by K. J. Emrick
For my part, I told her about me and Rosie buying the Pine Lake Inn, and the ups and downs of owning our own business. She told me that she’d read some of the stories about our place, and about Lakeshore, and she knew I’d been doing well. Of course, I had to add my own sad story, about losing my husband to a jealous, insane woman. I thought it might make her feel better to know that I’d lost someone important in my life too, but all it did was bring me down.
“Subject change,” I declare, very deliberately trying to lighten the mood. “What made you decide to come down to Tassie? I was completely thrown to get your e-mail saying you were headed down my way.”
“Really? We e-mail all the time.”
“Er, actually we e-mail sometimes, but I meant I was surprised to hear you were coming to Tasmania. What made you come all the way cross country? You didn’t come all this way just to see me and Rosie after all this time, did you?”
“Hmm. If I say no, does that make me a bad friend?”
“Course not. Friends grow up and drift away. Happens all the time. The best friends are the ones who remember you after years and years.”
“Then here’s to good friends.” She smiles as she says it, hooking her arm through mine and doing a little dance that puts us both in fits of laughter again. Honestly, it’s like no time had passed at all for us since Uni. Two good friends, out and about on the town, looking for a little fun…
Only, it looks like we aren’t going to find it. At least, not here.
The club Jasmine mentioned back in our hotel room is just as close as she said it was. In less than fifteen minutes of walking in heels we’re standing at the door of the Coral Room, with its red brick walls and frosted windows. The door had ornate brass handles that seemed a little too lavish for a nightclub, in my opinion.
Taped to the outside of the door was a computer-printed sign informing everyone that the Coral Room was closed for repairs until the middle of next month.
“Oh, nuts,” Jasmine says, and now I remember that was one of her favorite sayings whenever things went wrong. She folds her arms, and sticks out her hip, and I kind of think she would’ve broken the door down if she thought there would still be music and drinks on the other side once she got through. “Now what do we do?”
I’m not sure who’s more disappointed. Me or her. “Dunno. I guess we missed the height of the season.”
It kind of made sense for the owners to pick now to close up temporarily, because the summer months were past, and tourism was going to be way down in a beach front community. Best to do any major repairs when they would miss out on the least amount of business. I do the same thing back at my Inn. I give the rooms a deep cleaning in the middle of winter when I know I’ll have at least half of them empty at a time.
Guess I’ve never been on this side of that particular business model before.
“Stone the crows,” Jasmine grumbles. She seems really bummed out by the discovery that the club is closed. “I guess it’s back to the hotel for a movie and take away. Such a wild night we’ll have. Well. I suppose we can always figure out something fun to do in the morning.”
I hate that we got all dolled up just to turn around and go back again. Granted, in my case ‘dolled up’ is a little blue dress with a tight skirt and half sleeve jacket, and more makeup than I usually wear. Jess’s unicorn necklace kind of completes the outfit, in my opinion, only now it’s going to go to waste because nobody’ll get to see it. I glance around, hoping for another shop or hangout spot that might be open but there’s not much more here in Blue Laguna than there is over in Lakeshore.
Then something does catch my eye, and I’ve got an idea.
“Or,” I suggest, “we can go for a walk.”
I point down the road to a street sign with an arrow indicating the beach is just a short distance away. We could hear the ocean the whole way here, and the gulls, and if you paid attention there was the scent of the waves and the sand on the air. You get used to such things living in Tasmania, since we’re basically an island on the tail end of Australia and we’re bordered by the Indian Ocean on one side and the Pacific on the other. Lots of things to love about the land I hail from. This is just one of them.
And, since the coastline is right over that way, might as well take in the sights, as long as we’re here. After all, that’s what a large part of our vacation was for. Get out of Lakeshore, go to places we wouldn’t normally go, look around at what’s to be looked at.
Blue Laguna’s beach was just sitting there, waiting to be seen.
A lot of people assume all of Australia is a desert. If you watch those old Bugs Bunny cartoons and you see the Tasmanian Devil running around in a cloud of dust, you’d think our little corner of the country is just sand and rock from one corner to the other. Sure, Australia’s got one of the ten largest deserts in the world, but certain parts of the country has also got snow in the winter—usually—and about three thousand kilometers of shoreline.
It’s nice to go to the beach every once in a while. I think the waves are calming. Something about the constant motion of the water, the rhythm of it, the way it stretches on forever. My distant relatives must’ve been part of the First Fleet, I swear, because the ocean draws me to it.
Like it’s doing right now.
“Come on, Jasmine.” I take her hand and pull her away from the Coral Room, down the sidewalk to the footpath that leads away from Main Street and down to the shoreline. “Let’s take a quick look down the beach. Then maybe tomorrow we can take a picnic lunch down there.”
“Well, I suppose. Not really dressed for it but hey, why not, right?”
She didn’t sound all that happy about giving up the night on the town she had planned for us. Course, her dress is even tighter than mine, and we both have to take off our strappy shoes when the heels sink into the dirt, but no girl grows up in Australia without knowing how to walk in the bush! Anyway, I promised to myself that I’d make it up to her tomorrow. There must be other nightlife in this town. I mean, this is Tasmania, not Timbuktu.
The footpath had lamp posts at regular intervals. They started to flicker on as we walked, coming alive with the approaching twilight. The edge of the horizon was already sliding into vibrant colors of pale oranges and reds. What’s the saying? Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Tell that to those clouds rolling in, I suppose. As long as they hold off the stars should be out soon. The breeze had just the faintest hint of a bite to it. This was going to be an amazing night.
My thoughts turned to James, and how grand it would’ve been to have him here with me. Not that Jasmine isn’t good company, and all, but having my man on my arm while we strolled down a moonlit beach would’ve been better in a lot of ways. I think I’ll have to drag him to a place just like this, and sometime soon, as long as I can tear him away from his laptop.
As the grassy area to either side of the footpath gradually gave way to fine white sand, we came to a round area of crushed gravel. Not exactly easy on my stocking feet, let me tell you that. Just a few meters away, the beach waits for us. Nobody else is here. We have the whole place to ourselves. I don’t go down to the beach immediately, however, because in the middle of the gravel stands a brown stone pillar, just taller than me and maybe as wide as my hips. There was a metal placard bolted to the front bearing raised lettering for the tourists. Which I guess, in this case, is exactly what I am.
I read it to myself while Jasmine picked her way off the gravel into the more forgiving beach sand.
This beach was once part of the McGowan Family Estate. After the tragic events of 1937, the beach was donated to the City of Hobart. In loving memory of Mabel McGowan.
Interesting. Every town has its history, and every town has its secrets. Obviously Blue Laguna was no exception. Thank God I’m on vacation. I get to read about this mystery without getting put in the middle of it.
Although, I do wonder who Mabel McGowan was. And, what the tragic events of 1937 were all about. I rack my brain about T
assie’s history from that time, but I can’t think of anything. World War Two hadn’t started for Australia yet, and things were… well, just things, back then, as I recall. Something must have happened, though. Something important enough for the town to erect a marker over it. Mabel had donated this beach to the town, after something bad had happened. Doesn’t get much more mysterious than that.
Looking up from the sign on the pillar, I half expect to see a woman’s ghost standing there, watching me, waiting for me to notice her.
This time, there’s nothing. No ghost. No spirit beckoning me to help solve some old, dangerous mystery.
It’s almost a relief.
Jasmine has moved away from the pillar now, down on the sand, closer to where the waves are pounding on the surf. She turns, calling back to me, “Hey, let’s go! It’s starting to get chilly.”
She’s not wrong. It feels good to me, but I can definitely feel the promise of winter now, red sunset sky or not.
The beach stretches away in a gentle arc in both directions. I don’t remember how long it is, although I do know it’s not quite three kilometers from end to end. In the summertime, it would be filled with people sitting on towels and beach chairs, even at this hour, as well as with swimmers and boogie boarders. People in boats would be getting just one last pass in before docking for the night. Now there’s not another soul around. It's peaceful.
If I have the chance, I think I’ll come back here in November or December, during early summertime, and see if my mental image lives up to the reality. I hope it does.
I take a deep breath, filling myself with the heavy presence of the ocean, ebbing majestically right there at my feet. Looking down, I count off the seconds between one wave and the next. You could set your watch to the rhythms of the Earth. You could tune your body to its pulse. The foam along the sand is riddled with seaweed, and colored stones, and bits of driftwood. When I was a girl, I remember spending a lot of my time on beaches near our home, searching for shells and interesting bits. That’s always fun, when you’re young.
Now that I’m grown up I see things a little differently. For instance, now I can see that there’s other things caught in the sand, and not just fun treasures from the sea. There’s empty to go cups. A man’s sock. Discarded candy wrappers. Other pieces of trash I can’t identify. Glass bottles, too…
That one there’s an odd-looking bottle, actually. It’s almost hidden under a piece of driftwood longer than a car, and I might not have seen it if the sun hadn’t been slanting at just the right angle to hint off the glass. Leaning down for a better look, I’m immediately taken with it. Square sides instead of round. A beaded pattern along the short neck. A wide, smooth lip with a cork snugged into it. The glass was sort of bluish green, too, so unique that I don’t think I’ve ever seen its like.
I think the little girl in me, the one who used to beachcomb for the fun of it, was what decided me on setting my shoes aside and squatting down to try working that bottle out of the sand.
“What’d you find?” Jasmine asks, coming back over to stand where I’m working in the wet sand. She won’t squat down like me. Not in that dress she put on for the club. It’s meant to catch men’s eyes, not muck about in the dirt. I think we’re both afraid she’d be showing off a bit too much if she tried to get down here with me.
“It’s a bottle,” I tell her, answering her question. “Kind of looks old. Maybe it’s an antique.”
“On this beach? Nah. It’s probably just an Old Hobart’s Whiskey bottle or some such that some dolt threw away.”
“Maybe.” Couldn’t really argue with that. Lots of careless people out there willing to ruin the ocean rather than find a proper receptacle for their garbage. Although, I’m familiar with what Old Hobart’s Whiskey bottles look like, and this isn’t one of those. Not anything I’ve ever seen before. “It’s really interesting. I think I could clean it up and take it back to the Inn. It’d look good… up on the mantel… over the fireplace…”
I grunt with the effort of pulling it out, pausing for breath between words to try again. The beach really doesn’t want to give it up. I was pulling on it as hard as I could, and the jealous, wet sand was only giving way a little at a time. Wrapping my hands around the neck I give it all I’ve got, and with a horrendous sucking sound like maybe the devil himself had the bottle in his grip, it gives way.
It was so sudden when it happened that I fall over backward onto my bum, soaking my dress right through to my panties.
There was just the faintest tink sound when it did, and that was when I realized there was something inside of it, banging around against the insides of the glass from the violent motion of being freed from the beach.
At my feet, the square hole left behind by the bottle slowly filled up from below with water and sediment. The sides of the impression began to collapse. I knew before too much longer there wouldn’t be any evidence that anything had been there at all.
Getting up from wet sand is always a chore. I managed it with Jasmine’s help, both of us laughing at my ungainly cartwheeling. I’m usually quite graceful. Rosie’s the clumsy one in our business partnership. Can’t tell you the number of times we’ve had to redo the kitchen due to minor grease fires, only some of which happened while someone was cooking. Then again, I don’t have a lot of practice with pulling old bottles out of beach sand, so I don’t think I’ve got anything to apologize for.
Holding the bottle up to the fading daylight, I admire the craftsmanship that went into making it. No doubt in my mind now that it’s old. Bottles crafted nowadays might be pretty, but you can always tell they’re machine-made. You can see the seams in the glass, and the groove in the bottom where it’s been fed down a conveyor line, and the little recycling triangle with the number to tell you where to put the bottle when you’re done with it. This one I’d found didn’t have any of that. The beaded design around the neck had several imperfections. There were a few bubbles in the glass, too, which is something modern production methods avoid.
Oh, yes. This would make a great piece to display at the Inn. Not exactly what I had in mind when I promised to bring something back for Jess, but I can’t think of a more unique souvenir than an old bottle found washed up on the beach.
Wiping away some of the grime and the dirt, I peered harder inside of the murky, colored glass.
There was definitely something inside.
I squinted, trying to make it out. A cigar, maybe. Or I suppose it could be…
“Oh, wow!” The words are out of my mouth before I even realized that I was speaking them. I was too excited not to say something. “Jasmine, I think there’s a note in here!”
“What? No, it can’t be.” She put her face so close to the bottle that her nose is almost touching the glass, squinting with first one eye and then the other. “That’s too cliché to be… oh, nuts! I think you’re right. A message in a bottle, right here in your backyard. It looks like they rolled it up and then tied it with a piece of twine, so it would fit inside the mouth. Wow. It looks pretty dry for being under water all this time. How’s that possible?”
“I believe that wet sand would actually keep things preserved for ages just like mud does. It keeps out the oxygen, which prevents decay and rot.” Funny, the things you remember from those secondary school classes. “Acts like a sort of preserving agent. I read once about this place in Russia. Novagood, or Novgorod, or something like that. Archaeologists are finding children’s drawings done on birch bark dating back to the thirteenth century, buried in the mud. They look like they could’ve been done yesterday. If the cork on this bottle is on tight, the water might not’ve ever touched it.”
“Well, well, well, look who’s top of her class, then. So tell me, you incredibly intelligent woman, you. How do we get this out to read it?”
That was a good question, actually. I suppose we could just pull out the cork and hope for the best. You never know. There’s a chance it wouldn’t crumble to dust once the air hit it. The
n again, it might be lost forever once the first fresh breeze in decades touched it.
So what’s a girl to do?
“Let’s take it back to the hotel with us,” is all I can think to suggest. “I know where we can find the answer.”
“The internet!” Jasmine laughs. “C’mon. Let’s get back to the hotel and start searching. If nothing else, I’ll just bring it back to the Pine Lake Inn as is and keep the note there inside.”
“You’re not the least bit curious what it says?”
“Of course I am,” I have to admit. “But maybe, just this once, the mystery can stay a mystery.”
It was full on dark when we got back to the hotel. The streetlamps lit up the sidewalks, and people went this way and that way, singly and in groups. I was pleasantly surprised when a group of University-aged guys eyed us on their way up the street. Not sure if it was Jasmine’s tight dress they were interested in or the way I winked at one of them for fun, but they probably would’ve asked us out on the town with them, if there wasn’t four of them and only two of us. Nice to know I can still turn heads with the best of them.
There were a few others who watched us, too. One guy with a Socceroos cap perched backward on his high forehead slowed as he passed us, his gaze direct and frank. I could’ve sworn he was staring at the bottle in my hands instead of at my, um, womanly attributes. Well. It is rather an interesting bottle. Then again, I’m a rather interesting woman.
Of course, my bum is still soaking wet and the dress is clinging to the curves a little more so than it did before. That might just be what all the fuss is, right there.
The chill in the air had become much more noticeable by the time we walked through the automatic doors of the Moonlight Resort. I was definitely looking forward to a nice hot shower up in our room.
At the front desk, the night clerk greets us with a smile. “Welcome back. Have fun at the club?”
“Not so much,” Jasmine said with a grimace. “It’s closed for repairs.”