Lighthouse Bay

by Kimberley Freeman

  With a clunk, the steamer begins to move. She gasps, closes her eyes. She is on her way. Brisbane to Sydney. Sydney to New York. The long, open miles. Alone.

  Then she hears footfalls. Every muscle in her body tenses. Matthew? Percy? She shrinks back into the corner of her berth.

  Then, a quiet voice. “Isabella?”

  She sits up, hitting her head on the top of the berth. “Matthew?” She flings back the curtain, and there he is: hobbling, but real and present.

  She reaches for him, presses him hard in her embrace.

  “I must lie down,” he gasps.

  “Of course, of course. Here is your berth.”

  He climbs into it while she flutters about him, relief making her joints weak. He lies down and closes his eyes.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  “I managed to trip him. A pile of logs beside the sawmill. He was flat on his face behind one of the warehouses when I dashed aboard.” He groans a little. “I need to rest. The wound is aching.”

  “I’ll get the ship’s doctor,” she says, pulling away.

  But he grasps her wrist gently and tugs her back. “Not now. Soon. Just hold me a moment.”

  So she leans over him, sinks into him, her face against his neck. She can hear his heartbeat.

  His heartbeat. Her heartbeat. And the tiny inaudible heartbeat that will bind them together until death.

  The river slides beneath them, carrying them into the future.

  When Percy finally climbs to his feet, his head is sore. So sore. His brain feels as though it is pressing hotly against the tightening cup of his skull. Are they on the boat? Or have they run into town? He tries to track the steamer with his eyes, but his vision blurs, goes almost double. He can’t think straight. The pain is ablaze in every coil of his brain. He must lie down so he can regroup and plan his next action. He stumbles from the wharf, clutching his skull, all the pain and judgment of doomsday weighing upon his head.

  Thirty-one

  2011

  Libby still hadn’t signed the contract. The solicitor had reassured her that it was all in order, but she still hadn’t put pen to paper, and she wasn’t sure why. She had already spent the money in her imagination. She was ready, so ready, to leave Lighthouse Bay and get on with her life. But she still hadn’t signed the contract.

  “They tell me it’s been a week since they posted it,” Tristan said, as they sat on the small paved area behind her house, soft blue post-sunset air all around them. She smelled the enticing aroma of lamb roasting in the oven and tasted the sweet burn of brandy on her tongue.

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to have anything to do with the deal?” she shot back, smiling.

  “Well, I’m not. But Yann was talking about it and I overheard. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, everything is okay. I’m just waiting for the solicitor to get back to me. He’s busy.”

  “Small-town solicitor. I can give you the number of a good firm in Brisbane.”

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry. I’m not worried.” She gave him a brief, brittle smile. “Topic change, please.”

  Tristan tipped back in his chair, stretching out his legs. “Have you decided what you’ll do when you move out?”

  “I was thinking of heading back to Paris.” She glanced at him to judge his reaction.

  “For good?”

  “I don’t know. It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On a lot of things.” This time she looked at him directly, raising her eyebrow.

  He smiled slowly in return. “Well, as long as you choose to stay, I’d like to go on seeing you.” He reached across and grasped her hand, rubbing her fingers gently. “You know I think you’re beautiful.”

  They sat like that for a while. She sipped her drink, tried to loosen the knots in her neck. The draft brochure was done and sent. She had no more work lined up. This was the interim: the time between before and after. She tried to enjoy it, but the discomfort was still squirming in her belly, and she was just tipsy enough to say something. Tristan had spent all day with her, the night before too, and they still hadn’t talked about his “flatmate.” So she said, trying to sound more nonchalant than she felt, “So, how’s your flatmate?”

  His eyes met hers. He looked at her a long time, and she knew he was trying to read her expression, trying to gauge what she suspected, how she would feel.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I know she’s not a flatmate. I never told you about Mark, did I? Twelve years we were together. The whole time he was married to somebody else.”

  Tristan nodded once. “I didn’t lie when I said I wasn’t married. I’m not. But she and I have been living together for four years. It’s not working out. We sleep in separate beds. She’s having trouble letting go. For all intents and purposes, she is a flatmate. I’m helping her see that she needs to find somewhere else to go.”

  We sleep in separate beds. That was one of Mark’s lines. Perhaps it was one of every cheater’s lines.

  “So, where does she think you are now? Where did she think you were last night?”

  “Perth,” he confessed.

  And Libby remembered how he had told her he was in Perth, and he hadn’t been. Was Perth just shorthand for with another woman?

  “Do you hate me now?” he asked, and he sounded as vulnerable as a little boy.

  “No,” she said. “I can hardly judge you without judging myself. If you say it’s over—”

  “It’s definitely over. I think she’ll be gone by the end of next month.”

  Libby considered this. She had no desire to be a mistress for another twelve years, but she could give Tristan till the end of next month. Then, if he was still making excuses, she’d book that ticket to Paris. By then she’d be a rich woman. The thought made her smile.

  “You’re a good girl, Libby,” Tristan said, draining his drink. “Some women . . . They get these ideals in their heads and it makes life very difficult. Relationships are so complicated. So messy and so not ideal. But I have a good time with you.”

  “Yes, I have a good time too.” She shot out of her chair. “I’d best go check on the roast.”

  She went inside to the kitchen. Through the window she could see his hands, folded behind his head, his broad, well-dressed shoulders. He was good for her in so many ways: intelligent, stable, powerful, good-looking. But he’d lied to her. Indirectly, by denying he was married and not elaborating. And directly, by calling his girlfriend a flatmate. He’d been protecting himself. She understood that. Everybody had an instinct to protect themselves, or to present themselves in the best light, or to take care of their own interests.

  But he’d lied. Smoothly. Without blinking.

  Libby remembered her first conversation with him. His plans for an eco-resort, his reassurances that nothing would change in Lighthouse Bay. And for the first time, she doubted him. Because if he lied to her about his relationship, what would stop him from lying about everything else?

  The phone rang at four in the morning. Libby took a moment to wake up. Tristan slept quietly next to her, on his front so that his smooth, muscular back was exposed to the early-morning air.

  He roused, mumbled, “Is that the phone?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said quietly. “Go back to sleep.” She flung back the covers and stumbled to the lounge room. She scooped up her phone. Her voice was croaky. “Hello?”

  “Oh, dear,” the crisp female voice on the other end of the line said. “I’ve got my times mixed up, haven’t I?”

  “Emily?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I’ve woken you up.”

  Libby sat in her office chair and reached across to switch on the lamp. “It’s okay,” she said gently. “I’d be getting up soon anyway.” That wasn’t true. She and Tristan hadn’t fallen asleep until after one. She cleared her throat, trying to sound businesslike. “I take it you’ve had a chance to look at the brochure?”

  “I love it, Libby,” she said. “I
can’t tell you how much I love it. I had my concerns. I thought perhaps you disagreed with me about the new direction; you’d been doing the catalog so long the traditional way. But now I see that you not only agreed with me, but that you really understood what I said. You really understood how I felt.”

  Libby smiled. “I sure did,” she said.

  “Mark would have hated it, you know.”

  “I know.”

  Emily adopted a deep voice, mimicking uncannily Mark’s cadences. “Winterbourne trades on tradition. Tradition is what our customers want, and it’s what they expect to see.” Then she laughed, returning to her own voice. “Gosh, he could be such a fuddy-duddy at times.”

  Libby shared the laugh with her. “I know what you mean,” she said, then immediately wondered if she’d gone too far, if Emily would pick up on her fond tone, her casual knowingness.

  “By the way,” Emily said. “I asked around for you. About the Aurora.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. It seems Arthur Winterbourne went with the mace because, apparently, he was paranoid about thieves. Wanted to be there with it. There was some question mark over when the company would get paid for the work. When it was lost, nobody was sure if it was property of the Winterbournes, the Queen or the Australian parliament. If it’s ever found, it could be quite confusing.”

  “I see.”

  “The other thing I found out is that Arthur had his wife, Isabella, on board with him.”

  “Isabella?” The mysterious “I.”

  “Yes, the poor lamb. She was half his age. They had a child, but it died very young. There’s not much in the family records about her. That’s about all I could find. Presumed drowned along with her husband.”

  Libby’s heart lurched. No, not drowned along with her husband. She opened her mouth to tell Emily, but thought better of it. At the moment, all she could do was speculate. “Thanks for that,” she said instead. “It adds a dimension to an old local legend.”

  “I wonder if Mark ever went there to see the wreck,” she mused.

  “He told me he had.”

  “Is that so? He didn’t mention it to me. But he didn’t tell me everything, I suppose. Not about his business trips.”

  “I expect he told me because I grew up nearby.”

  “Yes. I expect so. It’s good to talk to you about him,” Emily said. “You seemed to know him well.”

  Libby trod cautiously now. “I enjoyed working with him.”

  “I often wondered . . .” Emily trailed off. The quiet between here and London stretched out. Libby could hear her own pulse. “Libby, don’t take this the wrong way, but Mark spoke so fondly of you. His voice, it would go soft when he mentioned your name. I often wondered if you two were . . . seeing each other.”

  Here was her chance. Come clean. Tell everything. She’d been angry just last night about Tristan’s lies. Why not just say it? Yes. We were in love. I loved Mark. I loved your husband. Her heart was beating hard. The idea that Mark’s voice went soft when he used her name. Oh, it stirred feelings inside her. She wasn’t over him. She might never be over him. But he had never been hers to get over.

  Damien’s advice came back to her. Forget about what you did in the past. Think about what you can do now, here in the present. Tristan had lied to protect himself. Libby didn’t need to protect herself anymore. She needed to protect Emily.

  “I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” Emily asked, in response to the long silence.

  “You haven’t offended me,” Libby said. “I’ve just been thinking about how to answer you. Mark and I were very good friends. He often visited me in Paris. But you had his whole heart, Emily.” As she said it, she knew it was true. He had stayed with Emily. He had protected her. “He loved you very much. Don’t trouble yourself with fears that he loved anyone else. He would never have left you.” Never.

  She could hear Emily crying softly. Then she stopped, and blew her nose. “You are a dear. And I’m so pleased to be working with you. I’ll make sure I send more work your way. Thank you, Libby. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re more welcome than I can say.”

  Libby returned to the bedroom. Tristan was asleep again. She lay down next to him and ran her fingers lightly over his back. He stirred but didn’t wake. She would tell him when the sun came up.

  She had changed her mind. About everything.

  Just as Juliet was stepping out of the shower she heard the doorbell chime.

  “Coming!” she called, quickly drying herself and throwing on a red cotton dress. Late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the western windows. Would it be Damien? A week had passed since he’d left, and every day she hoped to hear from him. She could certainly use cheering up after the day she’d had. An unexpected tax bill had arrived right before Cheryl had resigned: she had fallen in love and was off to New Zealand.

  But it wasn’t Damien’s welcome presence waiting when she opened the door to the flat. It was the very unwelcome presence of her sister.

  “Can I come in?”

  Juliet stood aside wordlessly as Libby walked in, then closed the door behind her.

  Libby had a large envelope under her arm. She placed it carefully on the coffee table and sat down. “We need to talk,” she said.

  “Do we?”

  And, curse her, Libby smiled. A big, beautiful, genuine smile. Time telescoped, and she remembered Libby smiling at her when they were children. Playing castles at the B&B, or collecting shells on the beach, or just lying in bed up late in their bedroom talking about boys. Juliet’s heart grew tender around the edges.

  Juliet sat down. “What’s going on?” she said, her voice softer.

  Libby tapped the envelope. “Have a look.”

  Juliet withdrew the papers from the envelope. She saw the words “Agreement between Ashley-Harris Holdings and Elizabeth Leigh Slater” and shoved them back in. “I don’t want to know.”

  Libby took the envelope from her and shook the papers out, flicking to the right page. “Don’t worry, Juliet. This story has a happy ending. I’m making sure of it. Look.” She held the documents in front of Juliet, pointing to a figure with the bright red nail on her index finger. A figure with a lot of zeroes.

  Juliet felt sick.

  “I’ve turned them down,” Libby said.

  The astonishment winded Juliet. “You’ve turned down . . .”

  “Yeah, I’ve turned down two and a half million dollars. They said they wanted to build an eco-resort, but . . . I don’t know. Sounds a bit suspect. Tristan Catherwood couldn’t tell the whole truth if his life depended on it. So, yes, I’ve turned them down. I’m not selling.”

  Light and air returned to Juliet’s world. “You would have been rich.”

  “I am rich. I own that place outright. It’s right on the beach in one of the most beautiful places in the world. Sure, I don’t have a real job just yet, but I’ll get by.” She leaned forward and put her hand over Juliet’s. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I do love you, Juliet. I know you don’t believe me, but I do.”

  The relief had made her vulnerable. Now, these heartfelt words prompted Juliet to cry. First, just silent tears, but then she sobbed once and Libby knelt in front of her and took her in her arms. Juliet pressed her face into her sister’s shoulder and sobbed and sobbed. Finally, she sat back, wiping her tears on the hem of her dress. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m feeling a little emotional today. I love you too, Libby. I hope we can work all this out.”

  “Let’s start by having a ritual burning of this contract.”

  They left the B&B behind and walked down the sandy path to the beach. Juliet kicked off her shoes. The sand was cool and soft. They walked along beside the grassy dunes, looking for small dry sticks for kindling, and brought them back to a sheltered spot. The great ocean roared as the sky turned pale and pink. Together, they built a fire and lit it, crouching over it and laughing, their voices snatched by the wind.

  “If Scott Lacey sees u
s, he’ll fine us,” Juliet said. The wind had whipped her hair into her mouth and she pulled it out strand by strand.

  “He’ll fine me. He hates me.”

  “No, he doesn’t. I think he fancies you, actually.”

  Libby laughed it off. “Well, I hope I can eventually be accepted here. By Scott Lacey, by everyone. But most of all by you.”

  “Of course by me. Of course.”

  “I . . . I’m so sorry about Andy, Juliet. It was my fault.”

  Juliet found herself momentarily speechless. She wasn’t sure how to respond. Yes, it was Libby’s fault. But it had been an accident. And twenty years later, Juliet found herself exhausted by the idea of carrying the grudge another twenty years. “I forgive you, Libby.” She shrugged. “Andy would have forgiven you ages ago.”

  Libby tried a smile, offering Juliet the envelope. “You want to do the honors?”

  “I think you should.”

  Libby nodded. Her skin was lit warm by the fire. She held the contract over the fire so the flames caught the corner. They jumped so quickly that Libby let go of the envelope with a little shriek, and they both giggled as they watched the envelope blacken and curl, then turn to ashes. The fire burned down, and they sat on the beach, shoes abandoned and bare feet in the sand, in companionable silence for a while.

  Then Libby said, “I have to be really honest with you. At first I said yes. That’s why there was a contract to burn.”

  Juliet’s gut twitched, but then she remembered that the contract was now ashes. “What changed your mind?”

  “Damien Allbright changed my mind. He’s pretty wise for a kid.”

  A kid. Juliet pressed her lips tightly together, feeling her age, her undesirableness. “Damien’s great,” she managed.

  Then Libby laughed. “You too? Oh, lord.”

  “What do you mean?” She regarded her sister in the dying firelight as the soft night breeze stirred the ashes.

  “Damien wore exactly that expression when he talked about you.”