Home to Turtle Bay

by Marion Lennox

‘Thank you.’

  ‘But you’d better not mess me around.’ Way to break the charm, Isabella, I thought wryly, but she was oblivious. ‘You’re only as good as your last birth. If anything goes wrong, Lionel will sue you to bankruptcy.’

  ‘That’s his right.’

  That brought silence. She chewed her bottom lip for a while and I could see fear working behind her lovely facade. On the surface Isabella had the world at her feet—just as on the surface I’m mostly confident and in control—but who’s to know what goes on under the surface?

  I thought of Muriel’s extraordinary outburst. I’d never seen her surface crack; not once since I was seven. I didn’t think it could.

  ‘Lionel doesn’t understand,’ Isabella muttered, suddenly almost wistful, and I hauled my attention back to my client.

  I’d agree with her there. I’d met her husband. I wish I hadn’t. Isabella must surely be aware of Lionel’s extramarital activities, and Muriel’s appalling assessment of her marriage wouldn’t have helped at all.

  Think of a tactful answer, Jenny. Fast.

  ‘It’s hard for a man to understand pregnancy.’

  That meant more silence. Finally, though, Isabella slid her silver-painted toes into shoes that were far too high for a heavily pregnant woman, and rose, reluctantly, to leave.

  ‘It’s just … I feel so fat,’ she whispered, and her face puckered.

  ‘You look lovely,’ I told her, even going so far as to pat her on the arm. It’s not the sort of gesture that comes easily to me, but I’ve learned it works. ‘You realise pregnancy’s the latest fashion? Everyone who’s anyone is having a baby. Your friends must be so jealous.’

  ‘My friends … yeah. I guess I’ll see more of them after the baby’s come. It’s such an effort to …’ She stopped herself. Admitting it took hours to keep herself looking as gorgeous as she did? No. ‘I don’t suppose you’d come with me now to grab a latté?’ she asked. ‘I’m even drinking decaf, just like you told me.’

  I could hear desperation behind her words. Another appeal to be her friend? But there was no way I could accept. Even if I wanted to get involved—which I didn’t—there wasn’t time. ‘I’m sorry, Isabella. It sounds like fun, but you can see that I have other women waiting for their own appointments.’

  Isabella’s doll-face lost even more of its sparkle. ‘I just wish it was over. If I knew that Lionel would stay with me … ’

  I wondered that, too, but it wasn’t my place to say it. ‘I’ll be here, even if he’s not.’

  ‘You’ll be back from this island?’

  ‘I’m not going to any island.’

  ‘But it’s Nautilus. It’s gorgeous.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘I saw it last year when we went to Sydney for New Year’s Eve. You should have seen the fireworks on the harbour … Awesome. On the way back we stayed at Lord Howe Island so Lionel could dive and we flew over Nautilus on the way.’ Her face lit up again. ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘No, but … ’

  ‘It’s about three hundred miles off the Australian coast, out from Sydney, higher though so it’s warmer. From the air it looks fabulous. Apparently they have the best surfing in the world, or so Lionel’s partner told us, but there’s nowhere decent to stay. Most of the island is some sort of national park, and he says the locals hardly ever sell. If you’ve inherited land there, you could be a squillionaire.’

  ‘A surfing school doesn’t sound like land.’

  ‘But your grandma called it a farm so it’d have to have land. And if it’s a surfing school there’ll be a beach. Do you really not know?’

  ‘I don’t.’ I opened the door and stood aside to usher her out. She walked out, then stopped and turned back.

  ‘I don’t know anything about the Kelly your grandma married.’ For this walking who’s-who of Manhattan aristocracy, not knowing was clearly bugging her. ‘Where does your name come from? Kelly? Your grandma’s parents were Fletchers. She’s only been with Al Heinrigger for about two years. Lionel says his family has more money than the Clayburghs. Before that she was with Max Felderhouse. He’s loaded, too, but she wasn’t married to him, either.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I said flatly, feeling more than a little uncomfortable to be having this discussion in my waiting room.

  ‘Then who’s Grandpa Kelly?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Ooh.’ Isabella was suddenly a bloodhound on a scent. ‘How cool. A mystery … He must be an islander, and now he’s left you a surfing school.’ She was obviously using this to push her own worries aside, and I didn’t have the heart to stop her. And the situation didn’t hurt me. I was clearly rising in her estimation—an obstetrician with a surfing school on an island her associates lusted after. Awesome, she’d said. A surfing school must be the ultimate designer toy.

  ‘You so need to see it. But will you have time before I deliver?’ Some fast arithmetic was going on. Her face cleared. ‘If you won’t give me a caesarean then we have over a month. You could get there and back in two weeks. That gives you heaps of time. How will you get there? Will you hire a jet?’

  ‘I can’t hire a jet.’ Good grief.

  ‘Of course you can.’ Isabella was off and running. Or off and surfing. ‘I’ll ask Lionel to lend you ours. You won’t let me fly from now on anyway, so we’ll hardly be needing it. Now, you’ll need new swimsuits, and a good tan. Liselle on Fifth is always booked out, but tell her I sent you and she’ll bump someone. You need three coats, but the colour lasts ages. Look.’ She lifted her skin-tight top and exposed her pregnant bulge. For the second time now, she looked almost tender. ‘So smooth.’ She hesitated, thinking hard. ‘Luggage. There’s a new line just come in at …’

  I tried not to giggle. ‘Isabella. I can’t just drop everything and go island hopping.’

  ‘Why not?’ She sounded astonished.

  ‘I have women booked for births. Three of those ladies are here right now.’ They were, too, and they looked just as interested as Isabella. Damn it, read your glossy magazines. At the look on their faces I tugged her back into my consulting room and pulled the door closed again. I was scared of what Isabella was about to say— and sure enough, she said it.

  ‘So what? Miss a few births. They’re not important. As long as you’re back for me.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Jenny, a surfing school.’ Isabella was suddenly deadly serious. ‘On Nautilus. I’d even swap Lionel’s grandmother’s diamonds for it. More,’ she added expansively. ‘I’d even swap my shoes.’

  ‘Your shoes?’

  The beauty’s face twisted into a wry smile. We both looked down at our shoes. Shoes were my one indulgence—I loved them, but mine weren’t a patch on Isabella’s. ‘Okay, maybe not my shoes,’ she conceded. ‘But a surfing school … Jenny, you need to go.’

  I saw my next clients. I may have been a little preoccupied, but they were forgiving. They’d sat in my waiting room for long enough to know that something unusual was going on, and if Isabella seemed fascinated, so were they.

  Muriel left without another word to me, but she left a message. ‘Tell my granddaughter that if she goes to Nautilus, I wash my hands of her.’

  She left the dog behind. When Nora tried to protest she gave her a look of scorn and left anyway. By the time I’d finished consulting, Nora had sent out for a hamburger. The dog had therefore been fed and was sleeping under her desk.

  ‘She’s lovely,’ Nora told me. ‘If a little depressed. She ate the hamburger, though. Her name’s Drifter. It says so on her tag.’

  ‘What sort of name is that for a dog?’ I bent down and stroked her behind her white, shaggy ears. She seemed placid enough but sort of resigned. Worried?

  ‘You and me both,’ I told her.

  ‘She looks sad,’ Nora said. ‘Maybe she’s missing your grandma.’

  ‘She’s not Muriel’s dog.’
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  ‘Then whose? Oh, and a courier’s just delivered a letter from some legal firm. You want it?’

  I wanted it. I left her with the dog. I sank into my chair in my nice, safe consulting room and slit it open.

  It seemed I had indeed inherited a farm. Two hundred acres on Nautilus Island, one farmhouse (including contents) at a place called Turtle Bay, and one boarding house in the island’s commercial centre. The letter said the boarding house was set up as a hostel. It’d been recently renovated but strangely it had been unused for thirty years and was unused now. I also received the title to one registered surfing school.

  And one large dog.

  The concept was surreal.

  I rose and pressed my nose against the window, staring across the grey Manhattan cityscape for a long time. Finally I told Nora she could go home, then rang Richard.

  Thirty minutes later Richard breezed in. He looked crisp, expensive, controlled—a surgeon at the top of his game. He’d obviously moved fast—or his secretary had. He was already carrying printouts of an internet search on Nautilus Island, and I’d never seen him look so excited.

  ‘Honey, this is fantastic! A legacy on Nautilus … I’ve done a fast read. It’s north of Sydney but a long way out, Australian territory but only just. There’s a dairy community that exports specialty cheese. I guess that’s where your farm comes in. There’s a tiny town, imaginatively called The Cove, but not much industry. The locals seem mostly to be the descendants of an early shipwreck. The survivors were Scottish which explains why a dairy industry started in such a place. Oh, and it’s famous for its surf.’

  ‘Which explains the surfing school.’

  ‘I’d imagine, yes. There’s a tiny hospital providing basic needs but locals fly to Sydney for anything major. There’s a seaplane service or helicopter evacuation for medical emergencies. No airport. It has a school and a couple of churches and shops. There’s also some sort of boarding house—that must be what the lawyers are talking about—but it seems to have been closed forever so there’s no tourist accommodation. Surfing fanatics hitch to the island on fishing boats, but they need to either beg a bed from the locals or pitch a tent. But here’s the best part. A yachting resort’s mooted for construction—somewhere to moor between Sydney and New Caledonia. None of the neighbouring islands have a safe harbour. Developers are sniffing the place in anticipation, but the island is mountainous and there isn’t a lot of flat beachfront to go around. Apparently the locals hold for generations and won’t sell, but it seems the land you’ve been left is on Turtle Bay, one of the few flat spots on the island. So there you are, honey. It could be a fortune for the taking.’

  Finally I got a word in. ‘Richard, there’s a dog.’

  He’d been too preoccupied with his maps and his facts to notice, but Drifter was limp under my desk. Her body language was getting more and more desolate—everyone’s deserted me and I don’t belong here. Richard stared down at her and she stared back, her brown eyes limpid pools of misery.

  ‘What the …’

  ‘She’s part of the package,’ I told him. ‘She’s my grandfather’s dog. She was delivered to Muriel who brought her straight to me.’

  ‘You can’t keep a dog.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Take her to a shelter.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’ I’d been staring into those depressed eyes for too long.

  ‘Of course you can. Make a donation.’

  ‘Richard! She’s my grandfather’s.’

  ‘And he’s dead. I didn’t even know you had a grandfather.’

  ‘Everyone has a grandfather.’ I was parroting Isabella.

  ‘You know what I mean. Okay, you had a grandfather and now you know who he was, but he’s dead. You don’t owe him anything and you don’t want his dog.’

  ‘She must have been flown all the way from Nautilus.’

  ‘Send her straight back.’ He frowned. ‘Quarantine might be an issue but if she’s only just arrived … We need to get her back to the airport holding facility fast. Then all that’s left is for you to get to the island and back before the Clayburgh baby arrives.’

  ‘I can’t go!’ To say I was astounded was an understatement.

  ‘Of course you can, sweetheart.’ He kissed me briefly, a man in a hurry. ‘You’d be crazy not to. This could be the opportunity of a lifetime. It may make us a fortune. Alleviate your conscience and take the dog with you. Find someone to care for it when you get there—pay if you must. Then check out the island, figure the value of this place and put it on the market. It shouldn’t take you more than a week. I’ll put my secretary onto organising flights—for you, and for the dog.’

  ‘You can’t come with me?’

  ‘Have you forgotten the conference?’ He sounded shocked. ‘Sweetheart, I’m the keynote speaker.’

  ‘I … no.’ Only I had. I’d forgotten everything.

  I had a grandfather—or I’d had one.

  I had a surfing school on the other side of the world at a place called Turtle Bay.

  Richard closed the door behind him. I was left with the letter, the dog and a growing certainty.

  He was right. To sell without seeing—and risk being conned out of a fortune—did seem naive. And maybe I could learn something about a grandfather I’d never met.

  I knew three facts about my family. One, I’d been born in Nepal. Two, my mother was called Sonia and three, my grandmother was Muriel. I wouldn’t mind knowing a bit more. I couldn’t keep the dog, and dumping it in a shelter in New York seemed heartless. And Muriel had been so adamant about me not going that I thought, Damn it, I am going! Me and Drifter.

  A guy in uniform arrived, sent by Richard.

  ‘I’ll take the dog, ma’am,’ he told me. ‘She’s being returned to Nautilus?’

  ‘I … yes.’

  ‘We’ll take care of her from now on, then,’ he said and he left, tugging Drifter behind him.

  She looked back at me once, and the reproach in her eyes almost did me in.

  ‘You’re going home,’ I told her but the door had already closed behind them.

  She was gone, and I was going after her.

  2

  bump n. a long, low swell, far out; a warning of what’s to come.

  Four days later, fake tan still sticky—for future reference, three coats is overkill—and with a new bikini that cost more per square inch of fabric than any item of clothing I’d ever owned, I was in the sky, heading for Nautilus Island.

  I didn’t accept Isabella’s offer of the jet. ‘Too risky,’ Richard decreed. ‘Blurring professional boundaries is asking for trouble. Besides, there’s no runway.’

  But I did accept Isabella’s advice on almost everything else.

  And it was exciting. I have the pale skin that goes with being a redhead, but now I was tanned. I’d done a fast spend on new clothes, conservative but classy, and all the way to the island I savoured the prospect of me, Dr Jennifer Kelly, proprietor of an island surfing school, sunning myself on golden beaches in between negotiating the sale of my prestigious coastal property.

  I’d negotiated—with difficulty—two weeks’ leave. Richard was in the middle of his conference. ‘You’ll be fine alone,’ he’d said, but I wasn’t alone. Drifter had been kept in quarantine until I left. She was now in the back of the plane.

  And then there was Muriel.

  I’d thought Muriel would have a stroke on the spot when I called from my office to say I was going. She was almost apoplectic. But late that night her return phone call woke me. ‘You’re a fool. You can’t let well enough alone. Why do you want to stick your nose into what’s none of your business?’

  ‘If Grandpa’s left me land then it is my business.’

  ‘Nonsense. And don’t call him Grandpa. You’re out of your depth.’

  So I was. But I was going.

  ‘Then I’m coming with you,’ she’d snapped and I almost dropped the phone. Me and Muriel together on an island on the other s
ide of the world? The thought was unbelievable. But it seemed it was happening.

  We flew to Sydney, where Richard had organised a seaplane flight for the last leg. That was where the first hitch occurred. Muriel’s baggage—all of it—was happily still with us, but mine seemed to have detoured to places unknown.

  At least Drifter hadn’t been misplaced. I checked on her as we transferred and her look of black depression hadn’t changed. ‘I’m taking you home, girl,’ I told her again, but she looked less than impressed.

  There wasn’t a lot I could do to make things better. On we went, with me thanking my stars that at least I had a toothbrush and phone charger in my carry-on. Muriel griped about the size of the seaplane, the bumpiness of the flight and the fact that they didn’t serve champagne. I watched the sapphire sea and the amazing islands we were flying over. I checked out the gorgeous fake tan on my arms and imagined how it would feel when there was a real sun-glow on them. Jen Kelly. Beach Bunny. Islander.

  And what an island! It came into view, sunlit and stunning, mountainous inland, with undulating farmland near the coast and the sea stretching on forever. As we descended, details came into focus. The plane circled low before landing and I had an eagle’s view of the town. There was a miniscule harbour with fishing boats tied up at a quaint little wharf, and a few whitewashed shops running up the hill. General store. Post office. Church and school. A long brick building with cyclone fencing all around. Could that be Henry’s boarding house? I could see little else.

  Uh-oh, I thought. What would Muriel do without shopping?

  But the island was beautiful. There were masses of frangipani trees and jacarandas behind secluded coves with sandy beaches. Then there were the mountains, soaring skyward like great green sentinels. From sea level they seemed to be covered in rainforest, undisturbed forever.

  The seaplane swept down onto the water, pulling up smartly at a floating platform attached to the town’s only jetty. Two people were on the wharf, a man and a woman, both elderly, waving us a welcome.

  It took us time to get out of the plane. Muriel objected to the wobble of the floating platform. In the end the pilot picked her up and carried her to the wharf, with querulous objections all the way. Drifter slunk out of her cage, cringing against my legs.