by H. Y. Hanna
Sara glanced out the kitchen window. She was excited to get out and explore a bit. Night had been falling by the time they had gotten back to Summer Beach yesterday and she hadn’t seen very much of the seaside town. Ellie had told her that the first place she should check out was the beach, which was only about ten minutes’ walk from here. Sara stood up decisively. She would go for a walk now.
After washing up her breakfast things, Sara slipped her feet into a pair of flip-flops and let herself out of the house. Ellie was renting a cute little fisherman’s cottage, which was sandwiched in a row of beach bungalows. Sara strolled down the street, admiring the houses with their beautifully kept gardens behind white picket fences. Everything is so clean, she thought. And there was a friendly, relaxed vibe about the place, with many windows left wide open and front doors ajar, covered only by fly screen. It almost reminded her of pictures and stories she’d heard of America in the 50s and 60s, when the pace of life was slower and it was still safe to let your children play unsupervised in the streets.
She passed a house where a young woman was wrestling with a baby stroller as she tried to manoeuvre it out of the front garden gate. Sara jumped in and held the swing gate back for her. The young woman smiled gratefully as she reversed the stroller out onto the sidewalk.
“Ta very much,” she said. “It’s a right pain, this pram. Should’ve waited to shop around instead of rushing out to buy one as soon as I got preggers.” She grinned at Sara. “You got any sprogs?”
“I… what?” Sara was baffled.
“Sprogs. Littlies. Kids,” the young woman explained.
“Oh! No, no… I don’t have any children.” Sara smiled. “Gotta get married first.”
“No, you don’t, these days,” said the young woman darkly. “I oughta know. Can’t get Gary to put a ring on me finger—not for quids. But it’s okay. I got bubs here.” She smiled down at the baby in the stroller, then looked up at Sara again. “I’m Libby. Haven’t seen you around—you just moved here?”
“Oh no, I’m only visiting,” said Sara. “I’m from California. L.A., actually.”
“Ah, you’re a Yank. Thought so from your accent. What d’ya think of Oz so far?”
“It’s beautiful,” said Sara, smiling. “And everyone’s so friendly. It’s… it’s almost a bit like a dream. I can’t quite believe I’m here.”
“Reckon I would say the same about L.A.,” said Libby with a grin. “Well, any time you want a chinwag, just come on over to my place. Doors always open. See ya!”
The young mother waved and pushed the stroller away down the sidewalk. Sara watched her go in amusement. She had a feeling that if she ever wanted to visit Libby, she would have to come armed with some kind of Australian slang dictionary! Turning in the opposite direction, she continued on her way.
Sara crossed several more roads and turned a few corners before she admitted to herself that she was lost. She was sure she had been heading in the right direction, but somehow she seemed to have gone wrong. She had been walking for over thirty minutes—she should have reached the beach by now. In fact, looking at the houses around her—which looked worryingly familiar—it seemed that she had simply gone in a huge circle and ended up back near where she started.
She paused on the corner and looked around in frustration. There were signs with street names, but nothing that said: THIS WAY TO THE BEACH. To be fair, this wasn’t a big city like Sydney with enough tourists visiting to make it worthwhile putting up special directions for them. The locals probably knew the way in their sleep.
Sara turned and noticed that there was an old man sitting on the veranda of the house right on the corner. Their eyes met and he gave her toothy smile. Sara hesitated, then let herself into his garden as he waved her over. As she got closer, she could see that despite his age, the old man was still impressively built, with a thick torso dominated by a huge belly and massive, meaty arms that were covered in intricate tribal tattoos. His short, curly hair was startlingly white against his brown skin and he had dark brows above eyes twinkling with humour. But the strangest thing about him was the white-and-yellow flower he wore behind one ear. Coupled with his big, beefy appearance, the delicate flower seemed silly and incongruous.
Sara smiled sheepishly as she realised that she was staring. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’ve just never seen a man wearing a flower in his hair before.”
He nodded placidly. “It is the way in Samoa.” He pronounced it Sar-moa. “Flowers are very important for my people. They are part of our identity. Even if they’re born an Aussie like me.” He gave her that toothy grin again. Then he reached up and plucked the flower from behind his ear and held it out to her in the palm of his hand. “This is the tipani.”
Sara looked down and saw what she knew as a frangipani flower. She reached out and gently picked it up, looking at it up close. Its delicate five-lobed petals were creamy white, darkening to yellow in the centre, and it gave off a sweet perfume. “It’s beautiful.”
“Keep it.” He smiled. “I have many more from the tree in my backyard.”
“Thanks,” said Sara, returning his smile.
“The tipani is the flower of love. In Polynesian culture, how you wear the flower tells others about your heart. Behind the right ear means your heart is free and behind the left means it is taken—that is, you are married or have a partner.”
Sara tried to remember which side he had been wearing the flower on. As if reading her mind, he said softly, “I wear mine on the left. My wife, Teuila, is gone now, but my heart will always be with her.”
He said it simply, with no drama or sentimentality, and yet Sara felt a lump come to her throat. How amazing to have experienced a love like that, she thought. She imagined him sitting here, quietly dreaming and remembering their life together.
“You’re lost and looking for the way to the beach?”
Sara blinked at him in surprise. “Yes, how did you know?”
He shook his head, smiling. “Go to the end of the street. Turn right, then take the first left. You will come to a T-junction. The right side leads into town, the left goes down to the beach.”
“Thank you.” Sara put her hand out. “It was nice to meet you… er …?”
“Ru.” He inclined his head and took her hand in one of his weather-beaten ones.
“Nice to meet you, Ru. My name’s Sara.”
He nodded again and, after a moment, Sara bade him goodbye and let herself out of his garden. It had been a strange but enjoyable encounter—almost like her whole Australian experience so far. She followed Ru’s instructions and soon found herself arriving at a T-junction just like he had said. She looked to the right, shading her eyes against the bright sunlight. That must be the way into the centre of town. She could see the tops of buildings, which were the commercial shops and offices of the main street. Sara turned and looked the other way. The road sloped downwards and she could see the glimmer of blue water in the distance.
Feeling a burst of excitement, Sara headed in that direction. There were fewer houses lining the road here, and at the end of the road she passed a large wooden bungalow that had a sign attached to its fence, which read “SUMMER BEACH VETERINARY HOSPITAL” next to a picture of two paw prints. The front garden had been cleared and paved to provide parking spaces, and judging from the number of cars already in place, it was going to be a busy session that morning.
Sara thought of her Beagle, Coco. She had managed to make a quick call home the previous evening and she had been reassured to hear from Fern that Coco was fine. Being spoilt rotten, more like, Sara thought with a wry smile. Still, she missed her dog and wished again that she could have brought Coco with her.
The road didn’t extend much farther beyond the animal hospital. Sara saw it end in another small car park, this time next to a huge, rambling beach bungalow which looked like some kind of café. But her attention was riveted to the side of the road, where the trees and bushes had suddenly dropped away to reveal
an open view looking out onto the beach.
“Oh!” Sara stood and stared.
It was absolutely spectacular. A strip of white sand beach stretched out in front of her and, beyond it, the shimmering waters of the Pacific Ocean was such a vivid shade of turquoise, it looked almost unreal. White waves crashed and foamed on the sand, and in the distance, the shore rose up into a series of cliffs. Just in front of the cliffs, a clump of palm trees waved in the strong breeze that blew in off the sea. Arching across all of this was a blue, cloudless sky, dominated by a blazing sun.
It was even better than a postcard. As a California girl herself, Sara had grown up by the seaside, but there was still something about this beach on the other side of the world that took her breath away.
She hurried down the rickety wooden staircase leading to the beach, nearly stumbling in her haste. As she reached the last step, she kicked off her flip-flops and sank her toes into the sand. It was as soft as powder and felt cool against the soles of her feet, in spite of the heat from the sun above.
Sara snatched up her flip-flops in one hand and ran towards the water. She let out a shout of laughter as she met one of the waves head-on. The water surged up to her knees and sprayed into her face, tasting salty on her lips. Tossing her hair out of her eyes, Sara ran along the edge of the sea, giggling as she splashed through the waves.
Finally, she stopped, trying to catch her breath. Her legs were covered in sand and half of her clothes were soaked, her hair tangled and her cheeks red from the sting of the sea breeze, but she didn’t care. She hadn’t felt this carefree and happy in ages.
Sara realised that she had gone a fair way up the beach—she was almost beside that clump of palm trees now. Walking slowly over, she dropped her flip-flops onto the sand and sank down next to them, leaning back to rest against one of the palm tree trunks. Shading her eyes against the glare of the sun, Sara looked back in the direction she had come. The rickety wooden stair she had come down looked like a brown streak in the distance now and that café looked like a little wooden toy house, perched on a promontory above the water.
She sighed as she suddenly thought of Coco again. How her Beagle would have loved it here! So many new smells to investigate, so many new places to explore…
Sara frowned and sat up, wondering if she was seeing things. She squinted into the distance. Was that her imagination playing tricks on her because she was missing her own dog badly or was she really seeing a Beagle wandering up the beach?
CHAPTER 3
Jumping up, Sara grabbed her flip-flops and headed back up the beach. As she got closer, she could see that this was no mirage. This was a real, living, breathing pup. She ran over and dropped to her knees beside the Beagle, reaching out to pat it gently.
“Hello…” she said. “What are you doing here?”
The Beagle wagged its tail and shoved its cold, wet nose into her hand, wriggling its body in delight. It looked so much like her Coco that it was uncanny. Unlike the black, tan, and white Beagle she had met at the airport, this one was just brown and white, with a pale stripe between its eyes, just like her own dog. It was a boy, though, Sara realised. She felt around his neck. He wasn’t wearing a collar, but the way the fur was pressed flat around his throat suggested that he did wear one usually.
“Are you lost?” Sara asked. “What’s your name?”
The Beagle looked up at her with soft, brown eyes, its tongue lolling out in a wide smile. Sara felt her heart turn over. How many times had Coco looked at her just like that? She laughed and held out her hand.
“My dog, Coco, can shake. Can you?”
The Beagle wagged his tail and held up one front paw. But when Sara reached out and gripped it, he flinched and let out a whimper of pain.
“Oh… what’s wrong?” Sara gently turned the paw over. She was horrified to see a bloody gash on the paw pad. “Oh, you poor thing! That must hurt horribly.”
The gash was deep, exposing the pink, tender flesh beneath, and blood oozed freely from the wound, dripping onto the white sand. Sara realised that a trail of blood led back up the beach. Her stomach heaved. For a moment, all she could see was her own Coco, hurt and bleeding, and she couldn’t bear it.
Sara looked desperately around. She had to get help. The wound needed to be cleaned and dressed, maybe even stitched. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the rickety wooden stairs again in the distance, leading back up to the road.
The animal hospital.
Yes, she thought feverishly. That vet surgery she had passed. She could get help and veterinary attention for the dog there. Turning back to the Beagle, she put her arms around him and gently picked him up. He struggled for a moment, then relaxed into her arms. Sliding her feet back into her flip-flops, Sara started across the sand, walking as fast as she could.
It was tough going. Unlike when she had first arrived at the beach and had run across the sand in giddy excitement, now Sara felt the strain in her calf and thigh muscles as her feet sank into the sand with each step. The Beagle was no lightweight either. He was slightly bigger than her own Coco and felt like double the weight as she struggled her way across the beach. She cursed under her breath and wished again that she had been more conscientious about going to the gym.
By the time Sara arrived at the wooden steps again, she was sweating profusely and panting. Pausing, she leaned the Beagle onto the wooden railing and eased his weight off her aching arms for a second before taking a deep breath and lifting him close again as she started up the steps. At the top, she staggered down the road towards the vet clinic and turned gratefully into the little parking lot.
A cool blast of air-conditioning hit her as she burst into the waiting room. A dozen pairs of eyes looked up at her in surprise. Several people were sitting on plastic chairs laid out in a semi-circle around one half of the room. Some had dogs with them and a few had cat carriers. One of the dogs—a scruffy little terrier that barely came up to her ankle—started barking. The girl behind the reception counter stood up hesitantly.
“I… I found him… on the beach…” Sara gasped, leaning against the reception counter. “He’s hurt… he needs help…”
“Can he stand?” asked the receptionist as she came around the counter.
Sara leaned down and placed the Beagle gingerly on the ground. He wobbled a bit, but managed to stand on three legs, holding his front right paw off the ground. Sara watched anxiously as the receptionist knelt beside him and examined him quickly—lifting his lips to check the colour of his gums, listening to his heart rate, running her hands over his body.
“If you’ll take a seat…” she said, standing up.
“What?” Sara gaped at her. “But he’s bleeding! He needs help now.”
The girl compressed her lips. “His vitals are okay and the blood flow isn’t heavy. I’ll wrap up his paw, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait your turn.” She gestured towards the semi-circle of chairs.
“But… surely this is an emergency!” cried Sara.
The receptionist sighed. “Yes, but we have several other emergencies as well. Two of our vets are away and the other one is working on a case off-site, so we’re a bit short-staffed today. Dr Murray will see you as soon as possible. In the meantime…” she picked up a clipboard from the reception counter and thrust it at Sara. “It would be helpful if you could fill this out.”
“But he’s not my dog,” Sara protested weakly.
“Well, just fill in what you can,” said the receptionist as she quickly bandaged the Beagle’s paw. Then she looped a thin, nylon leash around his neck and handed the other end to Sara before hurrying back around the counter to answer the ringing phone.
Reluctantly, Sara led the Beagle over to the nearest chair and sat down. The scruffy terrier approached on the end of his leash and sniffed the Beagle’s butt suspiciously. The Beagle tried to return the greeting, but the terrier stiffened and uttered a low growl.
“Oh shush,” said the old lady who was obviously his owner. She
gave Sara an apologetic smile. “Bit of an old grump. His bark’s worse than his bite, really. Come here, Gizmo.” She tightened his leash and hauled him in closer to her.
At any other time, Sara would have found the little terrier amusing, but now all she could feel was the frantic pounding of her pulse. What was the vet doing? she wondered, biting her lip. How much longer was he going to be? The Beagle sat at her feet and whimpered softly, the sound nearly breaking Sara’s heart.
She reached down and stroked the velvety ears. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Someone will see you soon.” In her mind’s eye, Sara saw Coco back in California. What if this was her own dog? What if Coco was hurt and in pain somewhere, ignored and neglected? She knew it was silly—she knew that Coco was safe back in her house, with Fern looking after her—but she couldn’t push the images from her mind.
To distract herself, Sara looked down at the clipboard on her lap and tried to fill in the form. There wasn’t much information she could provide. Aside from his breed and gender, there was nothing else she knew about this dog. He didn’t even have a collar and tag with his name. “Found wandering on the beach”, she wrote in the “Notes” section at the bottom of page. Then she added her own name and Ellie’s name, address, and home phone number.
She looked up as there was a commotion by the doorway and a family rushed in, carrying what looked like a Jack Russell puppy. They said something to the receptionist, who immediately got up and disappeared down the hallway.
A minute later, she came back with a tall man striding behind her. He was wearing blue scrubs beneath a white coat and had a stethoscope around his neck, but even without the clothes, Sara would have known that this was Dr Murray. He had an aura of calm authority about him, his gaze keen and intelligent as he looked at the puppy. His sleeves were pushed back to reveal tanned, muscular forearms and the hands which reached out towards the puppy were strong, but gentle. He murmured something to the woman holding the puppy, then turned and gestured towards the back of the clinic.