by Rose Amberly
It fit.
If La Canette was the swan, then the isthmus was its long, slim curving neck. It led to a small head, the tiny hill which cupped a little beach. His grandfather joked that the cove was the swan’s open beak drinking the sea. George pushed back the bittersweet memories as his eyes followed the jetty from the sparkling sea to the edge boardwalk on the hill where the cottage stood.
The gently rolling green-and-lilac hill was thick with flowering bushes and long grasses. If Millie was on the hill, he should be able to see her even from this distance—as long as she wasn’t lying down. Pushing away thoughts of hard rocks and broken ankles, he scanned farther towards the cove. Blue Sage Bay looked empty. How in hell do you spot a woman wearing white and blue on a white-and-blue beach?
She had to be there. A certainty, deep in his bones, told him this was where she must have come. But where was she?
Leaving the bike, he set out on foot over the isthmus as the land tapered to a narrow strip that connected the island to the small headland a mile away. The wooden railings had rotted and collapsed in several places. Broken slats had fallen off on either side to the sea twenty feet below. Urgent worry churned in his gut and pushed him to hurry even as the dangerously narrow path forced him to walk slowly. His feet dislodged loose earth and scree, which went cascading down into the waves.
This walkway should have been repaired and the land shored up to stop it eroding. Except that his father had no interest in maintaining this part of the Island. George, too, had neglected it, content to keep people away from his beloved Le Cou.
Well done, George.
Pride had kept both him and his father from coming here. In his case, also grief, rage and a deep guilt, but mostly it was his pride. And his pride had now put Millie’s life at risk.
Careful not to lean too far, George peered down, searching the jagged rocks and rising tide below him. The image of Millie fallen, drowned, tore at his insides. He looked up for a silent prayer when—
Hello?
A tiny movement, a figure? Or was it a seagull?
He couldn’t see properly because the middle part of the isthmus dipped lower, almost to sea level. He quickened his pace, impatient to get to the higher ground ahead.
* * *
Millie woke up feeling cold. The sun still shone in a blue sky behind her, but the wind had picked up while she dozed after her swim. Her clothes lay under a stone.
She looked around, but there was no one. She quickly stripped off the now dry and salt-encrusted vest and shorts she’d worn for swimming and put on her underwear. Parts of her chest, stomach and arms showed where the sun had caught her, turning her skin a deep, warm copper. Little fine hairs on her thighs gleamed gold against her browned legs.
It had been a scorching day, but far in the distance, dark clouds were piling up on the horizon. Weather coming. She pulled on her trousers and pushed her arms into the sleeves of her shirt.
Shaking sand out of her thin cotton vest, she stuffed it deep into her bag. She set off towards the hill above.
Blue Sage Bay had been everything she imagined and a lot more besides. Her tote bag was full of cuttings: pink fireweed, camomile, thyme, chickweed and hop clover... The place was an undiscovered paradise.
When her feet finally reached the high ground, the sun was low in the sky, just above the piled clouds, time to go home. Not yet. She couldn’t resist turning around for one last look at the idyllic cove. She perched on a rock, brought her knees under her chin and let the minutes trickle by. The waves, now higher with the rising wind, crashed on the dazzling white sand where she’d spent a healing afternoon.
Heartsore with the pain of rejection, she had finally convinced herself to set aside whatever feelings she had for the unattainable George. Her walk to Blue Sage Bay today was part of her stubborn determination not to give in to disappointment. Fine, her mind had advised, he won’t take me on a boat, I can walk there myself. This is my dream, and I can follow it alone.
All day, she’d imagined creating fireweed jam, herb pizza and lavender cake; George and her wounded feelings had receded to the back of her mind.
Behind her, over the sound of wind in the long grass, a new sound snagged her attention. Rocks and… footsteps. She jumped up.
“I’ve been calling your name for the last hundred yards,” George shouted over the wind.
Hair whipped into her face. Good thing because it hid and cooled her suddenly warm cheeks. She could do nothing about the hammering of her heart.
“Didn’t you hear me?” George stopped a couple of feet away from her. The wind pulled and pushed his polo shirt, outlining his body.
“No, sorry, the sea was too loud.”
His tousled hair, silky dark locks, blew over his brow. If they’d had a different kind of relationship, she’d push her fingers through his hair and smooth it away from his stormy grey eyes. Instead, she stuffed her hands into her pockets.
Her mind fought with her heart, and both fought against her body. All day she’d been schooling her heart away from him. And just when she’d almost succeeded, he’d turned up looking like—Oh, for God’s sake. Did he have to be so tall, so sculpted, so much like Apollo? Her physical reaction to him melted every scrap of resistance her mind and heart possessed.
“Where’s your phone?” he barked.
She fished it out of her bag, and he all but grabbed it from her and checked it.
“It is on.” He gave it back to her. “Can you ring Mrs B?”
Why was he so angry? “Is something wrong?”
“Yes, Millie, something is very wrong. You.” He was breathing fast. “Mrs B has been calling you all afternoon. Why didn’t you answer?”
“Oh. I was down on the beach. No sig—”
“No phone signal,” he said. “And it never occurred to you to send a message? They’re all beside themselves with worry.”
Why was he shouting? “Did you come here to scold me?”
“No, Millie Summers, I came to find you, to make sure you hadn’t fallen off the rocks and broken your neck.”
“And you’re angry because I didn’t break my neck?”
“I had a flight to catch, and you’re making me miss it.”
“Go.” She crossed her arms. “Go, catch your flight. And find someone else to shout at.” She turned her back to him. Find someone else to love you.
Pain rose from her chest and stung her eyes. Her thumb scrolled through her phone contacts and put a call through to the house.
When I turn back, he’ll have gone and I can cry in private.
“Hi, Mrs B, it’s me.” She listened to the relieved exclamations. “I’m fine, just didn’t have reception down on the beach. I’m on my way—don’t worry. Yes, yes, George just found me.” She had to finish the call before her voice broke. Every time she spoke his name, something happened to her.
When she finally turned around to pick up her tote bag off the ground, George was still standing there, watching her.
“I’m sorry about shouting. I was worried,” he said. “I’m glad you’re safe, and if the colour in your face is any indication, then you’ve had a nice day in the sun.” His voice was gentle, warm.
“I hate it when you do that.”
“Excuse me?”
“You just flip from nasty to nice. It can be very disconcerting to a person.”
His beautiful mouth twitched for a few seconds; then he gave up and broke into a big grin.
“It’s not funny,” she snapped. Please don’t be nice; it’s easier to watch you leave when you’re being an arse. “Besides, I thought you had a flight to catch. Why are you still here?”
“And how do you suggest I get off this hill?” His tone was still reasonable, his voice a deep baritone.
“The same way you got on it.”
Every drop of willpower was going i
nto holding on to her irritation with him, into not softening to that voice.
He tipped his head towards the west. “I don’t think so.”
Her eyes swept the purple-and-green landscape. Where had the isthmus gone? She stood on tiptoe and looked to the right and the left and eventually found the dip in the terrain. Barely twenty yards remained of the narrow gravelly path before it disappeared below the sea.
“You’ve heard the saying ‘tide waits for no man’?” George asked.
A mixture of fear and something else caught her breath. The rising sea had cut off Blue Sage Bay from the rest of the island. Nature had the two of them at its mercy here.
Right on cue, the first drops of rain hit her face.
* * *
Blue Sage Bay, 8pm
The heavens opened. With a roar and a crash, heavy rain beat down on the island. It pelted the surface of the roiling, frothing sea.
George closed the distance between them and grabbed her arm above the elbow. “Come on!” he shouted in her ear.
Millie hunched over, hugging her bag to her chest as they raced for the only cover—the cottage on the jetty.
Rain pounded the hillside and slicked the path into a muddy swamp by the time they made the boardwalk. Their feet clattered on the wooden platform and skidded to a stop at the faded blue-green door.
She tried the handle. Locked. George looked around, under an empty clay pot, behind a broken wall lantern, nothing. Water streamed off his face and down his neck under his collar.
He reached above the lintel and found a key, but the rusty lock wouldn’t budge. Finally he gave the stiff door a shove with his shoulder, and they fell through.
“Well, we needn’t have bothered with the door.” She looked around; at least two of the windows were broken and, judging by the dried autumn leaves on the floor, they’d broken years ago. Cold air blew in, and water dripped from a dozen holes in the ceiling to puddle on the floor.
“Don’t step on anything,” George said, dashing rain from his face with the back of his hand. “There’s glass everywhere. Let me sweep it with something.” He searched around the big empty room.
The cottage must have been a shop once upon a time. There was a kitchen in the corner of the large front room, but a cupboard with doors hanging loose was all that remained. An arched door led to a back room, and Millie, stepping carefully around scattered glass, went to look.
That must’ve been the living quarters. It was gorgeous. Not the dusty windswept emptiness. Her eyes swept over the cosy space. There was an arched alcove near a fireplace. She imagined it cleaned, painted a cerulean blue, sun streaming through the clear windows. The room needed seagrass rugs, wicker chairs and cushions, plants, maybe hand-painted pottery. Her earlier nerves disappeared as her imagination took over. The place was fabulous. It just needed a little TLC, maybe a warm fire in the alcove.
She poked into the empty fireplace and found not only a sealed hessian bag of chopped wood but a fire starter kit. Whoever had owned this cottage long ago had cared for it.
“George?” she called, to be heard above the rain pelting the roof. “Can you do something masculine?”
“What?” He came through carrying a large metal can full of glass shards.
“Light a fire?”
She left him to wrestle with the wood and went into the small bathroom at the back.
Her clothes were dripping, but the shorts and vest in her tote were perfectly dry and still smelled of sun and salt. She stripped off everything, including her underwear, and squeezed as much water as she could into the bathroom sink.
The taps gurgled and coughed, then produced clean running water. A frame for hanging laundry was suspended over the bath tub. Standing naked in the bathroom, she thought again that someone must have loved this place once upon a time. They had left it ready for the next occupant.
Her beach towel still had a little sand, but that couldn’t be helped. At least she could dry her skin.
George, it seemed, was a dab hand with wood and kindling. Millie found a respectable flame dancing in the grate. He’d even managed to wedge the front door shut to stop it banging open in the wind and rain. But he was less accomplished with the cleaning.
Millie tried not to laugh at the sight of him using the flat edge of a log to sweep the floor of debris into a tin can. The wet floor didn’t help, and neither did his clothes, which dripped and left a water trail in the dust.
“Oh, for crying out loud, have you never cleaned a floor?”
He looked up and gave her a smirk.
She handed him the towel. “You’d better dry yourself a bit.”
The hessian bag, now empty of wood, should make a useable mop. As she crouched down to try, she glimpsed something out of the corner of her eye—a movement, a flash of golden skin.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to dry myself,” he said halfway through pulling his wet polo shirt above his head. Dear God, even this simple movement was too sexy.
“There is a bathroom at the back,” she said, quickly averting her gaze.
While he was gone, doing God only knew what with his body—and she was doing her best not to imagine—she focussed on the hessian-mop in her hand. She cleaned most of the floor of grime and rubbish. But no sooner had she finished than more water puddled under the holes in the ceiling.
At least the space near the fire wasn’t under any of the leaks. Someone had tiled a small circle in front of the grate, probably for a cosy hearth rug in far-gone days. Now the bare slates, an inch higher than the rest of the floor, were the only dry part of the cottage.
She washed her hands in the kitchen sink and refilled her water bottle. One of the cupboards under the counter revealed a few empty tins which would do to catch rain drops.
There was also a large folded blanket which seemed surprisingly clean.
She went to the bathroom door, which was ajar, and knocked while looking the other way. “You can wear this until your clothes dry.”
“Thanks.” His naked arm, biceps outlined under his skin, reached through the door and took the blanket. “Wait,” he said.
She tried not to think about her underwear hanging in the bathroom. A moment later, his arm reached out again with the towel. “Better hang this over the fire.” The man had beautiful arms. There were smooth brown hairs from wrist to elbow, but almost none on his upper arm. Was it this same arm which had held her that night on the walk home? And way back in London after the accident?
“Millie?” he called, waving the towel. She took it, unable to speak, and walked away from the bathroom door and the man behind it.
Replacement strategy. She needed a safe picture to replace the dangerous one she’d just left behind.
She spread the towel on the floor in front of the fire and tried to imagine furniture. The kitchen and front room would be a perfect café. She tried to make her mind focus on small wooden tables, benches. Paint them yellow and lilac, which would look beautiful together. Paint the chairs green, orange, purple and fuchsia; make the café look like a flower garden. And outside the door, in the sun, there could be little pots with herbs.
She placed the empty tins under the worst of the leaks in the back room. The rain drops tinkled and pinged like mismatched xylophones. It was already cold and getting colder as the storm raged outside.
She knelt on the towel in front of the fire and held her hands over the flames. A thin cotton vest might have been fine for a private swim and a sunbathe, but it was wholly inadequate at night with a chill wind blowing in from the sea.
Goose bumps rose on her arms and legs. She tried to rub some warmth into them when, suddenly, she felt a blanket drape over her.
“You look cold,” George said, standing behind her in nothing but a pair of form-fitting black boxer briefs.
She looked away but not before her
eyes caught a glimpse of wide shoulders and a scattering of brown hair—a dark shadow like a blurred cross over his chest and down towards his flat stomach.
Oh God, until recently, I thought his arms were my biggest problem.
“What about you?”
“I’ll be fine,” he said.
Of course he wasn’t fine. But pneumonia, George decided, was easier than trying to keep his eyes off Millie’s naked legs—nicely shaped with velvety skin. Covering her with a blanket was a mercy to him.
If only the bloody-minded woman would cooperate.
“Absolutely not!” She took the blanket off and held it up towards him.
His mouth went dry. Whatever that ridiculous skimpy cotton top was supposed to be, it showed more than it hid.
He should close his eyes, shift his gaze, but he couldn’t. She looked delicious. Firelight caught tiny golden hairs on her sun-kissed skin. He was grateful, from the bottom of his heart, that she didn’t look back at him; he had nothing to hide his body’s reaction.
A gust of wind whistled from broken front window to broken back window and left goose bumps on them both. Millie shivered, but she still held out the blanket to him.
With her arm up like that, he had a clear side view of her vest stretching over her full breasts and her nipples clearly outlined. Desire hammered in his loins, and his body thrummed.
She’s cold, that’s all. It’s not about you, numb-brain, nothing to do with you. She’s just cold.
There was nowhere dry enough to sit except in the small circle before the fire, an impossibly intimate space.
For God’s sake, he couldn’t fight on three fronts simultaneously. He made a brutal effort to curb his body.
Just then his phone started ringing. He’d left it along with the rest of his pocket’s contents by the side of the fireplace.
Saved by the bell.
“Do you need to answer this?” Millie asked without looking at him.
Over her shoulder, he could see the caller ID flash on the screen.
