‘So I should,’ I retorted. ‘After last night …’
‘You’d think you’d be used to it by now.’
‘I’ll never be used to it.’ I kissed him on the lips and felt his arms tighten around me. This still left me in wonder. How could I have possibly thought the most important thing in life was to be self-contained?
Bridget was sleeping in a redecorated version of my old bedroom. In fact, Bridget had accompanied us on our honeymoon, for, to quote Bridget, how can you be a family if you aren’t together? Her logic was faultless. We’d had trouble not taking everyone.
But everyone was certainly important. This had been our first night back in Henry’s house. We’d revamped it, putting in a new kitchen and bathroom, new windows to block out the sand, new furniture. Long term we intended to combine both farms. We’d extend Henry’s house—for whoever happened to come along—but for now Muriel and Carrie were in Jack and Bridget’s house.
The two women were having a very interesting time.
For Al’s boat was still anchored in Nautilus Harbour. He’d sent his crew home, and every morning he putted around to Turtle Bay in his tender. He spent most of his days with Muriel—and with Carrie and Fraser and Bridget, and whoever else chanced along. For, still super fit in his retirement (and ten years younger than Muriel though we don’t mention that), Al had looked around the island with pleasure, and decided that maybe Muriel had made the right decision. So why shouldn’t he stay? Who knew what could happen in the future. Life held such promise.
And then things got even better. For Al had dusted off his medical skills and decided he didn’t mind seeing a few patients now and then. His medical career had always been an aside to his money-making, but his intelligence hadn’t been tested lately. He didn’t want to get rusty, and a spot of island medicine might even be fun. What did Muriel think?
Muriel thought maybe he should ask Carrie. Carrie thought adding another doctor to the island’s population was the best of ideas.
Fraser still spent his time sitting in the garden with Muriel, or strolling along the sand dunes with Carrie, or surfing with Bridget and Muriel and whoever else wanted to join. Muriel and Al? Muriel and Fraser? Carrie and … whoever? Nothing seemed clear anymore but it didn’t seem to matter. For now friendship was what was important. Why worry about the future when the present was excellent?
It was truly excellent, I thought, curving into my husband’s body. This was my place. My home. We even had the surfing school up and running, with a roster of enthusiastic locals lined up to help.
Life had changed so much. I’d fought so hard to be in charge of my world, but finally I’d found there was no such thing as being in charge. Everything was open to change.
I thought fleetingly of Richard, returned to the sterile environment he treasured so much, and I thought of him with sympathy. He’d find someone else to fill the void, but then, it was a very small void.
I’d filled my own, but I hadn’t known until now how huge it had been. How had I ever thought I could live without what I had right now?
And then it started.
It was an earthquake, I thought, or maybe a landslide. The noise was deafening. It was all around, a cacophony of banging and shouting. There were things crashing onto the tin roof of the cottage. There was shouting and laughter and singing. The farmhouse was shaking on its foundations.
‘Bridget,’ I breathed, and Jack was swearing and tugging on his pants.
‘I might have known. If they’ve scared Bridge …’
‘Who …’ The noise was building by the minute. There were bagpipes playing outside our bedroom window. And drums. ‘You might have known what?’
‘It’s a tin-kettling. A housewarming. Island tradition when you move into a new house. I guess they think this qualifies.’
‘At six in the morning?’ My voice was a squeak as I searched frantically for my robe. I couldn’t find it. Where were my gorgeous negligees? In desperation I hauled a sheet around me—anything to make myself decent.
‘It’ll be the whole island.’ His grin returned as he headed out the door. ‘Welcome to Nautilus Island, Dr Kelly. But if they’ve scared Bridge …’
They hadn’t. I reached Jack’s side as he swung open the door of her bedroom.
Bridget’s bed was empty.
The noise reached a crescendo.
‘What …’
I stood, stunned, and Jack’s arm wrapped around my waist in a gesture of protection as the front door burst open.
Fraser was standing on the doorstep with Bridget perched gleefully on his shoulders. Muriel was beside them and it was hard to tell who had the widest smile. Drifter was there, too, her tail wagging as if this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to a dog.
And there were more. Lots more. Familiar faces were everywhere, with everyone holding at least one instrument of hullabaloo.
In one hand Bridget held an ancient tin kettle—huge and black and dented from centuries of doing just this job. Her other hand held the blackened poker she was using as a drumstick. As the noise behind her died away, she held up her poker arm in an imperious demand for silence. She waited for complete hush—then beat on the kettle three more times.
‘Welcome to your home,’ Bridget announced in full rehearsed town-crier mode, as Jack and I stared at her in amazement. ‘From all of us.’
They were all there, jammed into Henry’s garden. The whole of Nautilus Island. Muriel, Carrie and Al. Bernard and Alice, cradling their tiny son. Sally. Mary and Clive and all the little McConachies. An assortment of what looked like every dog in the town, with Drifter as pack leader.
The newest intake of the Dr J.R. Kelly’s Surfing School was there as well, with a sort-of symphonic band—consisting mostly of pots, pans, broom handles and trashcan lids. Truly horrible. The local schoolteacher had lined up the island’s schoolkids with tambourines, castanets, drums. All the patients I’d met and scores I was yet to meet were there in force, laughing at our shock.
Even my geriatric cows were lined up by the dairy, Christabelle in front, all staring over the fence as if they’d very much like to be included.
They were all there.
This was my island. My people.
And … behind the crowd, out on the gravel, was a gleaming white minibus. On the side was a painting of a doodlebug—my doodlebug—riding a surfboard. The bug looked as if he’d been bandaged all over, but as he surfed his bandages had flown off behind him. He was flying free.
I stared, unbelieving, and read the logo.
Surfmobile.
And underneath … Dr J.R. Kelly’s Surfing School—International. Weirdly, I suddenly thought that the name needed to be changed. With the number of volunteers we had on board now … Everyone’s Surfing School?
‘It’s a gift from someone called Isabella Clayburgh,’ Carrie called. ‘She organised it to be delivered this morning. She says to tell you she’s setting up an endowment—she thinks the idea of this school should go worldwide. Oh, and she’s sent gumboots. She says more are on the way. Look!’
And she held up a foot.
She was wearing designer gumboots made of quality matte rubber. They were silver, almost knee high, with silver knitted cuffs at the top, and each boot was etched on the side with a crimson, surfing doodlebug.
They looked a cross between a fashion statement and, well, a gumboot.
I looked around, stunned, and saw almost half the islanders were wearing them, kids included. As if on cue, legs were raised. Boots were waving everywhere, a mixture of little guy doodlebugs in board shorts, doodlebugs in bikinis—or both.
‘She’s made a deal with Mrs. Firth,’ Carrie called. ‘They’re now stocked in bulk. Cheaper than the ordinary ones.’
A deal. Mrs. Firth.
Isabella?
This was crazy, but then … so many crazy things were now my reality.
I was trying to take it all in, but I was also clutching my sheet. My sheet seemed important.
‘No,’ Bridget said importantly. Fraser had placed her down on legs that were growing steadier every day. Now she tugged at Jack’s hand and he swept her up into his arms. ‘We have lots of things. We have breakfast on the beach.’
‘It’s on trestles down in the cove,’ Carrie told us, her smile almost splitting her face. ‘Everything you want. It’s a feast for everyone.’
‘The surfboards are already down there,’ Bridget announced. ‘So after breakfast everyone can go surfing.’
‘And we’d better hurry,’ someone yelled from the back of the pack. ‘’Cos Tootsie’s eggs are starting to hatch. Or someone’s. Who’s got the list of which nest is which? Jack, do you have ID wristbands for multiple births?’
‘Do turtles have wrists?’ someone else demanded.
So amid general laughter, everyone went down to the beach, to eat, to surf, and to watch the miracle of birth.
One of my mothers once sent me a card with a quote from Henry David Thoreau.
‘Every child begins the world again.’
Every child.
Every turtle hatchling?
I needed to find something to wear that wasn’t a sheet, and go find out.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Home to Turtle Bay has been a long time in gestation. Like a turtle hatchling, it lay under the surface, slowly developing until it finally emerged to the light.
I need to thank Kate Paice, whose initial enthusiasm stirred me to believe I could write a long book. Huge thanks also to Sheila Hodgson, whose encouragement and depth of knowledge continues to keep my writing skills up to the mark.
Thanks to the team at Harlequin Australia. To Sue Brockhoff, whose initial reaction to my book was instant and wonderful. To Rachael Donovan, who loved Turtle Bay from the start and who worked tirelessly to present the book I’m proud to present to you. To Julia Knapman who did the hard yards, pulling a messy manuscript into the final, polished product, and to Annabel Adair who crossed my t’s and dotted my i’s, generally making me seem a much more polished author than I am. To all the team behind the production of Home to Turtle Bay … thank you so much.
I need to thank my fellow writers who’ve read, encouraged, read, encouraged, ad infinitum. There are many, but in particular … Anne Gracie, Kelly Hunter, Barb Hannay … your generosity is endless, and your input into this book has been invaluable. As has the assistance of the rest of my beloved writing group, the Maytoners, who’ve provided me with years of retreats, enthusiasm, advice, empathy, skills, the sheer will to keep doing what I love. Trish Morey, Fiona McArthur, Alison Roberts, Carol Marinelli, Meredith Weber, Bronwyn Jameson … you guys have kept faith in me and my writing and I’d be lost without you. Also Fiona Lowe, Jennifer Kloester and the rest of the Geelong group … you’re always there for me and I love you for it.
Then there’s Elizabeth and Mary Michele. You know how much your support means to me. I’m blessed to have your unfailing friendship.
I’m also blessed to live in an incredible seaside community. Queenscliff’s beauty and its people give me constant inspiration, and I’m supported by more people than I can name.
Finally I need to thank my family. Anne and Dan, Evan and Marissa … your love, your tech support, your help and your enthusiasm are unfailing, and love’s there, too. Then there’s Lucy and Mika. Who can write anything but happy endings when there’s Lucy and Mika? I’m also immensely grateful to my nutty, bouncy Bonnie, whose four legs and waggy tail remind me there’s a world outside my stories, and that if I keep walking, stories are everywhere.
And finally, thank you to David. You hold my life together.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Day after day MARION sits at her computer and makes up stories about imaginary people. She takes her coffee to her study overlooking the bay, chooses her music and sits and daydreams.
Marion’s first attempt at writing romance was published by Harlequin Mills and Boon in 1990—a worthy testament to her family’s ability to survive on cheese sandwiches and spaghetti. Since then she’s written over a hundred romance novels, selling countless millions, in up to thirty languages and in over a hundred and thirty countries.
You can tell from Marion’s books that she’s come from a farming community, and she’s always been drawn to the coast. Magically she now lives beside a Ramsar-listed wetland, on a peninsula stretching towards the Southern Ocean. When she needs ideas she floats across the bay in her kayak, walks the beach with her dog or pokes about in rock pools. The flocks of wading birds have her fascinated—so many face migrations of epic proportions. Infant skates scoot out from under her kayak. Seal pups, migrating whales and dolphins seem to surface when she most needs inspiration. Often she simply sits and watches the wash of water in the rock pools at low tide. It’s all magic.
Then comes the hard part. It takes all the discipline she can muster to sit and write her stories down. Up until now she’s kept her novels short, but with Home to Turtle Bay, she’s immersed herself in farm, surf, dogs, turtles, fun and drama, to bring you a story with greater depth than anything she’s written before.
Marion’s had thirteen nominations for Romance Writers of America’s RITA (Best Traditional Romance), winning twice, and twenty-three nominations for Romance Writers of Australia’s Romantic Book of the Year, winning three times. In 2017 she became only the third writer to be admitted into Romance Writers of Australia’s Hall of Fame.
If you like you can email Marion at [email protected]. She’ll show her family with pride—‘See? Real people do like the things that go on in my head.’
ISBN: 9781489252661
TITLE: HOME TO TURTLE BAY
First Australian Publication 2018
Copyright © 2018 Marion Lennox
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher:
Mira
An imprint of Harlequin Enterprises (Australia) Pty Limited (ABN 47 001 180 918), a subsidiary of
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty Limited (ABN 36 009 913 517)
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth St
SYDNEY NSW 2000
AUSTRALIA
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
® and ™ are trademarks owned by Harlequin Enterprises Limited or its corporate affiliates and used by others under licence. Trademarks marked with an ® are registered in Australia and in other countries. Contact [email protected] for details.
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
Home to Turtle Bay Page 36
