On a Starlit Ocean

by Charlotte Nash

  Alex trailed his fingers over the files, until he arrived at Jacobs. With Erin’s concerns in mind, he pulled out Anna’s file and flipped past the blood results in the front, to the clinical notes.

  It was a slim file, but then maybe Anna would have had a GP on the mainland instead of seeing her husband. In any case, the entries were more than six years old, the last for some stitches in her knee. The others were check-ups – two-yearly bloods for cholesterol and liver function. Certainly nothing noted about a history of depression or background problems like that to worry about.

  As Alex went to replace the file, two loose sheets slipped out. Picking them up, he noted they were pathology results, the text faded as though they’d been left in the sun. One was a blood count, the other a plasma glucose. The blood count was normal, but for mild anaemia. The plasma glucose was a little elevated.

  Alex frowned, looking at the dates. These were from five years ago, but there were no associated clinical notes. Could Anna have developed diabetes? If it wasn’t being treated, that was a problem. Then again, anaemia was very common, and one abnormal blood glucose didn’t prove anything. His mind raced into the possibilities. He wanted to understand this. Maybe he could …

  Alex stopped. Could what, exactly? Go poking around, overstepping the bounds of his duty?

  He slotted the old results into the front of the file and put it back on the shelf. Anna was an adult. Unless she turned up here as a patient, he couldn’t just go and start asking questions.

  Chapter 13

  “You’re not going to wear that, I hope?”

  Skye stood in the doorway of her cottage the following Thursday, scrutinising the contents of a dry-cleaning packet that Erin was holding up to keep it out of the sand.

  “Why, what’s wrong with it?”

  “You’re having dinner with a potential huge sponsor, and you’re going to wear pants?”

  “They’re my black dress pants, cleaned fresh and everything. And the top has sequins, look.”

  Erin tugged the plastic up so that Skye could see the halter-neck brimming with deep-blue sequins at the throat, then fading to pale azure down the front. It tied at the neck and waist, leaving much of her back bare. She’d picked it up in a boutique somewhere in the Caribbean.

  “It looks like a stripper outfit,” Skye said.

  “No it doesn’t! Pants are practical. What if I need to do something on the boat?”

  “Like what? Climb the mast? It’s dinner on a superyacht. We have to fix this,” Skye said, pulling Erin inside. “I’m sure I have something you can borrow. There’s the costumes from last year’s play if nothing else.”

  “Oh. My. God. Skye, this is not what I had in mind when I asked to use your bathroom mirror.”

  “Yes, well, you’re new at playing nice. What’s the deal, anyway? Tristan wouldn’t tell me anything about this guy. He so rich he has to fly under the radar?”

  “No idea,” Erin admitted, allowing Skye to hang her packet on a door lintel. “All I know is that it’s very important. Not really looking forward to it. Big money can be tricky.”

  “Tricky how?” Skye asked, with uncommon interest.

  Erin shrugged, thinking of a dozen pushy owners she’d met in the last few years. “Expect you to say yes to everything they want.”

  “Well, I don’t know how you can’t look forward to Tristan’s yacht. It’s divine.”

  “Oh yeah? How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen it,” Skye said, drawing Erin into the spare room, where the cupboard rail was bowed under the weight of costumes.

  “I’m not wearing some hideous play dress,” Erin said.

  “They’re not all costumes. I go to vintage stores on the mainland sometimes. Here, try this,” she said, passing over a slinky dress in fire-engine red, fitted to the ankle but with unfortunate capped sleaves.

  Erin set her jaw. “No.”

  In the end, Skye found a simple elegant black skirt – hiding under a hideous ruffled overskirt from Oklahoma. Paired with Erin’s sequinned top it looked dramatic and sophisticated. Skye trained Erin’s hair into a French twist, and Erin toned down the choice of lipstick. When she finally left the house, carrying a strappy pair of black heels, Skye pronounced her acceptable.

  “What’s the point of the shoes? It’s dinner on a yacht,” Erin grumbled, throwing Skye’s words back at her.

  “It’s a look,” Skye snapped, then took a deep breath. “Erin, are you … really not interested in Tristan again?”

  “Nope.”

  A pause. “But you understand how important this all is to me. To us.”

  Erin turned to look at Skye, whose carefully shaped brows were clamped together. She sensed that undercurrent from Skye again, the vibe that said Erin wasn’t part of the island anymore, that she wasn’t entirely welcome.

  “I lived here my whole life. Of course I do.”

  “And you remember you owe me a favour.”

  “I’m wearing this, aren’t I?”

  Skye ignored her. “So you can put in a good word for me with Tristan.”

  Erin blinked. “A good word?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Erin paused, trying to pick apart the look on Skye’s face, and what this was all about. For the first time, she worried about Skye being interested in Tristan.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Skye said, breaking the silence. “You said you weren’t interested.”

  “I’m not,” Erin said, but her chest whirlpooled with conflict. She didn’t want to put in any kind of word with Tristan, didn’t want to be caught in the middle. “But isn’t this all about the future of the island?”

  Skye looked away briefly, then said, “So go convince that sponsor.”

  It took a good long while for Erin to pick her way down the sun-warmed sand to the beach. She checked the watch she’d hidden from Skye in the skirt’s waistband. At least she was on time, and it couldn’t have been a more beautiful night. The western horizon was a wash of gold and orange, streaks of cloud catching the colour and reflecting it back into the sky. To the east, the deeper indigo of the coming night was showing the stars. The breeze hummed through the sheoaks behind the beach path, the air fresh but touched with delicate cooking scents – pepper, cardamom and citrus. Probably Sandy was experimenting in her kitchen, buoyed by the success of the pilot race and the extra income.

  And there, down on the beach in the gently-lapping waves, Tristan was waiting with the dingy.

  “Wow, look at you,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks. He was wearing a dark suit, albeit with no shoes and the pants rolled up, his tie undone. “You look amazing.”

  Erin managed to climb into the boat without ending up in the water, and Tristan expertly pushed off, barely wetting his feet. Then, they were cutting a slim wake towards the splendour of his corporate yacht, the Seven Seas.

  “I had it brought out just before the race last week,” he explained. “Had Gus do a few fixes.”

  Erin admired the Seven Seas as they pulled up at the folding rear platform. She was a massive superyacht, over one-hundred and forty feet. The deck was pale wood, probably oak, a theme that carried through into what Erin could see of the internal cabin space and cockpit. In the sumptuous rear seating area, the end of a long table was set for two.

  “You’re not just going to abandon me to Mr Moneybags, are you?” Erin said, feeling a qualm.

  “Actually,” he said. “I thought it would be more fun with just the two of us.”

  Alex had arrived back on the morning ferry after five nights at the mainland hospital, feeling as though he’d been flattened by one of the resort’s construction steamrollers – the ones with the toothed wheels. He’d gone straight to bed, only emerging on dark when his satellite tracking app sounded an alarm. The ISS was passing over again tonight, and Jupiter and Saturn were in good places to view.

  That was how he ended up at the top of the sand dunes, binoculars in hand, when Erin had appeared,
picking her way over the sand.

  For a long moment, Alex thought he was seeing things. She was dressed like she was going to a ball – in a black skirt that shifted like midnight water and sparkling top, her hair smooth and strappy shoes in her hand. She looked ... incredible. And that was when he realised who the man was, waiting with the tender on the far side of the jetty.

  Tristan Drummond.

  Alex squeezed a fist full of sand, until the grains burst through his fingers. They worked together, he knew that. But they also had a history. And some primal drive within him didn’t like it.

  Didn’t like Tristan.

  He imagined striding down the beach and stopping them. Punching Tristan in that sculpted face.

  Grimly, he noted his thoughts going through these turns. For all the rules of society, everyone was such an animal underneath. At least tonight was business. Still, he watched the dingy leave the beach, knowing he wanted to be the one she was spending the evening with.

  “I don’t understand, I thought we were meeting with a big sponsor,” Erin said, as Tristan poured from a bottle of champagne with an expensive looking label. She rubbed her arms. “You didn’t tell me that just to get me here, did you?”

  He racked the bottle into the bucket with a crash of ice. “Of course not. Patrick had some crisis with the board and had to cancel. I didn’t want to waste the food. Flown in fresh just a few hours ago, and we need to celebrate your win properly.”

  He drew her towards the table, where a seafood feast was spread on a silver platter: plump oysters, enormous prawns, and lobster tails with delectably delicate white flesh. Erin slid in front of the food, salivating, the champagne dulling her unease. She felt only mildly traitorous when there was amazing local shellfish that could have come straight from the island, not to mention the warm bread and butter that Tristan produced from the galley kitchen, fresh from a bakery in Sydney that morning, and not from Sandy’s oven. But Tristan was right – it would be a tragedy to waste it.

  “So this Patrick,” she said, as Tristan took a prawn and expertly beheaded it. “You don’t mean Patrick Donnelly, the mining guy?”

  “Mining magnate I think is the term,” Tristan said with a grin. “And yes, but you have to keep that quiet. He’s been a silent partner in a maxi-yacht for a few years now – loves sailing. But he wants something bigger, and sponsoring the regatta here is what I’m hoping he’ll do. Great exposure for his company, and he’s starting a philanthropic foundation, and an Australian adventure challenge series. He’s just what we need.”

  “What about him being in court last year? That stuff his wife was saying about his business?” And their relationship, she didn’t say. Mrs Donnelly had been doing the rounds of the tabloids, spilling her heart on how Patrick’s various mistresses has broken her heart.

  “Just a bad divorce. She was hurt, and she tried to make things up as a cheap parting shot. You could tell by how fast it disappeared from the news.”

  “Oh, okay,” Erin said, feeling uneasy as she speared a piece of smoked salmon with her fork. “Why does he even want to meet me? Not looking for a new wife, I hope.”

  Tristan laughed with a sparkle in his eyes. “No, I think he’s shy of all that for a while. Besides, I don’t like to share.” He gave her a wink, which Erin ignored. “But it’s a long-term commitment we’re asking for – five years of sponsorship at least, so he needs to feel comfortable.”

  Erin laughed. “And you think that’s what I’m good at? Come on, Tristan. Skye complains about my lack of social skills.”

  “I’ve never felt that. I think you’re very, very good at it, actually.”

  Erin swallowed. The salmon was silky and smooth, but it didn’t taste of anything. He was doing it again; trying to make her remember when they’d been together, and forget how long had passed. To forget that she was the one who’d ended it, and especially why. And this time, she found herself thinking of Alex. That night on the rooftop had held the kind of promise she’d never had with Tristan. She would much rather have been having dinner with him.

  When she looked up, she found Tristan watching her, his eyes crinkled in fondness, but she was no longer touched by him. “You don’t like the food?”

  “It’s amazing,” she said, forcing herself to take a lobster half and pull out the delicate meat. The next second, Tristan’s hand covered hers.

  “It’s fine, I’m nervous too,” he said. Then, before she could say anything, he’d topped up her glass and disappeared inside. A moment later, soft guitar music spilled from the speakers.

  “That’s better,” Tristan said, as he returned. “I thought something was missing. Now, shall we talk about the next race?”

  “The next race?”

  “Sure. The pilot went so well, we’re offering a re-match, just as everyone’s heading south again after the Hamilton meet. We should get a bunch of interest.”

  “But everyone will be preparing for Sydney to Hobart,” she argued.

  “What’s one more stop? And they’ll want to be here with the money we’re putting up. But we need to top last time – new course, new challenge. It can’t be a carbon copy. Then next year for the regatta, we’ll roll both type of events together – maybe the opening and closing races. I’m thinking of naming the trophy the Erin Jacobs Cup.”

  Erin choked on her wine. “Don’t do that.” But she tapped a finger on the table, sliding naturally into strategy. “If you want something new, what about a circumnavigation of the island?”

  “Is there enough drama in that? We need something no one else has done.”

  Erin frowned, thinking hard, even as the evening air slipped gently over her bare back. The waters around Great Haven had many challenges, but they weren’t always sporting for a race. The Gauntlet had been reasonable – the channel was deep, even if it was narrow. But in many parts around the smaller islands, there were hidden rocks and reefs, some that weren’t marked. She didn’t want to send any boats over those. Someone like Patrick Donnelly would no doubt think it was unsporting, too.

  Stuck, she got up and paced to the edge of the deck, leaning on the railing. Could they do something in two parts, maybe? Allow the crews to map their route first in a tender, then sail it later? No, that wouldn’t play on TV. Maybe she could plot a course, but send Travers out to dive the worst parts, ensure it was free of obstacles.

  Erin glanced over her shoulder. Tristan lounged in his chair, wine glass nearly empty, watching her like a big cat.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I like watching you think. And that shirt looks best from behind.”

  She turned back to the table, ready to tell him that she couldn’t think straight, that she’d have to come back to it later. Then a different thought occurred. She leaned her hands on the back of her chair.

  “Patrick Donnelly – you mentioned he’s starting some kind of adventure series?”

  “Yep. Endurance racing, all across Australia. Showcasing the natural beauty with physical challenges, something like that. Kind of like The Amazing Race. Raising money for Legacy I think.”

  “Legacy? Is he ex-military?”

  “His father and grandfather.”

  “And he’s Irish?”

  Tristan gave her a funny look. “What are you doing in that head of yours, Erin?”

  She grinned. “How about a dual race – land and sea at the same time?”

  “Go on,” he said, leaning forward.

  Erin pointed off towards the darkness of the island. “The island can be circumnavigated on land – in theory,” she said. “There’s parts that are difficult – rock-hopping and having to cut inland around the cliff points, but definitely doable. What if we set a course around the island on the water as well as on land – we’d have to send the yachts on a long bend up north to make it a long race – but the team who has both their land team and sea team cross in the least total time, wins.”

  For a long pause, Tristan said nothing. Erin tried to read his face with
the blood thrumming in her chest and failed. Finally, he pushed back his chair.

  “You know, you might actually be a genius,” he said, disappearing inside the cabin to retrieve his phone. Then he was dialling, setting up meetings in the morning with the team, then interrupting people’s dinner in Sydney and Melbourne to put them on the task. As Erin watched him, she couldn’t help but admire his decisiveness, the resources at his disposal. And then it dawned on her that all this was being set in motion because of a few sentences that she’d just thrown out with less than a minute’s thought. Was he crazy? A peal of nerves shot through her – what if it was a bad idea?

  “I love it,” he said finally as he put the phone down. “But we need to put the foot down. We’ll have to be advertising in a few days. The event’s only four weeks away.”

  “Isn’t that awfully tight?” After the pilot race, Erin had a new appreciation for everything that had to happen behind the scenes – insurance, advertising, coordinating the sponsors and the equipment, contracts.

  “Absolutely,” Tristan said, guiding her back to her chair and encouraging her to eat more. “Remember all the background work’s been happening for a while, we’ll just have to tweak the plans. My philosophy has always been to dive in, then swim like crazy. Now, tell me more.”

  Erin managed to eat most of what was on her plate as they threw ideas back and forth, but still felt bad when the platter went back to the fridge half-finished. Tristan then produced two crème brûlée, dusting them with sugar and flaming them with a small blowtorch right at the table. The smell of burnt sugar made Erin’s mouth water, and she cut-off midsentence.

  “You did do this deliberately, didn’t you?” she asked. She could never go past crème brûlée. Once, after a particularly rough trans-Atlantic crossing, she’d walked off the boat in southern France and gone straight to the nearest restaurant and eaten three.

  “I do everything deliberately,” he said. A quick caress of his eyes, and then they were back to business, talking potential strategy, even long after the finished ramekins were pushed away. Tristan told her at one point she was a natural; Erin blushed, pinkly enjoying herself. She didn’t really enjoy overpraise, or this business stuff, but she did want Great Haven out there in the world, being promoted. It would bring better times for her mother, Skye, Sandy and everyone in the village.