nervous Joanne.”

  Paul smiled gently as he held the door open.

  “I am, which makes me feel ridiculous.”

  She smiled apologetically and squinted into the dim interior. Angled slightly above head height the mermaid’s thin arms and flame coloured hair beckoned towards her. The inviting red-lipped pouting smile, vivid green eyes and outrageously long lashes lured diners seductively towards the interior of the restaurant.

  Joanne traced the outline of a long lock of hair with her finger; she glanced at Paul who was observing her from a discrete distance.

  “Whoever did the restoration has really been sympathetic. They haven’t altered it at all. It is still Sandy’s work and clearly her features.”

  Her hand lingered on the weathered looking paint and then travelled to a small brass plague attached below the hull.

  “By Sandy Cunningham, a dedication to friendship.”

  Paul turned away and walked towards the large commercial coffee machine.

  “Cappuccino?”

  Joanne stood behind him; she reached up and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

  “Thank you, it is perfect. It is the biggest compliment you could have given Sandy. It is a shame she isn’t here to see her work come to life.”

  She smiled shyly.

  “And I kissed you as I would an injured kitten.”

  Paul laughed, his eyes lighting up with good humour.

  “I am glad you have made that quite clear, Ms Kyle.”

  He continued to prepare the coffee and placed fresh warm croissants and strawberry jam on the counter.

  “I thought we might continue the theme, put the Mermaid on menus, and perhaps at a later date, label the reserve wine with her as well? It won’t take long to establish the connection so there is no need to feel obligated to leave the hull at Marinella if you want it returned.”

  Joanne smiled thoughtfully.

  “I am not likely to be in a position to ask for it back; at least in the near future. Your idea would be very effective.”

  She took a small bite of pastry.

  “Did you pack jeans?”

  Joanne looked up and frowned.

  “Yes, you told me to didn’t you? I would think they are going to be too hot today.”

  “If you want to go and slip them on over some swim wear I’ll get the bike.”

  “Bike?”

  She looked towards the door and uncertainty played over her face.

  “By bike I assume you mean a motorbike? I have never been near one in my life and I am not sure I want to change that today.”

  “Then you haven’t lived up until today.”

  Paul’s amusement was barely disguised on his handsome face.

  “It would be a shame not to take advantage of this weather and there is no need to take a car.”

  He smiled at Joanne and his eyes seemed to be dancing with mischief.

  “The dogs would be too hot walking or in a vehicle today.”

  How did he know what she was about to say? Paul was grinning as he walked out of the restaurant. A few minutes later a distinctive throb echoed through the walls. Joanne’s hand travelled over her forehead and she looked desperately at the smiling face with flowing red hair mocking her from the wall.

  “Come here and I’ll help you fasten your helmet.”

  She eyed the black bike squatting in the car park. Its chrome exhaust reflected the morning sun and Harley Davidson, Road King glistened on the elegantly curved tank.

  “You are going to have to trust me on this one.”

  Paul winked and gave her a boyish smile.

  Joanne’s hand traced the line of the tank. Her long fingers followed a deep jagged scar that ran through the otherwise immaculate paintwork. She frowned disapprovingly.

  “Who the hell would coin a beautiful machine like this?”

  “Paul what the fuck is this?”

  Leslie’s eyes had narrowed.

  “You better not have spent our money on useless, selfish toys.”

  Paul had glanced pointedly at the pile of shopping bags and boxes discarded throughout the small interior of the Shearer’s Cottage.

  “Tell me you haven’t purchased this bloody bike.”

  Leslie’s voice was little more than a hiss and her normally immaculate complexion suddenly appeared blotchy and unattractive on her distorted face.

  Paul recalled that it hadn’t come as a shock when she had hit him. After all it wasn’t the first time. What had come as a shock was the sheer strength and hatred someone as petite as Leslie could muster. She had uttered a demonic screech and hurtled spitting towards him. Hysterically, she had punched at his face and body, clawing with long finger nails until bloody trails ran down his arms and cheeks. He remembered raising his arm defensively and the disbelief he had felt when she sunk her teeth deep into the muscle.

  Disregarding the pain Paul had ripped away from her, tearing the flesh from his forearm. He had turned his back on the angry knotted features wil
ling himself to keep his fists safely clenched into tight balls at his sides. When his breathing had steadied, and control had returned, he looked at the woman he had vowed to spend his life honouring and cherishing.

  She was standing over the tank gripping a coin triumphantly and scrapping her hatred into the black shiny paint.

  “Paul?”

  Joanne watched him absentmindedly run his fingers over a deep scar on the bulging muscle of his forearm. She frowned. He looked slightly disorientated and his eyes clouded until he focused back on her face and delivered her a disarmingly sheepish grin.

  “Sorry.”

  “What do I hang on to?”

  “Me.”

  Oh, too much. Joanne visualized Sandy’s imaginary ghost dissolving into fits of uncontrolled laughter. She settled stiffly on to the seat and frowned without humour at Pauls back. He reached for her hand and placed it gently around his waist.

  “Just lean with my body.”

  The bike made its way gingerly down the wide driveway and onto the narrow cliff top road. He hesitated to make sure she was happy before gently accelerating along the twisting cliff top. Joanne lifted her face towards the sun. An intoxicating smell of the sea mingled with sandalwood teased her senses. Under her fingers she could feel the defined muscles of his abdomen. She moved her hands over the flat expanse, resisting the temptation to trace the line of muscle with her fingers. I need a distraction. Joanne tapped gently on his shoulder. Paul tilted his head and slowed so that he could hear her over the gentle rumble of the bike.

  “Can we go faster?”

  He nodded.

  “Of course, Miss Kyle.”

  They turned off the main highway on to a narrow twisting ribbon of road that rose sharply above the sea in a series of hairpin bends. The bike accelerated until the broken centre line became a continuous white blur. The wind whipped at Joanne’s visor, its roar muffling the sound of the engine and the rapidly snapped gear changes. Joanne tightened her grip and relaxed to the flow of the corners. Leaning over to greet the tarmac, she followed Paul’s body as though locked in his embrace; a sexy synchronised dance to music. They travelled along a ridge line and the bush gave way to large fenced paddocks before finally dropping down through a series of long fast sweeps and re-joining the highway. Paul took his hand off the controls to briefly squeeze her wrist. A small, comforting gesture.

  The road narrowed and was lined with boutique shops and small kerbside cafés. It then dropped down sharply and continued along a long horseshoe shaped bay of white sand and emerald coloured water. Eventually, the seal gave way to gravel and olive trees and vineyards created a tapestry between the sheep farms and patches of native trees. Paul stopped the bike in a small parking area. It was elevated above the blue harbour specked with small boats and the bulbous white of yacht sails.

  “Are you up to a walk before it gets too hot?”

  “I’m sure I will manage.”

  “It is well worth the effort. Stony Batter has some of the best views on the island.”

  “And tunnels and gun emplacements dating back to World War II.”

  Paul smiled and nodded approvingly.

  “You have done your homework.”

  There was an established road, although a metal gate blocked vehicle access. They wandered, initially without talking. Gnarled tree’s and rocky outcrops lined the road. Expanses of isolated sandy beach curved below them.

  Joanne eventually broke their silence.

  “How did you end up on this island running a vineyard with two sets of parents?”

  “Put like that, I really don’t know how to answer.”

  He smiled and continued to walk as he spoke.

  “I was raised in the King Country. My biological parents came here so that Jean could recover from surgery. She fell earlier this year broke her arm. They fell in love with the island and decided to settle here. Mari and Sid came with the property.”

  He laughed, “they weren’t mentioned on the list of chattels or I think I would have reconsidered!”

  Joanne stopped walking.

  “The vineyard is yours? I suppose you are going to tell me about the hidden and violent criminal life you lead, now that we are isolated.”

  They both laughed.

  “No, nothing as exciting as that. We sold a large property in the King Country when my parents retired. The family trust purchased Marinella.”

  Joanne nodded.

  “So, you must have a story?”

  Paul saw a flicker of tension pass over Joanne’s face.

  “I studied at the University of Auckland. My father is a barrister and that seemed the logical choice for me.”

  “The normal story, not enough jobs for too many applicants. So I moved to Nelson and joined a practice down there for a couple of years.”

  “And how did you end up in Auckland again? Was it after Sandy became unwell?”

  “Something like that.”

  Joanne’s expression had hardened and again they fell silent.

  There was little shelter from the relentless morning sun and the cool confinement of the damp tunnels was a welcome relief. They walked the length guided by torchlight and after negotiating a cold steel ladder, broke back into the daylight. They walked around the historic gun emplacements and then settled on the soft grass under an ancient craggy tree that over looked the harbour. Directly below, a narrow finger of rock jutted out to the water flanked by a fringe of fine white sand. Paul lent back contentedly and pointed out several small islands sitting like jewels amongst the velvet richness of the shimmering water.

  From under long lashes Joanne studied his face, the strong jaw and the ice blue eyes squinting against the glare of the sun. She followed his gaze to the fat lambs that lay in lazy, white fleeced groups under the shade of the trees.

  “Was Twin Pines sheep or cattle?”

  Paul seemed to still for a brief moment and then reflectively pulled a blade of grass from his mouth.

  “Mainly sheep.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  His eyes frosted and he studied Joanne before answering.

  “I miss some things about it. But it’s hard to walk forward when you keep looking backward.”

  Joanne felt her eyes narrow.

  “Is that what you think I am doing?”

  “I think we are all guilty of doing that at some stage in our life.”

  Hell riding the Harley had released a minefield of unpleasant buried memories for him. An involuntary shudder passed over his spine and Paul abruptly got to his feet. He extended his hand and helped Joanne to her feet.

  “Fast or slow?”

  “Pardon?”

  Joanne looked up and saw the muscles in Paul’s face had relaxed and he was watching her with a soft mesmerising smile.

  “Are you happy to travel quickly on the bike or would you prefer me to take it easy?”

  “Oh. Definitely fast,” she met his eyes searching, “unless, of course, there is something to see.”

  “You are very easy to corrupt Ms Kyle.”

  “And you are a very bad influence Mr Clarke.”

  Paul laughed and looked at the delicate hand still nestled comfortably in his own. Joanne self-consciously withdrew her fingers before walking briskly towards the car park.

  The road continued around the perimeter of the island, dipping into small bays of crystal clear water and putting up dust clouds as they passed clusters of housing and stands of lush sub-tropical bush. The curves stretched up and the soft foliage blurred into a mass of green leaves and black shadows. They were not travelling at the same dizzying speed of the isolated road but Joanne still had to strain to focus on the surroundings. Hesitantly, she tapped Pauls shoulder allowing her hand to rest on the cool leather of his jacket. He turned slightly and she imagined the blue depths of his eyes focusing on the road ahead.

  “Can we slow down so that I can admire the bush?”

  A slight nod confirmed he had understood and the roar of the b
ike became an even, comfortable throb.

  The foliage flashed by in a blur of texture as the Harley ate away the miles. Paul accelerated to a break neck speed. His face was grim and frozen, his hands clenched on to the controls and his body hunched forward to greet the biting lines of icy rain. He wore no helmet, his hair stuck in wet strands to his face, he wore no wet weather gear, the saturated material of his polo shirt clung to the muscles of his shoulders and back, he no longer cared. All he wanted to do was distance himself from the enraged Leslie before he became like Allan Clarke.

  It had been a long day, made even longer by an unseasonal cold snap. The newborn lambs that had survived the night lay wet and yellow, shivering on the saturated pastures and conditions were predicted to deteriorate even further.

  He rubbed his tired eyes and shook off the excess water that ran in rivulets over the surface of his oilskin. For a moment Paul hesitated at the door. He sniffed, hoping for the comforting smell of roasting meat. But all that greeted him was the sound of rain beating a drum against the corrugated iron roof.

  The door groaned open, pushing before it a reluctant pile of rubbish. The acrid smell of cigarettes and rancid fat filled the filthy interior. Leslie lay on the cluttered coach eyeing him with unbridled hostility. She drew angrily at the cigarette in her mouth and expelled a ring of blue smoke towards the fly-spotted ceiling.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  She picked up the glass of cheap wine from the coffee table and gulped greedily at the contents.

  “I thought we had discussed not smoking and drinking while you are pregnant?”

  Her eyes froze and she took another long drag on her cigarette while she regarded her husband with distaste.

  “Leslie, I really don’t want to argue with you tonight. ”

  “Really? If that was the case you wouldn’t have bothered to come back to this dump!”

  Paul shrugged dismissively. He pushed past and walked to the kitchen. He began to prepare the beef fillet that he had put in a marinade before leaving to do the lambing beat at day break.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Fuck off!”

  He ignored her outburst and turned away in an attempt to hide the revulsion that coursed through his veins.