The Cottage at Rosella Cove

by Sandie Docker

  She ordered another drink. Never a big drinker, Mark’s work dos always saw her indulge a little more than usual, just to help her get through the long boring hours.

  ‘Excuse me?’ A young man, mid-twenties maybe, came up beside her. ‘I can’t help but notice you here on your own.’

  ‘Oh. Hi. Just keeping out of the way. Too much shop talk for me.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  The young man was a client of the firm. Or rather his family was, and he was there to ‘represent’, he said. He was a sweet man, and had Nicky laughing before long. It was a welcome change from the rest of the night.

  ‘And who are you with tonight? You’re clearly not a lawyer.’

  Nicky took that as a compliment and smiled. ‘My fiancé.’ She pointed over to Mark.

  ‘Ah. Avery the Assassin.’

  Nicky had heard the nickname before. Every case that went to court, he won. Most opposing counsel tried to settle before it got that far.

  Mark slipped his way through the press of people towards them. ‘How’s your night?’ He put his arm around her waist and pulled her in tightly. ‘Having a lovely chat, were we?’

  Nicky turned back to the young man, but he’d gone. ‘Seemed like a nice enough guy.’

  Mark shook his head. ‘Just goes to show you never can tell. He’s after his family’s money and will do anything to get it. Nasty man, really.’

  ‘But he seemed so nice.’

  Mark raised an eyebrow. ‘If you weren’t so naïve, maybe you’d see people for who they are. Look what happened with Jane.’

  Ouch. That nerve was still raw. ‘What do you say we head home?’

  Nicky was relieved. She wasn’t sure how much more of this party she could take.

  The next day, in the early light of morning, Nicky woke and got ready for the day. Today she was determined to attack the writer’s block that had been plaguing her. But first she needed to tidy the kitchen. Twice. Then she rearranged the pantry and went to put the washing on. The apartment was never so spotless as when she was struggling to write.

  Just after ten, with no new words written, but lots of ‘essential’ research done on the net, Nicky started making Mark’s breakfast. The smell of bacon would rouse him for sure.

  He padded into the kitchen, already dressed.

  ‘Sorry, Nicky. I’ve got to go catch up on some paperwork in the office.’ He kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘Wait … I —’

  But he was out the door before she could get her words out.

  Nicky sat at the dining table looking about the perfectly clean apartment. Ever since she’d given up her job at the café, Saturday mornings were always reserved for a slow breakfast and not getting dressed till lunchtime. She would get a couple of hours writing done, would make Mark breakfast and then they’d while away the day together.

  She fiddled with the placemats in the middle of the table. She rearranged the cushions on the couch.

  She checked her phone. A week and no response from Jane.

  Well, she guessed she had her answer then. Jane wanted nothing more to do with her. Her heart felt heavy.

  The only family Nicky had left now was Mark.

  The clock ticked loudly on the wall.

  Nine

  Memory was a funny thing. Sometimes it hit you when you least expected it to. Sometimes it came when you were perfectly prepared. Sometimes it came in fleeting snapshots, a face here, a feeling there, never quite revealing the complete picture. Sometimes the whole sorry saga played out in your mind and nothing you could do could stop it.

  Sometimes Nicole just wished she could forget.

  No one was due to come and help her today, and for that she was thankful. Mostly. How was it that she could want so desperately to be alone, yet at the same time fear loneliness?

  If only there was a way to be alone, without actually being alone.

  Perhaps there was.

  She prepared a thermos of hot chocolate. It was a risk, she knew. But she weighed it up and decided it was worth taking.

  A gentle breeze rustled the gum leaves overhead as she meandered down the sloping hill towards the boatshed. The sea was impossibly blue and still, and the early morning showed promise of a warm autumn day to follow once the crisp air was heated by the rising sun.

  She approached the boatshed. Oh, this was madness. What was she doing?

  ‘Charlie?’ As she called out his name, apprehension rose in her. Yes, he was a safer option for company than Mandy, with all her questions and insight. And he was certainly safer than Danny, with his green eyes and heat-inducing touch. But seriously? This was what she was reduced to now?

  Chances were he’d simply scream at her to go away.

  ‘You’re back.’ He grumbled as he opened the wooden door to the boatshed.

  ‘Yes. I wondered maybe … if you would like …’

  His expression was unreadable. Come out with it and ask, or run away – her two options.

  ‘… I brought hot chocolate.’ She held up her thermos and smiled what must have been a ridiculous grin.

  Charlie threw his arms open in an arc, inviting her into his grounds.

  Nicole hesitated, only a moment, then moved through the gap in the fence. Charlie motioned to the eastern side of the boatshed.

  The wooden bench glowed golden brown in the morning sun.

  ‘No!’

  Nicole dropped her thermos.

  ‘You don’t get to sit there.’

  He reached beside the bench and pulled out an old, collapsible deckchair. The blue and white striped canvas was stained and the wood faded, but it looked sturdy enough.

  To her surprise, Charlie ducked back inside and pulled out another deckchair for himself and placed it a few feet away from hers. Why would he so lovingly care for a bench that he didn’t sit on? She could ask him, she supposed, but people didn’t go round taking care of a piece of furniture when everything else around was decaying. Not unless there was something deeply significant going on. And it was far too early to be digging into personal stuff. Another question for her notebook.

  ‘Would you like some?’ She picked up the thermos.

  ‘Hot chocolate tastes like mud.’

  ‘Still,’ she persevered. ‘Better than the cookies I tried to make.’

  ‘Humph,’ came the response.

  They sat in silence, Nicole unsure where she could go with this impossible man. In the end, she resorted to cheap clichés.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day, don’t you think?’

  A single nod in answer.

  ‘Do the winters get cold here?’ she asked.

  A slight shake of the head.

  ‘I’ve heard midsummer can be brutal.’

  This was met with a shrug.

  ‘Seems like a nice place.’

  Another shrug.

  ‘How long have you lived at Rosella Cove?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  Nicole smiled. She’d finally got an answer out of him. ‘Friendly neighbours.’

  ‘Humph.’

  Perhaps she saw the slightest twitch at the edge of Charlie’s mouth, but she couldn’t be sure. She took a big sip of hot chocolate as she watched the seagulls gliding on the breeze.

  She stole brief glances to her right as she drank, noting in Charlie what would have been a quite imposing physical presence in his younger days. His large hands and broad shoulders suggested he’d been a strong man once. Beneath his wild beard Nicole could see a once-handsome face and she wondered how he could end up so totally alone in the world. How did anyone end up so totally alone in the world?

  Charlie rose.

  Nicole got up too, taking his lead that the morning was over.

  ‘Stay,’ he said and she sat back down.

  He returned some minutes later carrying a tattered box with him in one hand and a small, portable table in the other, then sat down.

  ‘You play?’ He laid a brown Scrabble board on the tray table betwe
en them, its edges ragged and torn.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You any good?’ Charlie looked her directly in the eye.

  ‘I’m not bad,’ she answered honestly.

  Her dad had been a huge fan of the game and they’d often played. She couldn’t imagine Charlie being anywhere near as good as her father, though.

  She picked up her seven yellowed tiles with faded lettering. X, q, e, t, two s’s, and an a. She ran through the possibilities in her mind, discarding the shorter easier ones – axe, set, tea – looking for harder ones. Texas was there – what a shame proper nouns weren’t allowed. Qats was possible, but she wasn’t sure Charlie would be familiar with the Arabian plant and she didn’t want to get in a fight. She decided to let him lead the way instead of starting the traditional way of drawing tiles.

  ‘Age before beauty,’ she suggested.

  ‘I’m definitely the former, but you?’ He looked her up and down.

  Was that a quip? Well, that was something. ‘Right then.’ Nicole flexed her fingers. ‘Gloves are officially off.’ She grinned.

  A few minutes in it became obvious to Nicole that she should not have underestimated Charlie. She wished she’d used qats when she’d had the chance.

  ‘L, e, a, r, n,’ Nicole spelled out her fifth word. ‘Five points, double word score. Did you know that up until the nineteenth century it was perfectly acceptable to say ‘he learned me how to read’?’ She added her points to her score.

  ‘Hogwash.’ Charlie stared at his tiles. ‘True story.’

  He ignored her.

  ‘j, o, v, i, a, l,’ Charlie placed his tiles on the board. ‘Sixteen points, triple on the j, thirty-two.’

  ‘You would be jovial about that.’ Nicole shook her head as she added up his running total.

  ‘From the Latin jovialis, of Jupiter, the planet said to exert a happy influence.’

  Nicole stared at Charlie.

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘I’m just a bit surprised you know that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just … no reason, I guess.’ She had no answer. Charlie could have been anybody before he’d ended up here. A professor, a carpenter, a scientist, a footy player.

  She searched the board for possible openings.

  The sun reached higher in the sky, casting small shadows across the ever more crowded board and Nicole knew she was in trouble.

  ‘Hanged, another eleven points,’ Nicole announced, but it wasn’t enough. ‘Well, I take my hat off to you, Charlie. Good win.’ She helped him pack away the game. As Charlie lifted the board, it tore some more.

  ‘You’re not too bad yourself,’ he conceded. ‘Thought you might be all right at this.’

  ‘Really?’

  Charlie shrugged.

  ‘So how is it you can read me so well after one meeting?’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Okay, a couple of accidental bumping-intos.’

  ‘Practice.’

  Nicole looked at him, her brow furrowed.

  ‘The less you’re seen, the more you see.’ He shrugged again.

  ‘Ah, he’s a poet and a philosopher.’ Nicole exaggerated a bow as she got up.

  ‘Humph.’ Charlie shook his head as he pushed past her.

  ‘Maybe I’ll see you next week,’ Nicole said, as Charlie waited outside his door for her to pass.

  He didn’t say another word.

  Back at the house, Nicole started sanding the floorboards in the living room with the sanding and polishing machine thing she’d hired from Trevor’s. As she made the soothing circular motions around the room, she replayed the few hours she’d just spent with Charlie.

  By most people’s standards the morning would have been considered a disaster, but she’d found Charlie’s quiet, prickly company quite comforting. Exactly what she’d been hoping for. Now what did that say about her?

  She stifled a laugh.

  She was happily having non-conversations with an irate hermit, and her most intimate relationship was with a mysterious woman who’d been dead for four decades. It was not exactly the life she’d imagined for herself, but here she was.

  Halfway around the large room she dropped the handle of the sanding and polishing machine thing and crouched down to turn the power off. She could feel the laughter bubbling up inside and, given Trevor’s strict safety instructions, she thought this would be the best option.

  She sat on the floor and allowed the laughter to escape her lips freely. Tears began to roll down her cheeks and she wiped them away between chuckles, shaking her head.

  ‘Life rarely goes according to plan.’ Mark’s voice sounded in her head.

  ‘Well, you sure got that right,’ Nicole said out loud with a laugh.

  She lay back on the floor with her arms flung out to the side. Eventually, she regained composure and stood up, brushing the last rogue tear away.

  ‘What a mess.’ She sighed loudly and turned the machine on again.

  By eight o’clock Nicole had finished sanding the floors in the living room and fell into bed exhausted without having dinner. She rubbed her temples, then her aching shoulders. She closed her eyes and it wasn’t long before she fell into the deepest sleep she’d had since her life turned upside down. She wasn’t fitful. She didn’t have strange, fragmented dreams where her life played out before her as she sat watching, silently screaming. She didn’t wake at one, or at three, or at five. She simply slept.

  And slept.

  Charlie shuffled around the boatshed in the dark. That woman was so perplexing. He shook his head. Why would she bother to sit there half the morning then not even probe him with the annoying questions he’d been expecting? He’d waited for her to deafen him with endless pointless chatter, or purge her own life story as the lonely are wont to do, especially to strangers.

  Not that he minded, of course. In fact, he was relieved not to have to listen to her waffle. But it was confusing. People were usually predictable. It was their only saving grace. They see an old man who lives alone and keeps to himself, they taunt him and treat him like a freak show exhibit. They see an old man who lives alone and keeps to himself, they suspect him of whatever unsolved crimes have been committed in the area.

  Charlie could predict their callousness and judgement, and therefore shield himself from them.

  Not that he was above judgement. That time would come one day, and when it did he’d accept his fate without fuss. But until then, he was sentenced to this shadow life.

  He pottered about the boatshed, trying to shake the uneasy feeling Nicole’s presence caused in him. He’d wanted this, after all. But he hadn’t anticipated being so put out by her unpredictable behaviour – it was making him very uncomfortable.

  Perhaps she’d have all the questions for him next time she came to visit. This morning was a Trojan horse visit, to convince him to let his guard down. Well, he wouldn’t allow that.

  He sat on the end of his dusty old bed, surrounded by the shelving he used to divide the open space inside the boatshed. In his hand he held a photo. He had set things in motion now. And once you did that, there was no turning back. It was time to be a man. For the first time in his life.

  He knew what he had to do. He just hoped he had the strength to follow it through. Courage could be a bastard of a thing to find. Especially for a coward like himself.

  He took one last look at the photo. The young woman stared back at him, her dark eyes warm and trusting. Misplaced trust she would regret. The boy in her lap laughed, his blue eyes dancing, piercing through Charlie’s guilty heart. He flipped the photo over. Maybe some pasts were too painful to face.

  Nicole hummed along to the radio as she tidied the kitchen in anticipation of Mandy’s arrival, dancing as she went. Maybe it was the fact she’d actually slept properly for the last three nights. Maybe it was the calm that had come over her since that morning she played Scrabble with Charlie at the beginning of the week. All she knew was she felt lighter than she had in
months.

  Finally the kitchen was spotless for Nicole’s first cooking lesson – as spotless as it could be in its state of disrepair. Trevor had fixed the oven so it was usable, though it would still need replacing. Nicole had been avoiding a full kitchen refit, but with the rest of the cottage now taking shape, she couldn’t put it off any longer. The renovation in this room would start in two weeks.

  ‘Yoo-hoo!’ Mandy’s voice called out, right on time.

  ‘In here,’ she answered.

  ‘Are you ready to start our first baking lesson?’ Mandy asked, waving a cookbook at Nicole.

  Nicole shrugged. ‘Are you sure we shouldn’t wait till the new kitchen is in?’

  Mandy shook her head. ‘There’s no time like the present. And we’re starting pretty basic, so a basic kitchen will do just fine. Though I bet you can’t wait till this is all spic and span.’

  It wasn’t really something Nicole was fussed about one way or another. It was the room she used least in the cottage. Even the gorgeous new kitchen she’d acquired in Sydney from moving in with Mark had barely seen her cook.

  But normal people liked nice kitchens and the renovation wouldn’t be complete without a total overhaul of this room.

  ‘Well, yes,’ she lied. ‘Then maybe I can down tools for a bit and take a break from the reno. Just for a few days.’

  ‘Picking up a bit of lingo from Trev and Danny there, I hear.’ Mandy laughed.

  ‘Apparently. Next thing you know I’ll be walking round with builders’ crack.’ Nicole realised her rudeness immediately. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean …’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It’s a stereotype for a reason. And between you and me, I’ve had to tell that husband of mine to pull up his King Gees more than once.’

  Mandy opened her book, a diary stuffed full of handwritten recipes and magazine cut-outs, to the Anzac biscuit page. ‘As I said, I thought we’d start with something basic and work our way up.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d need instructions.’ Nicole raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I don’t. I’ve made these so many times I could make them in my sleep. You, on the other hand, are a different matter.’