On a Starlit Ocean

by Charlotte Nash

  Morning dawned with peach-streaked indigo clouds, and the sand was still cold under Erin’s toes as she left the surgery. The pain tablets had worn off and her face was throbbing again. She wanted caffeine to clear her head, so she slipped over the short distance between the surgery and the bakery, picking her way down the path.

  At the fork, she ran straight into Tristan.

  He was walking barefoot down the main path towards the bakery. As he stopped and met her gaze, some instinct in Erin sounded a warning, and the moment for ‘hello’ slipped past her. She waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. Just kept staring at her with hard eyes. Spooked, she kept walking into the shop, breathing in the aroma of freshly ground beans. But the caffeine wasn’t the reason for her thudding heart and squirming stomach.

  He was watching. He knew.

  She ordered two takeaways, ignoring Sandy’s clucking over her swollen face and attempts at chit-chat, expecting at any moment that Tristan would appear and she’d have to make excuses for not coming back to the sponsor’s party yesterday. Maybe she could tell him about tomorrow’s meeting with Ivan to placate him. But Tristan didn’t come in. What was he doing out there?

  Finally armed with the coffees, Erin emerged. And there he was, just off the path, leaning on a sign pole. Watching her.

  Erin had the thought that she should walk straight down the main path, as if she was heading to Travers’ cabin, or turn by the hall for Skye’s. Anything to give the impression she’d bought the coffee for someone other than Alex.

  But then, maybe Tristan was headed to Skye’s, too, what did she know? And underneath that was the hard centre within her that couldn’t abide being scared of him, even when she was. So, she looked away and swallowed the instinct to run, turned back down the path for the surgery.

  So what if he knew she’d slept at the clinic. It was her business. It shouldn’t matter. Didn’t matter.

  And by the time she eased the door closed behind her, and Alex stirred at the scent of coffee, Tristan had faded from her mind like the early morning fog, burned away in the face of the sun.

  Chapter 22

  As the small island-hop plane angled for touchdown the following afternoon, Erin found herself squeezing the seat rest in a way she never normally did when flying. It wasn’t anything to do with the plane, just that her collar was too tight. She tugged it down, straightened her lapels, smoothed her jacket. Formal business wear always sat on her like someone else’s skin; she’d had to drag this suit out of the bottom of a storage bin on her boat last night, and spend an hour ironing it. All right, she’d spent five minutes attempting to iron in the backpackers’ laundrette before Alex, clearly pained at watching her ineptitude, had taken over.

  “I didn’t even know the surgery had an iron,” she said, watching him expertly steam a shirt cuff on the board he set up in his room.

  “How does someone who’s spent years living on millionaires’ boats not know how to iron?”

  Erin had shrugged. “Oh, they have other people for that. I stayed out of anything that smelled like needing my top button done up.”

  Except, now here she was, squirming around that top button. At least Alex had sent her off with good wishes and a kiss. Erin was as superstitious as any sailor, so their reconnection seemed fortuitous. As if the winds had finally shifted around in the right direction.

  If only the jacket didn’t feel like it had shrunk.

  Then again, Ivan Borovich had that effect on people.

  Erin still wasn’t quite sure how she’d convinced him to come to the mainland for a meeting, so that in itself was encouraging. She hadn’t told any of the race committee, because she didn’t want any raised expectations. But the coverage for the dual race had been good, from the little she’d been able to bear watching.

  On the other had, her fail-to-finish had been a very public debacle, and the bruise on her face had now come up in full glory. The preened front desk staff at OceanRunner, the swanky resort where Ivan was staying, were too polite to say anything, but Erin caught their eyes sliding over to look again. And now, with her fail-to-finish and beaten face, she was going to try to convince Ivan to sponsor the Haven Regatta. Sure, no problem. She’d have it done by lunchtime.

  Erin smoothed down her jacket again, and tried to look like she belonged, but she wasn’t at home in the resort’s opulence. The big pavilion-roofed main building faced an infinity pool to the ocean, where staff bearing cocktail trays slid smoothly around the white lounge chairs. Mature palm trees framed an indoor lagoon, saving guests from going outside if they preferred not to. The bar staff wore bow-ties and waistcoats and called her ma’am.

  Erin moved deeper into the lounge, still fifteen minutes early for her twelve o’clock with Ivan. When she’d worked for him, Ivan was always late. She would probably have a wait ahead.

  She was surprised then to see him sitting in the lounge’s sunken level, away from the windows in a private nook of two seats across a slim table. He was wearing an elegant white business shirt and black suit pants, his hair and beard more grey than she remembered. A tablet was propped before him on the table, and he occasionally swiped a finger across its screen, as though there was some smudge to remove. He looked up from under his shaggy eyebrows just as she reached the table.

  “Ah,” he said, rising immediately and kissing Erin on both cheeks. “Here is my defector, at last.”

  And while the cheek kissing always made Erin a little awkward, there was warmth in Ivan’s voice, and the same enthusiasm she remembered. He summoned a waiter to take her drink order and gave her his full attention.

  “You have an argument with the boom?” he said, pointing to her face.

  “A winch block, actually. On the weekend.”

  Ivan nodded with sympathy. “I saw the race. You were unlucky, I think. But very exciting, this concept. Two races at the same time, land and sea. Brings a new dimension. Was it your idea?”

  His gaze was intense, as if he already knew all the ins and outs of the race, and he was just looking for confirmation.

  “Yes, I came up with it,” she said quickly.

  He sat back with a small, satisfied smile, saying nothing as the waiter put a short glass of clear liquor on ice down in front of him, and a lemonade in front of Erin. She cleared her throat.

  “Thankyou for coming,” she began stiffly, not knowing how to start. “I wanted to, I mean, I know this must have seemed sudden but—”

  “What is this, Erin?” he asked with a sudden sharpness. He gestured to her jacket. “We know each other, but you sound like I just met you. Also, you are all dressed up. It doesn’t suit you. I thought you would come in Bermudas and t-shirt, like our old meetings. Is this because you’re working for Tristan Drummond?”

  Ivan twitched his lips, as if he’d tasted something unpleasant.

  “Well, yes,” said Erin a little defensively, but she was disarmed by him thinking she might have come in a t-shirt. He was being playful, the way he often was with his team, even though he was worth billions. “I have a serious business proposal for you. I didn’t want to look like I was here to waste your time.”

  He flashed a quick smile. “I would never think that. You were my best tactician, and business is all tactics. Now, what is this proposal?”

  “Sponsor the new Haven Regatta,” she rushed out. “The pilot races have been successful, and we think it could be huge, bigger than Hamilton. Borovich could be the headline name on all of that. I can show you figures on the two pilot races ...”

  Erin fumbled for her satchel, the sheaf of papers catching as she tried to tug them out. Ivan sat back in his chair, his expression impassive as she went through the sponsorship exposure from the two pilot races, the minutes of airtime, and the attendee survey results showing what they remembered of the sponsors. After ten minutes, she ran out of material and glanced at Ivan’s face. Her heart sank. He was massaging his chin with one hand, the corners of his mouth pulled down. Distinctly unimpressed.

>   He leaned forward, one lean finger moving the papers around. “And these things ... these business things, you are enjoying them?”

  Erin shrugged before she could catch herself. “I’ll always love being out in the boat more,” she said carefully. “But it has been interesting. I liked the idea for the land-sea race, and taking it from that idea to making it happen. Just a pity our team didn’t do better.”

  “You were always a keen competitor,” he said thoughtfully. “But I never considered you would like business before. I thought, she is too pragmatic. She would not want to sit in a boardroom. This is very interesting.”

  “But what do you think about sponsoring?”

  Ivan narrowed his eyes. “You know, I sponsor many events already. Overseas, in America, in Europe. World-class events. Places that have been celebrated in books and movies and in legends. What makes Haven the next place? What is special?”

  Erin sat back. She’d gone through it all already, hadn’t she? She’d talked about how nowhere had the conditions Haven had – that it could become a great sailor’s challenge, just like the Sydney to Hobart. That it had history and beauty. The only thing left was that it was home, and that was hardly relevant to Ivan. For the first time, she doubted her own conviction about the event. Was she just believing in it because she couldn’t consider failing, and that Skye and her mother and all her childhood memories were there? That the best memories of her father were there?

  “Haven has something nowhere else has,” she said softly, not able to look him in the eye. “It might not translate into a glossy brochure or a two-sentence pitch, but it’s unique. It has a gravity I’ve never experienced anywhere else.”

  “A gravity,” he repeated. He rubbed his chin again. “I can tell you want this very badly, Erin. You want to see the resort reopen, like this one perhaps?” He gestured to the expansive bar around them.

  “Well, maybe not quite like this one ...”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a bit ... flamboyant for Haven.”

  He grinned. “And yet, Tristan Drummond owns this hotel, too. Oh, you didn’t know this?”

  Erin frowned, looking around as though the beams in the ceiling might have changed colour. Tristan owned this place? It was very high-end, and she’d never heard of him being involved in the building of it.

  “I will tell you another thing, Erin,” Ivan said, wiping the condensation from his glass before he took a sip. “I will not sponsor anything Tristan Drummond is involved in. He is not my style.”

  “What does that mean?” Erin asked, bewildered. Ivan was in shipping, Tristan was a developer. How had they even crossed paths?

  Ivan shook his head, indicating he would not be drawn on the subject. “What I want very much to know is when can I induce you to come and work for me again? My team misses you. My racing record also misses you, very dearly.”

  But Erin was still trying to process the blank refusal. “If I came to work for you, would you sponsor it then?”

  “Ah, nice try,” he said, indulgently. “But I am immune to bribes, even from you.”

  “Is that the only reason you agreed to meet with me?” she asked. “Because you thought I might come back to work for you?”

  “Please, Erin. I have been in business a long time. I knew what you were going to ask. Tristan and his team have been very noisy about looking for sponsors. There are many onlookers circling.”

  “Then why?”

  A kind smile, with something else colouring the kindness. Embarrassment? Sadness? “I want to see you. The team misses you. You always remind me of my daughter, god rest her soul. When you are done playing with Tristan, maybe I will look forward to hearing from you.”

  And with that, Ivan drained his drink, left a hundred dollar note on the table and smoothly left. Erin watched him walk out of the bar in his slacks and loose shirt, his demeanour telling the world he was both worth a packet, and had earned every cent. She admired him, but now what did she do?

  She had to admit that somewhere in her more deluded thoughts, she’d imagined he would agree on the spot. That she would be able to go back to Tristan and the team and announce that she had saved the day. Having such a hopeful, even if outlandish, thought squashed left her empty.

  She sat, her cheek throbbing, wondering what else she could do. Alex had said she could stay at his unit while she was on the mainland, but now Erin wondered if she should just find the quickest path back to the island. The two pilot races were over, now. She’d just played and lost her biggest hand when it came to industry people she knew. How was she supposed to land a sponsor now?

  She looked out the floor to ceiling windows, past the grand pool and at the sky over the distant Haven islands. She could see the streak of grey clouds already there, a storm brewing up behind the misty mountains. Forces of nature, she could deal with. Why did these forces of human nature always seem so much more complex?

  The next day, Alex finished the island clinic early and walked the winding path up the point to call on Helmut. The painter had been discharged back to the island after five days, the nearly deadly episode of epiglottitis resolved. Alex found Helmut propped in a day bed in his studio, a canvas and brushes within reach, and Stella hovering, trying to persuade him to eat.

  “You must have a little. It’s soup – very good for you,” Alex heard her say. She looked relieved when she spotted him. “Ah, Dr Alex. Please tell this man he must eat to recover!”

  “It is still sore inside,” said Helmut, his voice raspy as he touched the white bandage over the tracheotomy site at his throat.

  “Worse, the same or better?” Alex asked, sitting beside him.

  “Better,” Helmut acknowledged. “And I will eat more if you think it’s good for me.”

  “Yes, but go slowly. Not too hot,” Alex said, as Stella raised her eyes to heaven at Helmut’s sudden acquiescence. Alex suspected she’d been trying the soup unsuccessfully for a while. Otherwise, Helmut seemed on the mend. The wound was healing well, and he’d already sketched the outline of the ocean and the headland in the painting.

  “It is what I can paint from here,” Helmut said when Alex’s asked if he was hoping to paint Bella again. “But sometimes, days like today, I prefer to take the easel to the top of the next headland. From there, you can see to the misty mountains on the northern island. Watch the storms roll in. Can’t you smell it?”

  “Smell what?”

  “That,” Helmut insisted, flaring his nostrils to suck at the air.

  All Alex could smell was paint and turps, and some kind of hearty broth, which must be the soup. Helmet jerked his head at Stella. “Take him outside and show him.”

  So Stella led Alex outside, into the fresh air. The breeze had a languid quality today, moving slow and thick over his skin. The sea was a luminous blue in the shallows near the rocks, and indigo elsewhere.

  “Smell’s not quite the right sense,” Stella said, standing beside him. “But feel how the air prickles the inside of your nose. There’s a bouquet to it, like a crushed gum leaf. Fresh and sharp. You feel it now?”

  Alex inhaled deeply. And perhaps, yes, the thickness in the air did tingle his sinuses. But maybe he was imagining it. “So this means a storm later?”

  Stella nodded. “A proper, Haven storm. The ones that come in over the northern island, squashing the wind up so it roars down into the ocean beyond us. Roughs up the sea and howls around the hut. It’s not half-scary up here, I can tell you. Particularly when Helmut won’t stand back from the windows. I’m always sure a tree branch is going to go through there. It would be much better down in the village. You know that’s where the island got its name, right? One of those early explorers sheltered in the main bay. So it became Great Haven … the only place in the islands you can escape a storm. And now of course that’s where the village and the resort are.”

  “What about at the homestead?”

  Stella gave him a crooked grin. “Been thinking about Bella, too, huh? I d
on’t know. But I think she’d have stuck through any storm, would Bella.”

  Alex was still thinking about it as he picked his way down the headland to the end of the main beach. Bella was a great mystery. What had possessed her to stay on at the homestead alone after her husband died, especially in this place with its unpredictable weather and isolation? Wasn’t she lonely? Scared? Stella certainly didn’t seem to think so, and the few articles he’d found about Bella seemed to think she was either half mad – refusing the assistance of relatives who offered her places back on the mainland, or failing that, assistance with the farm – or that she wasn’t alone after all, keeping the company of her dogs and the island’s Indigenous people. But now all of them were gone. All that was left was the husk of the homestead, the ghost and an unfinished story.

  Alex’s feet hit the beach, retracing the prints he’d left on his way up. Erin was due back on the afternoon flight. He’d just have time to drop by Travers’ place before she landed. Alex smiled to himself. There’d been a time when he preferred the part of his week on the mainland, with its freedom from scrutiny and memories. And now he found himself wanting those things, if they involved Erin.

  He was lost enough in these thoughts that he’d almost reached the jetty before he realised someone was sitting there, watching him walk across the sand.

  “Tristan,” Alex said, as he approached. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Tristan looked a little off-colour. He had stubble on his chin, and his normally sleek hair had the look of being finger combed. An empty coffee cup dangled from his fingers, but his gaze was still intense, demanding respect.

  “I was just thinking of taking a sail,” Tristan said. “But the crew’s all back on the mainland. How about it?”

  “What, now?” Alex said, turning to look towards the north, where white clouds were already turning grey. He imagined the storm brewing up behind the northern island, all the things Stella had said. “Isn’t there a storm coming?”