On a Starlit Ocean

by Charlotte Nash

  He blew out his breath, long and slow, letting the anger be there, but not being controlled by it. He deliberately pulled his face into a contemplative expression, part frown, part squint. Wendy teased him about it when he was examining x-ray films. But it was his defence, the way he dealt with things now. It meant he didn’t use his fists anymore.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  Tristan took a short pausing breath. “I want you to know, if it has any bearing on your answer, that we don’t hold your past against you. I believe in second chances, I really do.”

  Alex jerked, the words slicing through his sleep-deprived haze. Not once in all the negotiations for his position had anyone brought up Alex’s professional past. He had been relieved about that. So why was Tristan mentioning it now?

  “Okay,” Alex said carefully, “I’ll let you know when I put some sleep on it.”

  Tristan stood and Alex felt the primitive thrill in realising he was two inches taller. Tristan adjusted his tie.

  “Well, give it some thought. I’ll be at the village dance on Friday.”

  And he walked out before Alex could do it first.

  Alex stared after Tristan’s departing back, the qualm of his employer holding something over him washing in and out of him like the tide. He’d thought all that was behind him, and now he’d been reminded it was still clear and present. Later, as he tried to lie down and sleep, another picture became lodged in his mind: Tristan and Erin, talking in the back of the stage at the meeting. Tristan being his charming self, but Erin with her arms folded, her back hunched. Alex hadn’t thought of it since. They clearly knew each other; probably, they’d grown up together. But now, something about the two of them gave him a discomfort that kept him awake far too long.

  Chapter 6

  On Thursday morning Erin pushed open the door to Gus’s chandlery, hoping to replace a broken cleat block and pick up her mended sail. The chandlery was on the island side of the shop block, one of the original village cabins converted into a store. The inside was more a museum than a business, with bins and baskets covering every shelf. A huge central table remained clear for Gus’s sail work, which is where Erin found him, with Radio National turned up to eleven, his glasses down his nose and a slick of glue stuck in the side of his spiky grey hair.

  “Gus!” she yelled over the talk-back program.

  He waved and hit mute on the radio. “Ready to go, Miss Erin,” he said, hauling her neatly packed sail bag from under the counter.

  Erin held up the broken cleat. “Got one of these, too?”

  Gus squinted. “Not that exact one, but close enough to do you. This way.” But as he was fossicking in a bin of parts, he paused to give her a sly look, and said, “So, how’s about that new doctor, then?”

  Erin’s blood thickened. “How about what?”

  “Sandy’s taken a right shine to him. Thinks he’s attractive. Word is, Stella’s angling for him to pose for her, too.”

  Erin took the cleat from Gus and pretended to examine it.

  “Course, I told her to just be careful, now.”

  “Why’s that?” Erin said, affecting indifference.

  “Had a yachty in here on the weekend, needing a part for his motor. Had this nasty cut on his finger from getting the hatch open, so I was telling him Doc Bell was off-island for the week. And he says, that wouldn’t be Alex Bell, would it? And I said it would, and what’s it to him? And he says they used to be in the same club, up north. Told me all about it. How Doc Bell was thrown out of the club – started a fight with another member. Put him in hospital, apparently. How’s that for a story?”

  Gus laughed, evidently enjoying it.

  “Sounds like idle gossip,” Erin said. After all, she was sure half the village were talking about her at this very moment, too. Gossip was a fog on the island, clinging to each new arrival. She told herself it wasn’t worth thinking about, but then she still was thinking about it later that afternoon, when Sandy dragged her down to the hall to help decorate for the dance.

  Erin was surprised to see her mother opening catering packs of plates and napkins. They’d had tea again on the yacht on Monday, as awkward as the first time. Her mother had talked about the walking trails on the island, and about the book she was researching, but all Erin could feel was the gulf between them. And her mother had made no mention of the dance. Erin wondered now if that had been because her father had always enjoyed dances so much.

  Skye kept Erin mercifully busy. “If you’re going to be here, at least keep working. This prep isn’t going to do itself,” her sister complained, catching Erin staring off into space while thinking what else needed fixing on the boat.

  Grumbling, Erin picked up the coloured card and scissors, and began cutting out the shape of a cow. “Who picked this farmyard theme, anyway?”

  “I did,” Skye said pointedly. “The school’s doing a term on understanding where food comes from. About time, since most of the children think it comes off a ferry.”

  Erin tried, but she was useless at cutting out, and eventually Skye took the scissors away, and banished her to bringing down the straw bales. But all she could think was that Tristan had wanted her answer by tomorrow tonight, and she was still torn between the cowardice of leaving, and the pain of staying.

  The next day sped past, the village hall transformed by sunset. Erin dreaded the evening, if not for her lack of answer for Tristan, then for the awfulness of the barnyard-themed dance extravaganza. Her mood could not tolerate the upbeat zaniness of the Nutbush and Cotton-Eye Joe dances on endless repeat. She would much rather stay outside on the beach, where the gathering evening enveloped her.

  Every blue shade was delicate and soothing, from the ocean’s calm expanse, to the azure sky chasing the last of the sun, to the shadows under the dune bushes. The air was perfumed with summer and jasmine, and slipped smooth as coconut oil over her bare shoulders. She could hear the wavelets lapping, the breeze shushing in the dry grass, and in the distance, the excited shrill of children leaking from the hall windows. Life had been like this growing up here, every day.

  She’d forgotten how beautiful home was.

  When she reached the hall, she poked her head in the side door, surveying Skye’s handiwork. Less soothing in here. The four corners were stacked with straw bales, the walls covered in posters and cardboard farm animals – cows, pigs and chickens, including one that Erin decapitated, and that Skye had taped back together. Milk! declared one poster, with lots of pictures of jerseys and milking machines. Another was about wheat.

  Even with her sister being frosty, Erin had to admit Skye had commitment. The hall was already filling, all the kids in some kind of costume – mostly cowboy hats and broomstick horses. Erin slid onto a straw bale as then the music started up, flooding the hall with the barn dance songs. The kids were soon thumping around to the heel-and-toe polka, while the parents stood on the edges filming and laughing and picking up the smaller ones after falls. Skye was right in the middle of it, making sure the music was cued or striding into the kitchen to check on the food, then emerging a minute later to shepherd in new arrivals. No Tristan yet.

  Instead, across the hall Erin spotted Travers, straddling a straw bale, nursing a beer, and failing to be nonchalant in how he was watching Skye.

  Erin sidled across and sat beside him. “Enjoying the show?” she asked.

  Travers rolled his eyes. “‘Just help us move the pig roast,’ they said. Next thing, I’ve been here three hours up ladders, hanging cut-outs of sheep. On the upside, I think I finally understand what a do-si-do is.”

  “See anything you like?”

  Travers narrowed his eyes at her. “And here I thought you might be coming to complain about my work on your hull.”

  “I was. You missed a spot,” Erin said.

  “Missed a spot, my butt.”

  “Fair. I’ll admit, it’s the best job I’ve ever seen. You weren’t wrong about that.”

  Travers leane
d back, satisfied smile on his face. They watched two more dances in mutual disdain, until finally Tina Turner began singing “Nutbush City Limits”. All the kids squealed.

  “Feel free to jump up and join in,” Travers said.

  “You go ahead,” she said, not yet feeling the elation of dances-past.

  “Not on your life.”

  “Shame. That would have been entertaining.”

  “Which is exactly why I won’t be doing it,” Travers said, sitting stoically through the frivolity until the song ended, and the kids were herded off the floor towards the kitchen. “So, clean boat, mended sail. You blowing town soon?”

  Erin took a breath to answer just as Tristan strode into the hall, a grin on his face. He was wearing a dapper pair of chaps, a check shirt and a huge western belt buckle, clearly at home with full participation. Erin’s stomach wobbled like a broken compass.

  “Hell,” muttered Travers, who’d come in his standard board shorts and singlet. “All yours. I’m gone.”

  “There you are,” Tristan said, “Just the lady I wanted to see. How about a dance?”

  Erin glanced around. Her palms were suddenly slick, her answer still not ready and she wasn’t in the mood for his enthusiasm.

  She got up, but instead of taking his offered lead to the dancefloor, she pulled him to the side door and out into the cool and relative quiet. All the stars had come out.

  “What, no dance?” he said. “And I got all dressed up for nothing.”

  “Tristan, about the job. I know that you wanted an answer tonight—”

  “I wanted a dance.”

  Erin took a slow breath. “Can we be serious for a minute?”

  “I’m very serious.” His face was so impassive, she couldn’t tell if he was joking. Then he broke a small smile. “You know, I can’t remember why we split up.”

  I do, Erin thought. “That was a long time ago,” she said quickly, seeing her way out. “Look, if I’m going to stay here, I need details. Start date. Role. Pay. A written contract. A word isn’t enough.”

  “Even mine?”

  Especially yours. “I have a boat to keep on the water.”

  Even as she said it, she thought about Skye and her mother and the village. What would they all say if she turned Tristan down?

  “I respect that. Give me a few days to put the formal offer together,” he said, a little too close now. “You’ll be pleased, I promise. You already know how much I want you to do this.”

  She took a breath to tell him that if this went ahead – if this went ahead – then under no circumstances would they be dating again. But from inside the hall, someone was talking into the microphone, followed by a round of clapping, and then clearly Tristan’s name being called through the echo of the PA system. Tristan dropped his shoulders. “Dammit, I forgot the raffle.”

  He left Erin sitting on the bench under a palm tree, breathing in a Tristan-sized waft of expensive cologne.

  Erin wandered around outside the hall, in more of a muddle. She had compelling reasons to leave the island, what with her history with Tristan, and Skye’s displeasure. Not to mention the guilt of seeing her mother again. But her funds were running low, and she didn’t have many other prospects right now.

  And what about Alex?

  She flicked the thought away in irritation and kept walking, puzzling out the pros and cons as gusts of evening air blew sea scent through the palms. Bursts of applause leaked out of the hall, and children kept running by shrieking and laughing, playing some variant of Red Rover under the spotlights. She watched them, sadly, remembering the exhilaration of staying up late, the sweets, and the raw freedom of nighttime beach games.

  She wasn’t a kid anymore; she had adult-sized problems, ones that couldn’t be cured with a dance. She needed a sign. So when the “Macarena” started up inside, she rolled her eyes. Well, that was a vote for going: Great Haven and its hokey dance was too far from the steel drums and relaxed sophistication of a Caribbean rum bar. Only the smell of the spit-roasted pork had her stomach growling. She couldn’t possibly leave without trying that.

  She followed the smell to the annex where she could see into the hall, and hear the kitchen chatter through the window.

  She spotted her mother in the hall, standing by one of the straw bales, a sad half-smile on her lips, as if she was trying very hard to enjoy herself, but just couldn’t make it happen, even for something as ridiculous as dancing the Macarena.

  Erin’s stomach twisted: another sign to go. She was about to slip away when she spotted Tristan approaching her mother. The next moment, he’d drawn her into the crowd, taking her through the dance steps. And while Anna protested, clearly embarrassed, Tristan persisted. He put his hat on her head, and then suddenly Anna was dancing with the rest of them, a little stiff, but for the moment her old self.

  Erin released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. It was the first time she’d seen joy on her mother’s face since she’d left four years ago. Erin silently relented in her attitude to Tristan, and leaned back against the wall. Maybe he really had changed. Maybe she was giving him too little credit.

  “Did you see? Anna’s up dancing,” said a voice from the kitchen window, clear even over the clink of dishes.

  “Who with?” came another woman’s voice.

  “Tristan Drummond, if you please!”

  The other woman clucked her tongue. “That boy’s a treasure. What would we do if he hadn’t come back?”

  “You know, he used to see that Erin Jacobs.”

  Erin stilled, her skin prickling at her own name.

  “Are you sure?” the other woman was asking.

  “Oh yes, years ago. When he was at university on the mainland. Erin was always racing here and there. My daughter was on the same campus. She used to see them in the college.”

  “I had no idea. What happened?”

  “Must have realised he could do better. I mean, look at where he is now! Never thought I’d see her come back, though. Anna must be finding it so difficult.”

  “They never did find him, did they?”

  “No. But it was all very odd. They had that huge argument before they left on that trip. Then the next thing, he’s missing and she’s the only one who knows what happened. Her story never made much sense.”

  Erin’s body had petrified now, every emotion a hard crystal against her heart. She wanted to scream at these women, but she could barely make her lungs move.

  “Skye is just lovely, though, isn’t she?” the first woman went on. “Real community spirit. She does so much for the school.”

  “Desperately wants a bub of her own.”

  The first woman laughed. “Might need the husband first.”

  “I think she’s working on that. Would be a good pairing, don’t you think? Tristan would be a gorgeous father.”

  “Speaking of gorgeous, how about that new doctor.”

  “Stunner,” said the second woman. “But … bit reserved, don’t you think? Not like Dr Jacobs was. I don’t give him long here, like all of them.”

  “You know, I could have sworn I saw him leaving Erin’s boat the other—oh, put that bag out, will you?”

  One of them stepped towards the door. A hot burst of adrenaline broke Erin’s freeze. Moving like a spooked animal, she ducked underneath the windows and ran down the other side of the hall. The music had stopped again, and the scrapes of tables being dragged over the floor chased her all the way.

  She rounded the corner near the beach and ran straight into Travers carrying a plate overflowing with cracking pork and roast potatoes.

  “Where are you going so fast?” he said, around a mouthful of roast. “Looking for Alex?”

  At the mention of his name, Erin pulled up. “Why?”

  “Said he was looking for you. Man, that’s good pork.”

  Erin felt a qualm. “Looking for me, why?”

  Travers frowned. “In the way that a man looks for a girl he likes to talk to. How
dense are you, Erin Jacobs?”

  Erin didn’t answer him. She was distracted by how Travers could eat so fast and speak at the same time. He was balancing a plate of pavlova underneath his main meal.

  “Can I have your plate?” she asked. No way was she going back in.

  “Hell, no,” he said. “I have set up props, I have carried chairs and tables, and I can take no more of the soundtrack. I saw them loading up the ‘Grease Megamix’. If anyone wants me, I’ll be in my cabin with a beer.”

  “What about doing a little run back inside to get me one?”

  Travers turned away. “They start playing Metallica, you come get me.”

  Erin watched him go. She didn’t want to make another appearance for the gossipers, but she was starving. She was still hanging at the corner when Alex stepped out of the exit, also carrying a plate.

  She ducked around the corner, expecting him to take the inland path and head back to the clinic. But he didn’t. He came right towards the beach. He passed her position and kept going, down through the dunes.

  Erin pulled off her shoes. The sand was cool under her feet, only the barest hint of the trapped afternoon sun in the thickest drifts. Alex’s form became a wash of greys and blues as he left the lit path and climbed the dunes. Erin gave him time to crest the hill before she followed, crouching beside the saltbush at the top. He’d gone down onto the hard sand now, walking towards the old resort, his feet barely making dents under the moonlight.

  When he reached the jetty, he paused and looked towards her yacht, still moored off the western side, all its lights off. Erin felt her heart thudding as he stared at her boat. Would she follow if he went down there?

  When he appeared to give up and keep going up the beach, Erin silently slipped out from behind the bush and slid down through the soft sand. Where the hell was he going now? Well, she wasn’t going to find out.