Lighthouse Bay

by Kimberley Freeman

  The admonishment stung and her face flushed with guilt and embarrassment. What right did she have to question him? She must look like a crazy woman. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. Then her skin prickled as she remembered. “How did your meeting go this morning?”

  “Fine. It wasn’t a work meeting. A legal thing. I have some real estate issues I’m sorting out.”

  Yes, she was behaving like a crazy woman. Worrying about his meeting had made her jump to conclusions about the woman’s voice on the phone. A sister, a flatmate, even a cleaner. But not a wife. He had said so. Not married. It was just a hangover from her relationship with Mark.

  “Let me take you to dinner Friday night. I’d love to see you again,” he said. “I’ve got a busy week taking care of this legal business, but by Friday evening I’ll be ready for a nice glass of Shiraz and a good meal.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” she said, and she meant it.

  His voice was calm and reassuring now. “So, you said you needed my help. I was worried when I couldn’t get hold of you.”

  “Ah, yes. I think I’ve sorted out my problem. I know who’s been hanging around my house at night, but once I’ve moved it won’t matter.”

  “Who is it?” There was a frown in his voice.

  “Graeme Beers. The dive director from Winterbourne Beach. I recognized the sound of his car.”

  “Why would he be hanging around your house?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A short silence. “I don’t know, Libby. It sounds a bit . . . implausible. Surely a lot of cars sound the same.”

  “I am absolutely sure.”

  “Okay. Well, then, I believe you. And I don’t like it, so call the police and let them know. Don’t confront him yourself.”

  She was touched by his protective urge, and hoped it would mean he would offer to come and check up on her tonight, but it stopped there.

  “I’m sorry, Libby, I have to go. I have a few other appointments today and I’m already running late.”

  “Sure, that’s fine. See you Friday?”

  “Can’t wait.”

  She put the phone down and dressed, then decided to call Scott Lacey. Her stomach growled and she realized she hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. She switched the kettle on.

  “Sergeant Lacey.”

  “Scott, it’s Libby Slater.”

  “Oh. Good morning.” Cool.

  She quickly explained the situation, but she could feel his doubts harden on the line before he’d even uttered a word.

  “I’m sorry, but that’s just not enough to go on.”

  “Really, the sound of that car engine is burned into my brain.”

  “Perhaps it’s exactly the same make and model of car, but that’s a coincidence, not a reason to go knocking on his door and asking him to explain.”

  Libby fell silent a moment. Then said, “Is this because I’ve upset Juliet?”

  “What? No. What a ridiculous thing to say. I am quite capable of doing my job regardless of how I feel about you.”

  Libby bit back a retort. “I’m sorry,” she said, knowing it sounded forced.

  “It’s okay. You’re worried about your safety. I understand that. Your house is still on our patrol list. We haven’t forgotten you.”

  Libby thanked him and hung up. The kettle boiled and whistled and she switched it off, but stood for a long time gazing out the window at the sea beyond, feeling anxious and unsatisfied and not sure what to do next.

  Damien worked in the kitchen every afternoon between lunch and afternoon tea, got out of the way between three and four-thirty, then came back to continue work when the tea room wasn’t busy. Sometimes he worked until seven at night, always sensitive to the fact that Juliet had to keep the business running. Rather than rip the whole kitchen apart, he cleared one defined space at a time.

  The cupboard doors were plain oak panels that he had begun to stain outside the building by the compost bin. Between lunch and afternoon tea, while she was waiting for scones to bake, Juliet hung about near the kitchen window to steal glances at him working in the sunshine: strong arms, tanned skin, gleaming hair.

  Cheryl silently sidled up next to her. “Eye candy, isn’t he?”

  Juliet jumped. Embarrassment crept over her skin. “Oh. No, I’m not . . . I was just seeing what the stain looked like. He’s chosen a lovely shade, don’t you think?”

  Cheryl doubled over with laughter, and Juliet’s cheeks flamed.

  “It’s okay, Juliet. I’ve been eyeing him too. He’s very tasty. Pity he’d never look twice at old birds like us, eh?”

  Juliet’s heart fell. Old birds like us. She was seven years younger than Cheryl, but still a full decade older than Damien.

  Cheryl examined Juliet’s face and frowned. “You’re kidding. You haven’t developed a crush on him, have you?”

  “No, no. Of course not.”

  Cheryl lifted an eyebrow dubiously. “Well, I hope not. I want you to find somebody wonderful and stable who will love you when you’re old and wrinkly. Somebody who has a bank account would be a great start.”

  “His ex has frozen their accounts.”

  Cheryl waved the comment away. “Don’t be too trusting. And don’t lose your heart on a young stallion.” Then Cheryl was off with a bottle of disinfectant spray and a cloth, to clear up the dining room.

  Juliet sagged against the sink, her back to the window now. She felt such a fool. It was true she was attracted to Damien, but not just because he was young and good-looking. He was kind. He spoke gently. He had a strong moral compass. These were important qualities in any man.

  But Cheryl was right: she would seem old to him. She used to be his babysitter; he probably thought of her as a mother figure, or at the very least an older sister. The idea made her cringe. She remembered him holding her hands the other night. His hands were young and tanned, but hers were getting thin-skinned and veiny. Not to mention the lines around her eyes. And she hadn’t stayed out of the sun like Libby had, so her arms and décolletage were unevenly colored. Suddenly, she felt like a hag, pushing middle age. The idea of young love and building a life together and babies was ridiculous, a fool’s fond dream. It was already far too late for that.

  That night, back on Datemate, she searched the profiles of men Damien’s age: they were all advertising for women in their twenties, not women of nearly forty. Half-heartedly, she scrolled through men her own age or above, but not one aroused her interest. It was always this way, and for a long time she’d thought that it was simply because she’d never find another man as wonderful as Andy.

  And after twenty years, perhaps she had. It depressed her to realize that he wouldn’t see in her what she saw in him.

  Libby worked long hours over the following days. She was getting used to talking with Emily from time to time. She even ventured to ask if Emily had any family insight into the wreck of the Aurora. Emily was delighted to know Libby had dived the wreck, and vowed to dig up anything that might be of interest.

  The photographs came back from Paris and most were superb. She’d requested three be rephotographed and was waiting for an e-mail from her photographer, Roman Deleuze, with the new images. Until then she continued to rough out the pages, moving and refining images and design. Although she had done the Winterbourne catalog for years, this year it was exciting. This year, Emily wanted something different, not so stuffy. Libby enjoyed every moment of the job. She wished Mark were alive to see it. She wondered what he’d think, how his opinion of Emily might change when he saw what she was capable of.

  The sound of the mailman’s motorcycle roused her from her work. She leaned back and stretched; time for a break and a cup of tea. She let herself out of the house and walked up to the mailbox. For the first time, the touch of cool in the afternoon air let her know autumn was on its way. It hardly seemed possible: Lighthouse Bay seemed a place permanently locked in summer sunshine and warm sea air. She breathed in the freshness deeply, flipping open the mai
lbox and withdrawing a large envelope from Ashley-Harris Holdings.

  This would be the contracts on the sale. She tore open the envelope and saw pages and pages of legalese, clause after clause. She supposed to Ashley-Harris it was a standard contract, but to her it looked as though it was written in another language.

  She needed legal advice.

  Libby sighed. She just wanted it over with quickly, but a few thousand dollars on a solicitor was probably prudent in the light of such a big property deal. She let herself into the cottage and dug out a local phone book, called the first legal firm listed and made an appointment for Monday.

  She made tea and returned to her desk—removing Bossy from her office chair—to see an e-mail from Roman Deleuze. She opened it and saw the new photographs, and quickly sent back a message saying they were fine and wishing him well.

  A moment later, another message pinged into her inbox.

  Miserable weather in Paris. I envy you.

  She smiled as she scrolled down to see he had included a picture of peak-hour traffic outside his apartment window. Rain. People with their heads bowed under umbrellas, squeezed up against each other’s raincoats. It looked utterly miserable and she had to laugh. On a whim, she grabbed her phone and went out the back door and through the bushes until she reached the beach: the wide white expanse of sand, the deep blue sky, the turquoise sea. She snapped a picture of it and returned home, hooked her phone to her computer and sent it back to him.

  All this, and it’s autumn.

  They went back and forth for a little while, her teasing him about city life and bad weather; him teasing her for living her entire life on holiday. For the first time, she realized she was living in paradise. Because she had grown up here, she’d taken it for granted. But the beach and the sky and the sun were miraculous and beautiful. Choking traffic fumes and damp crowds in overcoats would eventually wear anyone down until they were dreaming of the warm ocean.

  Would that be her, eventually? Would the luxury apartment in Paris one day not be enough for her? Would the tide of her longing reverse, and the Queensland coast call her back? Was she destined to be dissatisfied with wherever she was?

  Roman went offline to go to a meeting and she began to think about making herself some dinner before the night shift. She was keen to have the brochure done, and working kept her mind off other things.

  When Libby arrived at Azzurro ten minutes late and didn’t see Tristan, she panicked a moment. Had he grown tired of waiting and gone home? Or worse, had he stood her up altogether?

  The maître d’ saw her looking forlorn and came over to ask if he could help.

  “I’m meant to be meeting Tristan Catherwood,” she said. “Is he here yet?”

  “Ah. Mr. Catherwood is upstairs. Come, follow me.”

  Libby followed the maître d’ through the restaurant, along a side path next to the kitchen, then up a hidden set of stairs. They led to a closed-off area and a huge balcony overlooking the river. On the balcony sat a single table, candlelit. Tristan was waiting.

  She laughed. “Oh, my,” she said.

  The maître d’ winked at her. “Mr. Catherwood insisted on something exceptional.”

  Libby walked over and Tristan rose to his feet to pull out her chair, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, taking her seat.

  “It’s no problem. I’m enjoying the view.”

  Libby turned her eyes to the river, the bobbing yachts. “It’s pretty special.”

  “So are you.”

  She turned back to him, unable to hide her smile. “Well now. This is a lot of trouble and expense you’ve gone to. Don’t you know you’ve already won me over?”

  He reached for her hand, and fondled it gently in his fingers. “You look beautiful, Libby. I’ve missed you this week.”

  “Same.”

  “Did the contracts come through?”

  She was put off by his abrupt change of topic. “Yes. I’ve made an appointment to speak to a conveyance solicitor next week.”

  “Wise girl.” He poured her a glass of wine and they fell to talking, picking up where they had left off the other night. She was reminded once again of what she liked about him. He was interesting, he had done so many things, but he wasn’t arrogant or egotistical. He had a freshness about him that she found intoxicating. They laughed and talked their way through the entree, but when he lifted the wine bottle to refill her glass, she covered it with her hand.

  “I’m driving, remember?” she said, hoping he would invite her to spend the night at his place.

  “Ah, that’s right.” He checked his watch. “Half a glass? We’ll walk on the beach after, if you like.”

  “Sure,” she said. Then ventured, “Or I could come home with you.”

  He smiled. He looked her directly in the eye. But he said, “No, not tonight.”

  “Okay,” she replied, trying not to sound disappointed. She realized they had been talking for half an hour and still hadn’t broached the topic of the woman who had answered his phone. She opened her mouth to say something and he stopped her with a gently raised hand.

  “My flatmate. She’s got a thing for me. It’s a bit complicated. Just best if you don’t call me there or come by until I’ve sorted it out.”

  “Okay,” Libby said again, nodding, staring at the candle flame. But she knew—she knew—it was a lie. Or at the very least, a half-truth. Rich forty-year-old men didn’t have female flatmates like that.

  “Are you all right?”

  She smiled brightly. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? And weren’t you going to pour me some more wine?”

  He laughed, refilling her glass. She kept the brightness afloat, but her mind was turning over carefully. Tristan belonged to somebody else. The thought was disappointing, but then she reminded herself that no healthy relationship produces a partner who looks elsewhere. That’s what Mark had always said.

  At the thought of Mark, she realized that she had done this before. She had made these excuses before. She had done it all before. And for that reason alone, she was the last person to judge Tristan.

  Twenty-seven

  Libby had seen no signs of life at the lighthouse for more than a week, so she was surprised when Damien turned up at the cottage on Saturday afternoon.

  “Hi,” she said, standing aside so he could come in. “I’d tell you Bossy misses you, but I don’t know she’s even noticed.”

  Damien found Bossy on the sofa and crouched to tickle her under the chin. She stretched and went back to sleep. “Cats, hey?” he said. “Always so glad to see you.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “At the B&B. I came to say thanks for putting me on to Juliet. I’m rebuilding her kitchen and I now have a nice soft bed to sleep in every night.” He stood and gave her a mock-stern look. “Though you didn’t tell her I was coming.”

  “Ah, no. We’re kind of . . .”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Juliet’s told you everything?”

  “Juliet’s told me some things. Cheryl has told me a few others. Now, dating Tristan Catherwood, known enemy of the whole town . . . That took some guts,” he teased.

  “Don’t,” she said, slapping him away playfully. “You don’t hate me?”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “You’re not on her side?”

  “I’m on both your sides. I think you should try to work it out. Family. What can I say? You don’t throw that away.”

  Libby felt self-conscious suddenly, so went to the kitchen to switch the kettle on so she could hide her face. “Tea? Or would you like to stay for dinner?”

  “I’d love some tea. You don’t need to feed me tonight. Juliet’s always plying me with leftover quiches and roast beef sandwiches.”

  She looked at him a little more closely. “Actually, you do look a lot healthier.”

  “A week in Juliet’s care,” he said.

  Libby thought he sounded wistful.
She busied herself making a pot of tea and then cleared Bossy off the couch so they could sit together. “So, does this mean you’ve taken time out from the lighthouse mystery?”

  “Not at all. I’ve cleared out the whole place and taken the boxes of papers to my room at Juliet’s. I’ve spread them all out and put them in date order, but there’s a lot of dates missing. Dates I’d be really interested to read about.”

  She poured their tea and sat back with her teacup. “Go on.”

  “I reread the journal I loaned you. Where Matthew Seaward mentions this mysterious woman called ‘I’ more and more often. He never talks about her at length, nor does he talk about his feelings, but . . . I don’t know, Libby, it sounds like he’s in love with her.”

  “Really?”

  “Perhaps I’m being mushy.”

  “Mushy. Great word.”

  “You know what I mean. Perhaps I’m reading things that aren’t there. From time to time, he talks about ‘my pretty bird’ and I wonder if he means her or if he actually had a pet bird. And elsewhere he talks about her going away to Brisbane on the steamer, and it’s just a single line that says it all. Something like, The lighthouse seems emptier than usual. He sounds lovesick.” He sipped his tea. “I wonder if she knew he felt that way.”

  Libby considered Damien with a smile on her lips. “Damien, you sound a little . . . lovesick yourself.”

  He gave her a sideways look. “Your sister is pretty special.”

  His reply was so unexpected that her mouth dropped open. “Juliet? She’s ten years older than you. She used to babysit you.”

  “I know, so she’s never going to look at me and see anything but a kid, right? But we’re both adults now. Do you think I have a chance?”

  She wanted to reassure him, to encourage him, but she couldn’t. “I honestly don’t know,” she replied. “How sad is that? I don’t know enough about my sister to answer that question. I suppose she’s a conventional kind of woman, so . . .” Then she smiled, unable to resist teasing him. “Is this why you want me to work things out with her?”