The Sister's Gift

by Barbara Hannay

  Billie was sure this was an oversimplification, but she didn’t like to probe. ‘I tried to talk to Dad about it. He insisted everything’s fine.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure it is. I’m quite confident Troy’s not having a midlife crisis.’

  ‘Perhaps Mum is instead, insisting on taking off on this holiday – out of the blue.’

  ‘I admit that surprised me,’ said Freya. ‘But I suppose she realised she’s been working damn hard all her life and it was suddenly time for a little fun.’

  ‘That’s more or less what Dad said.’

  ‘Well, that’s reassuring. Troy’s always been a straight shooter.’

  ‘I guess.’ Billie might have added that she couldn’t be certain of her dad’s total honesty lately, but she was distracted by the distant roar of a motorbike climbing the steep, winding road that rounded their headland.

  The roar reminded her of a fellow who’d arrived by motorbike at the café, lateish the night before, looking impressively wild and macho in jeans and a leather jacket. ‘We had a celebrity in the restaurant last night,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’ Freya’s smile was even warmer now, as if she was pleased to change the subject. ‘Not Elton John? Although I think he’s already been up here for his farewell concert, hasn’t he?’

  ‘No, this person’s not quite as famous as Elton, but way more good-looking.’ Heads had turned last night when the motorbike rider arrived on the deck, all wide shoulders, craggy jaw and windblown hair flecked with grey.

  He had the air of a man very at home in his own skin and it turned out he was also a mate of Gavin the chef. They’d met at the Arcadia Lifesavers, apparently. Cool as a cucumber, he’d wandered into the kitchen and chatted with Gavin. And then Gavin had stunned Billie by insisting his mate must have a table on the deck, even though he hadn’t had a booking. An unheard-of coup.

  ‘He’s an artist, Sebastian Hudson,’ Billie told Freya now. ‘Have you heard of him? He’s quite famous.’

  Freya didn’t answer at first, possibly because she seemed to have choked on a small piece of pawpaw. She made quite a business of swallowing and then took a sip of tea before she answered. ‘I’ve heard of him,’ she said at last.

  Billie nodded. ‘I thought you might have. We had to study his paintings at art college. I remember the teacher telling us back then that he’d spent some time here on the island when he was younger.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Freya, but she looked kind of shocked. Or unhappy. Or both.

  ‘He’s probably around your vintage. Did you ever meet him?’ Billie asked.

  ‘Once or twice,’ came the vague response. ‘I – I thought he lived overseas these days.’

  ‘Yeah. Spain, I think. Somewhere exotic like that. But according to Sonia Brassal, who knows everything about everyone on this island, he’s kept a little place here on Maggie as well.’

  ‘I see.’ Pushing her bowl away without quite finishing, Freya sat looking down at her hands in her lap. She seemed lost in thought.

  ‘Handsome devil,’ Billie added to make conversation. ‘Some guys have got it all, haven’t they?’

  Freya’s smile might have been a little strained, but she seemed once again quite composed. ‘Sounds like he made an impression.’

  ‘He did, rather. Way too old for me, of course.’ As Billie said this she found herself thinking of Petros. Again. Unfortunately, she never really stopped thinking about him. He was always there. In her head, her heart.

  Petros wasn’t a motorbike rider like Sebastian Hudson. He drove a small utility truck, but he carried that same air of macho confidence, that hint of wildness, a certain vibe that could make a man unbearably attractive.

  Stop it. Don’t think about him. But it was too late. Already, she was slugged by a deluge of pain, by the deep, piercing ache that her memories of Petros always rendered.

  From across the table, Freya was watching her. ‘Is it too nosy of me to ask if you have a man in your life?’

  Was her aunt a mind-reader? Billie couldn’t quite hide her surprise, especially as this question was one that her mother had never dared to ask.

  ‘No, no man,’ she said quietly. ‘At least, not any more.’ And she gave the most deliberately casual shrug she could muster. ‘I left him behind.’

  ‘In Greece?’

  ‘Yep. On Santorini.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ Freya’s tone was gentle, her smile warm with sympathy.

  ‘You’ve been to Greece, haven’t you?’ Billie asked.

  Freya nodded. ‘As a tourist, but no other woman I’ve met can lay claim to an actual romance on Santorini.’ She turned for a moment, casting a considering glance to the scenery outside, the hillside of granite boulders rising out of the sun-bright sea. An unreadable emotion flashed across her face, then vanished, fast as lightning. She said, ‘Greek men can be incredibly attractive.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ came Billie’s choked response.

  Freya gave another thoughtful nod. ‘A romance like that wouldn’t be easy to give up.’

  Billie decided she might as well be honest. Freya’s husband had walked out on her, after all. She understood the pain. ‘Leaving him was the pits.’

  As she said this, she tried, desperately, to hold herself together. Freya had always been so strong and had suffered far huger catastrophes than the breakup of a holiday romance. But Billie was pregnant with Petros’s baby and she had no idea what to do about it.

  She didn’t want to cry, to make a scene, but her eyes were hot with welling tears. Her mouth twisted out of shape.

  ‘Billie, darling.’ Freya was rising from her seat.

  ‘I’m okay,’ Billie spluttered.

  The frantic hand wave she gave to deflect her aunt mustn’t have been very convincing. Freya continued around the table and as the first sobs burst from Billie, Freya was already at her side, drawing a chair close, so she could slip her arms around her in a comforting hug.

  Which was how Billie ended up weeping on Freya’s shoulder, clinging tightly and bawling her eyes out, while Freya called her sweetheart and gently stroked her hair.

  No fit of tears had ever felt so necessary. Or so good.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  From Freya’s perspective at least, their days fell into a comfortable pattern. She knew from painful personal experience that it was going to take Billie some time to get over her heartbreak, but after her initial storm of weeping, Billie seemed, on the surface at least, to pull herself together and get on with things.

  Both Billie and Freya had received excited text messages and photos on their phones from Pearl and Troy, who were now in inland Queensland, exploring Carnarvon Gorge, having a brilliant time by all accounts. Freya spent an hour or so at Island Thyme each day, making sure that everything was in order and that Pearl’s strict hygiene standards were maintained.

  Gavin, the chef, a cheerfully rotund, thirty-something fellow with a closely shaved head, was helpful. In consultation with him, Freya kept an inventory of food supplies, as well as of the condition of the equipment. Part of her job was to ensure appropriate restocking and repairing, and living on an island was an added challenge in this regard, but not a huge one.

  Provisions from the mainland could be ordered by phone or over the internet and would arrive with pleasing promptness on the ferry. Certain North Queensland suppliers would text her when specialty items such as zucchini flowers or blueberries were available and Gavin, who was flexible with his menu, would usually take advantage of these. The job was both challenging and interesting and already she felt quite relaxed about her new role.

  Gavin was an excellent cook, but he’d mainly worked on coastal traders, mine sites and oil rigs, jobs where he’d been part of a team with a clear pecking order, so he appreciated Freya’s managerial support. She was beginning to really enjoy herself, to think that perhaps this enforced change might be the start of better things.

  True to her word, she also took conscientious care of the house, and the bloody pot plants, bu
t there was usually time for her favourite walks. She could take her pick of trails that wound around the headlands linking bay to bay, or choose an easier stroll along one of the many beaches. On any of these ventures she took Won Ton, of course, and the little dog was ecstatic about all the new sights and smells.

  The mood on the island was as slow and easy as Freya remembered. The Great Barrier Reef took the brunt of the rolling Pacific Ocean’s force, which meant there was next to no surf crashing on the island’s beaches. Instead of the roar and thump of the Sunshine Coast’s waves, the sea arrived here on white coral sands in gentle, leisurely slaps.

  This tranquil rhythm, combined with abundant sunshine and tropical warmth, made the pace of life incredibly soothing. Freya could feel herself beginning to let go, to relax – as long as she didn’t think about her homeless future. Or about Seb.

  She’d been shocked to learn that he was actually here on the island. A ridiculous reaction, really, given that it was more than two decades since they’d gone their separate ways.

  Straight after the breakfast when Billie had shared the unsettling news, Freya had taken off the battered and tarnished little ring that she’d found among the ashes, and she’d hidden it in an envelope at the back of her underwear drawer.

  She had no intention of seeing Seb again. She’d asked no questions and had no idea where the ‘place’ he’d acquired here might be, but it was better to be safe than sorry. The island was very small after all, and if she did happen to accidentally run into him, she couldn’t bear the embarrassment of being caught with his ring on her finger, a fire-damaged ring at that. Lord, she could feel herself blushing at the very thought of being caught out.

  The fire had obviously messed with her head. How else could she have ever decided that wearing that ring was any version of a good idea? She certainly didn’t plan to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder and pining for a romance from her youth.

  It was at the supermarket, when Freya was searching the refrigerated shelves for her favourite brand of yoghurt, that she ran into Sonia Brassal. A million years ago, they’d gone to school together. Later, with her teaching qualifications secured, Sonia had not only managed to wangle a posting back on Maggie Island, but she’d hung on to it forever. Word was, she’d known someone high up in the Department of Education.

  ‘Freya,’ she exclaimed now, all beaming smiles. ‘I heard you were back.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Freya. ‘And I’m loving it.’ She was sure Sonia must be up to speed with all the news. Billie was right – the woman had always known everything about everyone on the island – but Freya supplied an explanation now for good measure. ‘I’m helping Billie with the restaurant while Pearl and Troy take extended leave.’

  ‘You and Billie? Really?’

  Sonia’s eyebrows rose high, and Freya could almost hear question marks pinging down the supermarket aisle.

  Refusing to be rattled by such a dramatic reaction, she nodded. ‘I’m quite hands-off in the kitchen, just looking after the business side of things.’

  ‘That’s – ah – nice.’ Sonia’s response was bland enough, but surprise and curiosity continued to flash in her dark eyes like neon lights. ‘I’m sure Pearl’s very . . .’ She seemed to have to search for an appropriate adjective. ‘Grateful,’ she added at last.

  ‘Yes, Pearl and Troy have earned a good break.’ Freya was surprised Sonia didn’t mention the fire, but perhaps she hadn’t heard. Despite being a long-term resident on the island, she hadn’t been among the group of friends who’d farewelled Pearl, so perhaps she wasn’t privy to gossip in that particular circle. For all its laid-back lifestyle, the island could be quite cliquey.

  ‘Anyway,’ Freya said. ‘It’s great to see you, Sonia. I hope your family are all well?’

  ‘Oh, yes. They’re wonderful, thanks. Nicole and her —’

  Now Sonia stopped mid-sentence, clearly distracted by something that was happening behind Freya. A beat later, Sonia’s eyes almost popped out of her head and her mouth formed a perfect O.

  ‘Goodness,’ she said in a breathless whisper.

  Intrigued, Freya turned, and then immediately wished that she hadn’t.

  It had been more than twenty years since she’d seen Seb Hudson in person but she recognised him instantly. He was at the end of the aisle, shopping basket in hand, checking through the cheeses. And Freya was instantly trembling with nerves.

  So pathetic. Anyone would think she was fifteen again, blushing because Seb had winked at her as he strolled off the high-school football field.

  Good grief. Freya could feel her face burning as memories flashed. Images she’d tried so hard to forget. Seb in their high-school art class, admiring her work and making her feel ten feet tall. Seb helping her to adjust her goggles when he taught her to skin dive. The two of them building a camp fire on the beach at Florence Bay and then huddling close, watching the fire’s bright flames while the Southern Cross climbed in the sky above them. Seb taking her into his arms, taking her to his bed.

  Stop it.

  Most likely she’d turned the brightest shade of beetroot possible and here was Sonia watching her, or rather ogling her, smiling and smirking, just as she had done at school all those years ago.

  Get a grip, woman, for God’s sake.

  Forcibly, Freya dragged herself back to the present and to common sense. Why the fuss? What on earth was she thinking might happen? She was a mature woman. Over the hill in most men’s eyes. She had lines on her face and grey in her hair – that she did her best to hide, mind you – and the beginnings of a bunion on her left foot.

  But Seb Hudson wasn’t just any man. He was her high-school sweetheart, her first lover and the man who’d asked Freya to marry him. And she’d broken off their engagement over what he’d seen as a reckless whim.

  Life, Freya now knew, was nothing but a series of choices, of actions and consequences. When she’d naïvely taken on the surrogacy mission, she’d assumed that Seb would appreciate her thoughtfulness in giving back the ring and setting him free. But she’d also hoped that he’d hang around and take up with her again, after the baby was born.

  Nine months is a long time, however, especially for a man in his early twenties. Long before those months were up, Seb had vanished out of her life.

  For heaven’s sake, so what? That romance was dead and buried long ago. Hell, yeah.

  But damn it, she only needed one glimpse of Seb now, in the flesh, and her heart was thundering like a runaway horse.

  ‘Well, well,’ Sonia was saying beside her.

  Freya refused to make eye contact with the woman, but she knew Sonia was relishing this situation. At least Seb hadn’t seen her yet. Perhaps she could grab her yoghurt and scarper.

  Too late. Bugger. Sonia was already waving and calling. ‘Seb Hudson, how good to see you again. And look who’s here.’

  Regrettably, the earth didn’t swallow Freya in that moment, despite her heartfelt prayer. She was left to stand there, trembling.

  Seb wasn’t good-looking in the traditional sense. He was tall enough, a couple of inches over Freya’s five feet ten, but his features were too craggy to be handsome, his jaw too dark. None of this helped her, however. Even now, dressed in a simple white T-shirt and battered jeans, his thick hair flecked with grey, he still had the unconventional brute masculinity that branded him sexy as hell.

  All this Freya noticed as her heart thumped crazily. Stay cool. Stay calm.

  All you have to do is say hello. Forget that Sonia’s watching. Just offer him a polite smile. And remember to breathe.

  These instructions to herself proved unnecessary, though.

  Seb offered Sonia a restrained but polite smile. ‘Morning, Sonia.’

  Then his gaze flicked ever so briefly to Freya and his eyes were hard as flint, showing no emotion whatsoever. He gave a curt nod. ‘Freya.’

  With that, he returned his attention to the cheese, made his unhurried selection and walked
away. Without haste and without looking back.

  Déjà vu.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was Billie’s day off. She’d been to Townsville and had caught a late ferry back. At this time of day, most of the island’s commuters had already returned home, so the ferry was only half full and she sat, like a tourist, outside on the upper deck. Here, she breathed in deep lungfuls of sweet sea air and let the wind blow her hair around, while she made a deliberate effort to relax, to convince herself that she’d made the right decision. Everything would be okay.

  By the time she reached the island’s little harbour, dusk had painted the sky in gentle pinks and mauves, while turning the sea a sophisticated silvery grey. One by one, the island’s house lights were coming on, glowing warmly.

  Billie had always loved dusk. There was something magical about that time of day when the bright tropical sun dipped low and the strong colours of the hills and beaches were muted by shadows. Back in her high-school days she’d actually written a poem likening dusk to an elderly lady, elegant and a little subdued perhaps, but still with a glow about her as she awaited the coming of night.

  She’d been inordinately proud of that poem, she remembered now. It wasn’t an especially original metaphor, but her teacher had given her an A+, a rare feat during those years of rebellion.

  Now the ferry docked and Billie followed the other passengers as they patiently filed off. It was only a short distance from the car park to her home, and as she steered her little vehicle around curving bends, there was still enough light to show tantalising glimpses of shimmering bays.

  At the house, Freya’s little dog was guarding the front door and she greeted Billie with a warning yap.

  ‘Calm down, Won Ton.’ Billie stooped to stroke her furry head. ‘It’s only me. You must know who I am by now.’

  She went inside, the little dog following, tiny claws clicking on the timber floor. Freya was in the kitchen, barefoot and wearing a loose flowing kaftan in shades of green. On the bench beside her, a frosty glass of chilled white wine sat next to an arrangement of bowls holding various sliced vegetables. Capsicum, carrot, onion and pak choy. A pot of water was heating on the stove, probably in readiness for rice.