Lighthouse Bay

by Kimberley Freeman

  “I am. I am okay.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  Libby and Tristan watched him go, Libby’s heart thudding dully. She groaned, leaning her head on Tristan’s shoulder. “He’s going to tell Juliet.”

  Tristan looked as though he was about to say something but changed his mind. “I’m sorry I can’t help,” he said. “And I really do have to go. Dinner when I get back?”

  “I’d love that.”

  A quick peck on the cheek and he was gone. She went inside and eased off her high heels. She intended to shower, but somehow found herself curled on the couch with Bossy, drifting off. Her head spun, a cocktail of champagne and guilty thoughts.

  Eighteen

  The Saturday morning breakfast rush meant the smell of frying bacon and brewing coffee. Juliet always hit the ground running on Saturdays. Taking orders, making orders, clearing plates away, welcoming new customers where the old ones were sitting just a few minutes before. Her breakfasts were famous in town, famous enough for her to hire four staff on Saturdays to cope with the demand.

  She was making coffee when Scott Lacey came in, in civilian clothes. At first she barely paid attention. She presumed Melody would find him a table and take his usual order, but then it became apparent he was hanging about near the coffee machine, trying to get her attention.

  “I’m super busy,” she said to him over the hiss of the milk steamer.

  “I can wait.”

  “Go sit down. I’ll bring you something. Cappuccino and raisin toast?”

  “Take your time.”

  She was curious, but busy enough to put it out of her mind. In the first lull, she took his breakfast over and sat with him.

  “Thanks, Juliet,” he said, spooning three sugars into his coffee. A slanted beam of warm sunshine through the window lit up the gingery hairs on his knuckles.

  “You’re always welcome, Scott. But what’s up?”

  He shrugged. “I saw something you’re not going to like.”

  A small, hot flick of adrenaline. “Really?”

  He sipped his coffee, and it left a thin line of cocoa on his top lip. “I went past Libby’s place last night, as I’ve been doing since she called. And there was somebody there, so I got out to look.”

  “Is she okay? She hasn’t returned my calls.”

  “I think I know why. She was cuddling up with Tristan Catherwood.”

  A coiling feeling in her stomach. “Cuddling up with . . . What do you mean by cuddling up?”

  “I mean cuddling up. Kissing him. Passionately.”

  “How does she even know him?” Her voice seemed to come from a long way away. Scott must surely be mistaken. It simply couldn’t be possible that her two biggest problems—Libby and Ashley-Harris—had somehow become entangled. This must be a bad dream. Scott considered her across the table, his green eyes steady and sad.

  “I don’t understand,” Juliet said softly, helplessly.

  “You don’t?” Scott asked. “She owns a property. And they need one.”

  “But why . . .”

  “I don’t know, Jules. You’d better ask her yourself.”

  Juliet climbed to her feet. Rage flooded her hands and her stomach. She wanted to punch something, even if it meant breaking all her knuckles.

  Scott grasped her wrist gently. “Hey, are you all right?”

  “No,” she snapped, then realized she had said it too loudly. Several patrons had glanced up curiously. She drew the rage back into her body, into a hard ball under her ribs. “No, I’m not all right,” she said softly. “I’m an idiot. I should have known she’d never be any different.”

  It was simple: Juliet would pretend she had no sister—then she couldn’t get hurt. Admittedly, this was difficult when Cheryl asked her, “Have you seen your sister again?” on the breakfast shift the next day, but Juliet found that responding with, “Can you please take this teapot to table six?” shut down the conversation swiftly. It was also difficult at night, as she lay in bed after the world had gone quiet except for the sound of the beating ocean, when her thoughts swirled around in an unhappy whirlpool.

  But the most difficult time to pretend she had no sister was when her sister turned up, right on closing time, in carefully faded jeans and a lace shirt, and with her dark hair pulled back in a loose bun. Juliet noted that she had taken the time to put lipstick on to come down here and explain, and for some reason the fact hardened Juliet’s heart, as though the time taken primping herself was time taken away from feeling guilty.

  But then, the twenty years in Paris was also time taken away from feeling guilty. Juliet tried to squash this feeling. She tried to be in the present, deal with the present.

  Libby stood in the doorway a few moments, then said, “We should talk. I can see from your expression that Scott Lacey has spoken to you.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. You’re an adult. You’ll make your own decisions.” Juliet’s voice was very loud in her own ears.

  “You’re really angry, aren’t you?”

  “No,” Juliet said, vigorously wiping down a table.

  “Yes you are. You’re going to wear a hole in that table.”

  Juliet straightened her back. “Okay, we’ll talk.” She strode to the front door of the shop and shut the bolt, switched off the lights so that the only light was coming from the kitchen. She didn’t want a visit from customers looking for a late takeaway coffee while she was having it out with Libby. She indicated the table closest to the kitchen and Libby sat down. Juliet took the last tray of dirty cups to the kitchen, then returned. For a moment, she considered her sister in the late-afternoon light. Libby had her face half-turned away, but Juliet could detect the guilt and the anxiety in her brow. Something troubled her, something big. And Juliet grew frightened, because perhaps there was more to this Tristan Catherwood business than a date.

  She owns a property. And they need one.

  Libby must have sensed she was being watched. She looked around and tried a smile that didn’t quite make it to her eyes. Juliet sat. They were silent a moment while the fridge hummed, the dishwasher swished, the clock ticked. Juliet knew that if she spoke first, it would be ugly, so she held her tongue.

  “I think it would be a good idea if we took my name off the paperwork for the business,” Libby said, surprising Juliet.

  “Why?”

  “Because you assumed I’d want to take my half and I don’t. I don’t want to take anything from you.” Libby swallowed hard.

  Juliet’s skin prickled lightly with suspicion. Was she being softened up for some fresh horror? Libby had said she wanted no money for her half of the business; had she changed her mind? She had no job, so perhaps she needed the money quickly. “I see.”

  “So, can we do that soon? I want that out of the way. Otherwise I don’t think we have a hope of rebuilding this . . .” She indicated the space between them with a loose wrist.

  “And will you want payment?”

  Libby shook her head. “No, no payment. I can see with my own eyes that this isn’t the business Dad left behind. I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of your investment of time and energy. Juliet, I want you to feel you can trust me,” she said softly.

  Juliet smiled, and the bitterness made it a hard smile. “Trust you?”

  “I came to reassure you. Look, Tristan is off the Lighthouse Bay project now. I’m seeing him entirely independently of all that.”

  “But you know who he is, right? He’s the man who’s been fighting for years to bring something unwanted into this town. For years.” Juliet kept her voice steady. “Libby, he’s the enemy.”

  “He’s not. He’s just a man. He’s very nice.”

  Juliet’s brows twitched with irritation. “It’s none of my business who you see or where you go. You don’t need my permission to do anything.”

  “I don’t want things to be so tense between us. I want us to get along. To be family. That’s why I came back.”

 
Juliet struggled with her words, then finally said, “For twenty years, Libby, you haven’t been family. Family are there. Family phone or e-mail. They send letters, not just random Christmas cards. Family share the ups and downs. They don’t turn up unannounced and blithely say that the years of struggle against a big greedy business that wants to take everything from local traders don’t count!” Juliet balled her hands into fists and cursed herself for displaying her anger so openly. Deep breaths, now. In . . . out . . .

  Libby sat silently, her big eyes blinking back at Juliet slowly. “You can’t forgive me, can you?”

  “For Tristan Catherwood?”

  “For anything.” Libby’s eyes darted away. “God, there’s so much to forgive. Maybe I can’t forgive me either. You must think I’ve ruined your whole life.”

  Juliet opened her mouth to deny it, but the truth was that sometimes she had thought it. She truly had. But then she thought deeper about Libby’s comment and grew irritated. “My life isn’t a ruin,” she said hotly. “My life is fine. I’ve been happy. Right up until you showed up.”

  “Would you like me to leave again?”

  Yes. Yes. “That’s your decision.”

  “I’m trying to . . . Is there any point? Can we fix things? Or will you always hate me?”

  “Hate you?” Did she hate her sister?

  Libby must have grown tired of being apologetic. She scraped her chair back. “Look, let’s just get that paperwork out of the way soon. If you want to talk to me, you know where I am. I’ll sign anything, whatever you need.”

  Juliet watched her go, heart thudding. Was she allowing anger to cloud her judgment? Perhaps Libby really did want to hand over her claim on the business; perhaps her date with Tristan Catherwood really was innocent. But Libby was a stranger to her, and before she’d become a stranger she had been an enemy. Juliet simply wasn’t ready to trust her.

  At nine on Wednesday night, as Juliet was finishing up sorting invoices and thinking about a pot of tea, the after-hours doorbell rang. Ordinarily, she would just assume it was a guest who had forgotten their key, but it was a rare night when all her rooms were empty.

  Curious, she left her apartment and walked down to open the after-hours gate. Standing on the other side, a yellow streetlight reflecting on his face, was a tall man with long hair.

  “Hi, Juliet,” he said.

  Juliet frowned, puzzled. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  “Ah. Libby didn’t tell you I was coming.”

  “Libby?” What was her sister up to now? Suspicion hardened in her veins.

  The man smiled. “I’m so sorry. She said she’d call you and tell you I was going to drop by.” He stretched out his hand. “Damien Allbright.”

  At the mention of his name, the feeling of familiarity solidified. Damien. She had babysat him as a boy. Only he wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a man, dense with muscle, with a shadowy beard across his jaw and warm, firm hands around hers.

  “Oh, my. You grew up,” she said, then realized she sounded like an idiot and withdrew her hand. “What’s this got to do with Libby?”

  “I ran into her up at the lighthouse and . . . Can I come in? I know it’s out of nowhere, but it’s all a bit complicated to explain out here on the street.”

  “Of course. Where are my manners? Follow me up. I was just about to make tea.”

  He sat on her couch, his long legs taking up a lot of room in her small apartment. She brought tea and scones and he fell on them hungrily as he and Juliet chatted around easy topics including the weather and the tourists.

  “Those scones were amazing. No wonder your business is booming.”

  “It’s not really booming.”

  “Libby said it was.”

  “She did?” Would that prickle of irritation at the mention of her sister’s name ever go away?

  “Yes. She fed me the other night. I’m . . . ah . . . in a difficult situation at the moment. I’m squatting at the lighthouse.” He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Sorry.”

  “Why are you apologizing to me?”

  “Because your opinion always meant something to me.” He smiled. “Twenty years later, it’s a hard feeling to shake.”

  For some reason, this confession made her smile. “So, why are you here?”

  “I’m a carpenter. You need a new kitchen. There are problems with my bank accounts, my documents . . . It’s really complicated. So Libby thought you might be interested in a deal. I can take cash or in-kind.”

  At all of this, Juliet bristled. The nerve of Libby, assuming she could make such an offer to Damien. But then she softened. She had four empty rooms and winter was coming. And it was true that she had put up with the old kitchen cabinets for decades.

  She must have been silent a long time, because Damien said, “No pressure. Even if I could come and do some measurements for you, make some suggestions and draw up some plans. Knock a few things out . . .” He trailed off, and a silence grew. Juliet knew she should answer. It was all so confusing. Did she really want to refit the kitchen now, when all of this business with Libby was going on? Or had she already put it off too long, afraid that she couldn’t afford it, always counting every cent in fear of a hostile future?

  And then there was Damien. Yes, she could still remember his pirate-ship pajamas and his love of The Very Clever Engine, so the shock of his masculinity—admit it: his very attractive masculinity—had made her awkward, unsure. Did she really want him around, in her kitchen, when she was sweaty and stressed and wearing a food-spattered apron?

  But this was not a handsome stranger. It was Damien Allbright, a person she had known in a happier past. All of a sudden, she wanted to cling to that idea: somebody who knew her and liked her before the bad stuff happened. “Sure,” she said at last. “Why don’t you do that?” Then, doubt kicked in, so she added, “Why don’t we say you can stay here for a week at the B&B for free, if you give me a week’s worth of preparatory services. In-kind. Then after that, we’ll see.”

  He smiled broadly, but Juliet could see a kind of desperate relief in his eyes and she wondered what had happened to put him in this situation. She sensed, though, that it was too early to ask. Instead, she said, “If you’ve finished your tea, I can take you down to your room now.”

  He leaped to his feet to help her clear the plates and teapot away. “Did Libby tell you about our lighthouse mystery?” he asked.

  Juliet smiled evenly over the top of her discomfort. “No. We haven’t actually talked much.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Really? But you’ve been apart a long time.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” She kept her head down as she slotted the plates in the dishwasher. “Come on, I’ll give you the side room. You’d have to sit right at the window to see the sea, but you’ll be able to hear it while you go to sleep. I always think that’s the best thing in the world.”

  She grabbed the key out of her desk drawer and led him out of her flat and down the hallway to Room 2. She showed him which key was which, where the security light was, and let him into the room. He flicked on the light. Room 2 was the smallest but it was the first she’d redecorated, so she had a soft spot for it. Pale blues and sand colors. He collapsed on the bed on his back, spreading out his arms and legs.

  “Ah,” he said, “a real bed. I’m going to sleep well tonight.”

  “Breakfast is between seven and nine,” she said, not really able to look at him lying on the bed. “Just order it with Melody. You’re welcome to take it back to your room. I’ll be too busy to talk about the kitchen until the afternoon, so perhaps if you come down around four?”

  “Sure.” He propped himself up on his side. “Hey, thanks so much, Juliet. I can’t . . . I can’t tell you what this means to me.”

  Her pulse flickered. She was looking forward to talking to him tomorrow afternoon more than she should. She nodded and withdrew, closing the door behind her. So what if he was attractive and
kind and a bit mysterious? He was a decade younger than she was and he wouldn’t be interested. She was a fool to get herself all worked up. A deep breath, and she headed back down the hallway to her flat.

  Nineteen

  Tuesday—dive day—dawned with perfect weather. All through Monday, Libby had secretly hoped for the kind of bad weather that would mean she could call the dive off. She didn’t want to go. She felt discouraged, frightened, preoccupied. She felt like anything but a woman who dives shipwrecks. She wished for somebody to talk to: somebody who really understood her and her situation. But who was there? Her relationship with Mark had been necessarily isolating. She’d had work colleagues for movie nights and picnics but nobody really close, because right at the heart of her life was a secret affair.

  Nonetheless, it was Tuesday. It was dive day. She would go because if Mark were alive he would never have stopped teasing her if she chickened out.

  Libby pulled a light summer dress over her bathing suit and got in her car for the drive up to Winterbourne Beach. She noticed her hands shook on the steering wheel as she backed out into the street. Her stomach twinged. She tried to cheer herself with the idea that she’d see the actual ship she’d been sketching and painting these last few weeks. Yes, it would be in pieces on the ocean floor, but she imagined it would feel like touching history. Mark’s history.

  Graeme had told her to meet him down at the boat ramp, and he was waiting when she arrived, squinting in the bright sunshine. She handed over the boat plans she had borrowed, and he took them with a wink.

  “Did you get what you needed out of them?”

  “I did, thanks,” she replied. Then she remembered Matthew Seaward’s journal. “Graeme, to your knowledge, were there any women on board the Aurora when she sank?”

  “Whiteaway’s wife. Margaret.”

  “No others?”

  “A ship like that wasn’t a place for a woman,” he said. “Ah here, this is my son, Alan.” They were joined by a slight man in his twenties with coarse ginger hair that stood up at wild angles. “He’s going to be your dive buddy seeing as how you’ve never dived before. He’s really experienced and he’ll keep an eye on you.”