Wayward Heart

by Cathryn Hein

  At the coast road Digby turned left. He wound down his window and let the sound and scent of the Southern Ocean fill the car. Behind him, perched on a high promontory, Port Andrews’s lighthouse flashed streaks of man-made lightning through the night. Wave crests flared white then fizzled away where off-shore breakers crashed against the dangerous reefs that lurked further out to sea, and had embedded so much tragedy into the area’s maritime history.

  He slowed to fifty for the town. The harbour’s rocky breakwater stretched out to sea, keeping the moored boats of the fishing fleet safe within its embrace. A stand of Norfolk Island pines blocked his view of the jetty and beach. Further on, the trees ended and lawns and playgrounds gave way to grassy dunes and the sweeping pearlescent sand of Admella Beach.

  The turnoff to Levenham came and went. One day Digby might brave that route again, but not tonight. One glimpse of Rocking Horse Hill hauling its menacing bulk skyward through the darkness and any solace he’d earned for himself over the last half hour or so would vanish.

  The hill wasn’t the only thing that kept him travelling eastward. The sight of Admella Beach rekindled his curiosity about Jas and her strange behaviour in the park the previous week. The coast road would take him straight past her gate. He had a sudden desire to see if it was locked.

  Half a kilometre past the town’s outskirts, where the land gave way to more dairy farms and wide drains dumped water from the reclaimed wetlands into the sea, Digby spotted Jas’s small white weatherboard house. Although the windows were lit, the house appeared isolated and lonely. There was nothing growing here except dense boobialla, beach spinifex grass and a few squat trees, trunks made crooked by endless gusts and canopies truncated by sandblasting winds.

  Her gate was open. Digby slowed, but didn’t indicate. She’d be happy inside her little house, watching telly or reading, or whatever Jas did in her evening hours. His arrival, the waft of sadness that surrounded him these days, would only spoil her contentment.

  The entrance slid past. He accelerated, his heart thudding with anxiety. Despite the evening’s events he felt a pull of need for connection with someone: human contact, even if the only exchange was silence. It was a thought as disquieting as it was compelling. He wasn’t used to that need and it frightened him.

  It took another 25 kilometres for Digby to realise he wanted to turn around—25 kilometres and a hundred sweaty hand-twists around the steering wheel. Even then, as he found a place to make a U-turn, he wasn’t certain he’d have the guts to actually pass through the gate. He did it though, bumping down Jasmine’s eroded drive fifteen minutes later with his headlights flashing against the walls of her cottage, his breathing rapid.

  He turned off the engine and studied the house. A curtain jerked open a fraction and was quickly released. No turning back now; she’d seen him. Yet Digby’s fingers remained tense and stuck on the car’s door handle.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to urge himself on. He could do this. It was nothing. A quick hello to see how she was, ask why she needed to lock her gate. Where the defeat in her body had come from. A few minutes. He didn’t even have to go inside. Do it all on the doorstep then walk away and drive some more until he was tired enough to return home and confront the emptiness of his rooms without wanting to break down.

  Digby opened his eyes. Jasmine’s motionless form was outlined behind the kitchen window. For a few moments longer they watched one another from behind their glass shields, until the stupidity of it had Digby finally opening the door and walking to her front step. The air was redolent with the smell of ozone and vibrated with the tide’s constant rumble.

  With no doorbell that he could see, Digby rapped on the screen door’s aluminium frame.

  It seemed to take a strange amount of time for Jas to move from the kitchen, as if she was as hesitant and wary as he was. Locks turned and the door crept ajar, prevented from opening fully by a thick brassy chain. Jasmine’s face and body were in shadow as she hovered a good pace away from the narrow cleft of space.

  Flooded with uncertainty and incapable of a hello, Digby grimaced what he hoped would pass for a greeting and stared sideways back towards the village.

  ‘Digby?’ She sounded astonished. Light vanished as the door closed, followed by a rattle as the chain was unfastened. Then the door was slung wide and Jas was fumbling a key into the screen-door lock.

  The security had him frowning. He’d been to Jasmine’s numerous times for summer barbecues and birthdays; once as an extra for a dinner party when another guest pulled out. He couldn’t recall door chains or security screens. And key-locking a security door while she was inside was dangerous. What if there was a fire?

  He stepped back as the screen swung outward.

  Jasmine’s expression softened as she regarded him. ‘Bad night, huh?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Want to come in?’

  Digby glanced at his car, at the road, at the barren landscape of her garden.

  ‘Just for a while,’ she went on. ‘I can boil the kettle. Make tea or coffee. I think I have some hot chocolate somewhere.’

  Digby began to blink, his focus on the wall past her head. He could feel the moisture building on his eyelashes and hated himself for it. Hot chocolate. How could he have forgotten that? Felicity had loved it and he’d always made sure to buy her containers of the best Belgian flakes, spoiling her. And himself. Kissing her after she’d drunk it was like tasting heaven.

  ‘Wine then,’ said Jas, lightly touching his arm. ‘Come on. I could do with a glass myself.’

  She held the door open, smiling encouragement. For a heartbeat Digby hesitated, then he took in her kind smile and felt the neediness rise again.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She led him to the brightly lit kitchen. It was small and hadn’t been modernised, but Jas had filled it with colour. Pink retro canisters were lined up along the bench, their contents spelled out in angled white modernist font. She’d placed stickers on the painted cupboard doors—flowers and butterflies, vibrant happy things. The fridge was covered in magnets holding photos of her family, of Jas on her parents’ farm as a little girl, along with postcard-sized images of 50s-style film posters and fun advertising in over-the-top acid colour. A pot of pink cyclamen sat in one corner, flowers nodding at the end of their stems as though half asleep.

  ‘Tonight didn’t work, did it?’ Jas said, opening a cupboard door and reaching for a bottle of red wine. ‘I take it Adrienne insisted on having dinner in the dining room.’

  At his quizzical look, she explained. ‘Em told me. She didn’t like the idea either and thought something casual in the kitchen would be better. God knows your mum’s kitchen is big enough, but apparently Adrienne has this bee in her bonnet about making everything normal again.’

  Digby found his voice. ‘It’ll never be normal.’

  Not without her.

  Jasmine’s blue eyes turned sympathetic. ‘No. I guess not.’ Turning her back, she reached up to another cupboard and took down two pink-stemmed wineglasses. She generously filled both glasses, handed one to Digby and raised the other in a toast.

  ‘If life can’t be normal, let’s at least hope it can be better.’

  They clinked glasses and sipped, Digby wondering what wasn’t normal about Jasmine’s life. She had a job, friends, a home. Maybe she wanted a husband and kids? Seeing her best friend in love and soon to be married was bound to arouse longing.

  Jas ushered him into the lounge. A well-tended fire was burning merrily, and the light was dimmer in here, subdued by a stained-glass shade over the single main bulb. A paperback lay discarded on her flowery three-seater sofa. She cleared it away to a side table and indicated for him to sit.

  Digby looked from the seat to her, to his wineglass and finally the door. He wanted to leave. He wanted to stay.

  His voice emerged husky and cracked. ‘I don’t know why I’m here.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I’m just glad you are.’ When he sti
ll didn’t move, she smiled. ‘Just sit. You don’t have to talk.’ The smile turned wry. ‘I’m not exactly in a chatty mood myself.’

  Digby hesitated a little longer before he obeyed, cradling the bowl of his wineglass between his hands and staring at the gently sloshing liquid.

  Jas took position at the other end of the couch, elbow rested on the arm, feet tucked beneath her. The fire crackled warmth.

  ‘No padlock on your gate,’ he said after a while.

  ‘Not yet.’

  Her tone caught his attention. ‘But there will be?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She took a sip of wine and set her glass down next to the paperback. She picked the book up, flicked a page back and forth and put it down again.

  Digby’s brows furrowed. ‘You shouldn’t read in the dark.’

  ‘I know, but my lamp got broken.’

  ‘How?’

  Her gaze drifted off to the fire. ‘Long story.’

  He swished his wine. ‘I have nothing else to do.’

  ‘Digby, trust me, you don’t want to hear this tale of woe.’

  He probably didn’t but that didn’t mean he wasn’t curious. There was something not right about Jas and he wanted to know what. ‘Can’t be any worse than mine.’

  Digby’s dry tone had them regarding one another in surprise. While not exactly jokey the words were certainly lighter than his usual miserable hollowness. Slowly they shared a smile, and with it the atmosphere lifted.

  Jasmine began to ease off the sofa. ‘Nothing could be worse than yours, Dig, but I think I’ll hang on to this tale a bit longer. No offense,’ she said over her shoulder as she crossed to the television stand. ‘We’ll watch a video instead.’ She crouched and rolled out a drawer. DVDs were crammed inside. She flicked for a while and drew one out. ‘Doctor Who, “The Beast Below”. Best episode ever. You’ll enjoy it.’

  He did. He more than enjoyed it. The touching ending even made his eyes moisten. Jas was outright crying, fat tears sliding over her cheeks. When she caught him looking she laughed.

  ‘Does it to me every time.’ She sniffed loudly and wiped her eyes on her sleeves.

  The credits slid up the screen. Now that it was over they’d have to talk, or he’d have to leave. Digby felt his uncertainty return. He’d found a peculiar kind of comfort here but it was easy to feel that way when engrossed in a gripping television show. Without the action, music and drama, it was just him, Jas and the rustling, crackling fire. And all the things not said.

  ‘I should go,’ said Digby, rising and retrieving his wineglass from the side table. Not giving Jas a chance to stop him, he carried it into the kitchen and placed it in the sink. When he looked back she had her shoulder rested against the doorframe, her head tilted.

  ‘You’re welcome any time, Dig. I want you to know that.’

  The simple sentiment moved him too much to answer. Swallowing, he looked back at his glass. Wine residue stained the base. He picked it up and rinsed it carefully before placing it on the rack to drain. Not much, but a little return of kindness.

  She didn’t follow him out to the car but stayed on the front step, watching. A year ago he wouldn’t have hesitated to kiss her cheek in thanks. These days he found that kind of contact too hard. Instead he’d looked at her, hands thrust into his pockets, and nodded before striding out to the car.

  Jas would forgive him, he was sure of it. Sometimes words were too much, too big, to squeeze past the gravel wall of his throat.

  He drove back the way he’d come, the memory of her patient return smile lingering until the highway lights marking the outskirts of Levenham drew the sorrow back up from his soul, and Felicity took over his world once more.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Emily’s historic bluestone house at the base of Rocking Horse Hill was as warm and deliciously scented as always. Jas stood at the enormous floor to ceiling windows of the lounge and soaked in the slowly fading view while Em created her usual magic in the kitchen.

  Sunset dappled the hill’s slopes. Warm shades of orange and yellow fought darker greens and browns for dominance as the rays lengthened and the light changed. Where trees had been planted, long shadows stretched fine fingers towards the cone’s rocky tip. To the right, the exposed rock of the quarry scar sparkled as though innocent.

  Strange how something so majestic could have ruined so many lives. No wonder Digby refused to set foot on the place. Looking at that scar was like staring at an open grave.

  A shudder passed through her. Turning her back on the hill, Jas idled over to where Em’s collie Muffy was sprawled by the slow combustion fire. Her fluffy black and tan tail flapped as Jas crouched to tickle her downy ears.

  ‘She’s getting lazy,’ she said as Muffy soaked up the attention.

  ‘She’s getting old,’ replied Em. ‘I don’t know for how much longer I’ll have her.’

  Jas rose and crossed to the kitchen bench. ‘She’s a tough old thing. She’ll be around a while yet.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Em resumed mixing batter. She’d promised Jas her favourite whiskey-poached pear and chocolate pudding for dessert, but a last-minute crisis at PaperPassion, Em’s shop in Levenham, had made her late home and she was still preparing. Not that Jas minded. Since Josh had moved in it felt like ages since they’d had the chance to talk alone. Tonight he was at basketball training.

  ‘Josh wants to get another dog now, but I don’t know. I don’t want Muffy thinking we don’t love her, and a puppy might be too exhausting.’

  ‘Might also give her another lease on life.’ Jas snuck a finger into the side of the bowl and scooped some mixture out. She sucked on her finger and rolled her eyes back into her head at the intense chocolate hit.

  Em smacked her hand, laughing. ‘No cheating.’

  ‘I can’t help it. I swear that stuff tastes just as good raw.’

  ‘You won’t fit your dinner in if you keep this up.’

  Jas had already had several taste-tests. Eating at Rocking Horse Hill was like dining at the best of restaurants. The only place better was Camrick, where Em’s mum held a narrow culinary edge.

  ‘No worries about that.’ She patted her belly. ‘Plenty of room.’

  It was good to be hungry. Lately Jasmine’s normally robust appetite had been nonexistent. Anxiety had quashed it. Even now in the safety of Em’s kitchen her mind was half on what she might find at home.

  Em poured the batter into a greased tin and handed the bowl and spatula to Jas with a smile. She leaned on her elbows and observed as Jas made short work of the velvety sweet remnants.

  ‘Any more visits from Mike?’

  Bitterness filled Jasmine’s mouth. Not wanting Em to catch the confusion of want and dismay burning her face she carried the bowl to the sink and turned on the hot water, her appetite destroyed. She stared out the kitchen window at Em’s orchard and the line of cypress trees beyond. ‘I saw him at lunchtime, when I was in the park.’

  Em moved to join her at the sink and reached across to turn off the tap. She studied Jas for a moment. The heat in Jas’s face worsened as she realised Em wasn’t about to let her wriggle out of the details.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he tried to come over.’ Her mouth twisted as she met Em’s gaze. ‘I ran away.’ She took a quaky breath. ‘I’m such a coward.’

  Em stroked her hair, concern softening her gaze. She could be as imperious and aloof as her glamorous grandmother when the mood took her, but inside she was the most compassionate and loyal of friends. ‘You are not.’

  Jas shook her head. She was. She should have let Mike approach, showed him her disdain, her empowerment; showed him that along with her love for him, his control over her was dead.

  Except that was a lie. Like Frankenstein’s monster, this one still breathed.

  For all her talk, all her fury, all the promises she’d made to herself, the urge to go to him had been almost as strong as the need to flee. The realisation had affected Jas fo
r the remainder of the afternoon and she’d been shorter than usual with her staff. She’d caught their sideways looks but there’d been a lot of those lately. Fear that one of them knew, that they might be behind the harassment, had her quailing.

  She swallowed and breathed deep. ‘I had another message.’

  ‘Oh, Jas.’ The words were pure distress. ‘What did it say this time?’

  ‘It didn’t say anything. It was dog shit, pushed through the mesh of the screen door.’

  ‘You have to report it.’

  Her hands knotted together. If only it were that simple. ‘I can’t.’

  Em took her shoulders and turned Jas to face her. Worry creased her lovely face. ‘You have to.’

  ‘And tell them what? That for the last four years I’ve been having it off with our opposition’s married boss? Like that wouldn’t get around town like wildfire.’ She eased out of Em’s grip and walked back to the other side of the bench. She loved her friend, but she also needed a barrier between Em’s desire to protect her and the impossible reality of her predicament. ‘Anyway, it’s not threatening, just messy.’

  And sickening for its symbolism.

  Maybe she deserved it. In that intense, heady period when Mike held her in thrall, Jas had been enraptured, her emotional entanglement so tight she’d betrayed even her own sense of right and wrong. Consequences belonged in another time and place. She’d been capable of anything as long as it meant another second with Mike.

  But she was not that woman any more. She was not. No matter what her heartbreak.

  ‘I don’t like this, Jas. Someone’s deliberately trespassing on your property when you’re not home and trying to scare you.’

  ‘I don’t like it either but it’s only notes and dog crap.’ She shrugged, trying to be brave. ‘Whoever it is has to be watching, which means they’ll soon see that Mike’s out of my life and stop.’

  The worry didn’t fade from Em’s face. ‘But you said he hadn’t been around. Why attack again?’