‘But that’s not what—’
‘I have unrestricted access to the river and marshes.’ He puts his phone on the table and crosses his arms. ‘If we go together, it will demonstrate interest in the preservation and improvement of river and wetland environments.’
‘Great!’ Luke slaps the table. ‘That’d be great.’ He nudges my foot. ‘Sapphie? We can share your posts, not only on our website but other platforms too. When we do a final report, we’ll send it out to government and other organisations.’
I keep my eyes on Matts. ‘I planned to go to the river near Horseshoe.’
He nods without smiling. ‘We do that too.’
‘Our river extends to the wetlands,’ Cassie says. ‘You’re a local, Sapphie, and you, Matts, are somewhat more exotic. I think this is an excellent plan.’
‘What do you reckon, Sapphie?’ Gus shuffles closer, his bushy brows drawing together. ‘You’re not too keen on hopping in the car these days.’
I have crippling anxiety on the roads.
‘I’ll drive,’ Matts says.
‘If you’re up for it,’ Gus pats my arm, ‘I can get your horses taken care of.’
‘And I’ll cover for you at the youth centre,’ Luke says.
Matts is typing on his phone with his thumbs. My phone is on silent, but the screen lights up when a message comes through. My gaze flies from my phone to Matts and back to my phone. I read the group chat again.
From: Matts
To: Sapphie, Chambers, Cassie, Luke, Gus
Macquarie Marshes. Sapphie and Matts confirmed.
The others discuss how a road trip to the wetlands will be beneficial to both our committee and Matts’s project. When he’s not making informative comments and answering questions, Matts writes neatly on the margin of the page I gave him earlier. Whenever I look away, I sense his gaze on my profile.
I have my bag on my lap when a well-dressed man with thick black hair takes off his smart woollen coat and hangs it on the rack. He walks to the bar and pulls out a stool.
‘Evening, mate. What can I get you?’ Leon calls from the other side of the bar.
After Leon has served his drink, the man swivels on his stool and faces the lounge. Besides the young couple holding hands near the window, ours is the only table occupied. The man glances towards the smaller table before turning his attention to ours. He looks at Matts for a very long time. And then his gaze goes to Luke, Cassie and Gus. Finally, his eyes meet mine.
He starts and turns away so quickly that his knee hits the bar. He puts a note on the counter and walks quickly to the door.
Gus folds his pages into a square and pushes the wad into the pocket of his shirt. ‘Are we good to go?’ he asks. ‘Anyone want a beer?’
‘I’d like an early night.’ My hair shields my face as I zip my bag. ‘Thanks everyone for coming.’
I glance at the message on my phone again. When I look up, it’s into Matts’s eyes. ‘We have to talk,’ I say quietly.
He shrugs. ‘Where?’
‘Outside.’
Matts, head tilted as he listens to Gus, is still at the bar when I follow Cassie through the door to the footpath and hug her goodbye. I fasten my coat buttons against the cool evening chill, pull on gloves and put my hands into my pockets.
‘Miss Brown!’ Mary and her sisters are on the opposite side of the road.
‘You’re up late.’
‘We’re waiting for Dad.’
Mary is tall for her age, almost as tall as her middle sister, Millie. I watch them, arms securely linked, as they skip side by side like Dorothy and the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. Molly, the eldest girl, is eighteen. She trails behind the others until, all of a sudden, she breaks into a run. As she gets closer she holds out her arms, herding her sisters away from the kerb. Headlights shine brightly behind them.
I release a shaky breath as a long blue sedan passes slowly.
‘Sapphie?’
I jump.
Matts frowns. He points up the hill. ‘I’ll walk you home.’
I nod—even though I’d much rather prefer to talk out here. Keeping my eyes firmly on the path, neither of us says anything until we’re almost at the schoolhouse. When I finally look up, he touches my arm. We stop and face each other.
‘What’s the matter?’ he says.
‘I wanted day trips.’
‘I wanted wetlands.’
‘You set me up.’
‘I won’t be used.’
When he walks away, I run to catch up. ‘Don’t do this, Matts. It complicates things even more.’
‘How?’ His mouth hardens. ‘We are strangers.’
The schoolhouse light casts a dim golden glow on the steps of the porch. Hidden in the shadows are the old school desk and the hooks for the coats and satchels. I don’t want to take him there.
That’s where I kissed him.
Butterfly wings flutter deep in my stomach.
‘Where are we going?’ he asks, as we cross the garden and walk through the side entrance to the school grounds.
‘My house is a mess.’ I take off my gloves to work the latch on the gate. ‘And this won’t take long.’
The narrow path leads to the infant children’s playground. A pine log bridge, a metre off the ground, is suspended over an ocean of rubber. To the left of the bridge are two timber panels angled like the bow of a ship with a waist-height platform as the floor. The younger boys and girls play games here.
Sailing ships and pirates. Castles, moats and dragons. Tales with happy endings.
Kotka and Kissa.
When my eyes sting, I spin around and drop my bag. My back to him, I hold onto the platform with both hands.
He mutters something in Finnish, then says, ‘You’re afraid to be alone with me.’
‘I’m …’ I run a finger along a crack between the boards. ‘I find it difficult. Which is why I don’t want to go away with you.’
‘We are not who we were.’
‘I understand that, but—’
‘We’re no longer children.’
‘We’re not colleagues either, or friends or—’ His touch on my shoulder sends warmth through my body.
‘Turn around, Sapphie.’
When I do as he asks, our breaths, white in the cold, meet in the middle. My hand hovers between us.
‘Matts?’ My voice is too high. ‘What’s left?’
He takes my hand. He stares at my mouth. ‘You shouldn’t have kissed me.’
‘I can’t take it back,’ I croak.
He traces my top lip with the pad of his thumb before running it across my bottom lip. He draws a line along the crease and back again.
‘And I can’t forget it.’ There’s need in his voice. And fire in his eyes. He threads his fingers through my hair and watches the strands as they slide through his fingers.
I pull my hand free and grasp the front of his hoodie, bunching it up. He mutters under his breath as he wraps his arms around me and links his hands at the small of my back.
My breath catches. My legs wobble. His heart thumps under my hands. ‘Ma said you should go to more trouble to dress up,’ I whisper.
He dips his head and whispers back. ‘What do you think?’
I mumble against his lips. ‘I like the way you look.’
He finds the places with his mouth where his thumb went before. Bottom lip, top lip, along the crease and back again. It’s a light kiss, our mouths barely touch, but an aching warmth flows through my veins. My heart beats erratically. Standing on my toes, I stroke the silky hair at his nape. I trace the line of his jaw and the shape of his ear.
His touch, taste and scent. The heat of his body and the strength in his arms. The angle of his head and the texture of his lips. I kiss the silver scar on his chin. For a moment he stills. His hands clench on my waist.
‘Sapphie,’ he growls, as he pushes me backwards with his movements. He puts his hands either side of my waist and lifts me, sitting me on the plat
form. My hands settle on his chest again as he traces a finger over my nose and down to my mouth. His lips are damp. Are mine like that too? They must be. He presses softly but deliberately, sliding a fingertip into my mouth.
‘So beautiful.’
As moonlight streams through the clouds, lightening his hair, I wrap my arms around his neck. I burrow inside his hoodie to find the warmth of his skin. He runs his hands down my back as his tongue plays with mine. It’s a careful exploration, a gentle way to talk.
When he lifts his head, I mutter a complaint. His hands go to my face. He kisses me again, short but hard.
‘I want you.’
My heart squeezes tightly. ‘I don’t know what I want.’
He frowns. But when I inch further forward on the bridge, he tightens his hold even more. I open my legs and he turns side on, sliding between my legs before facing me again. His erection is long and hard and presses on my thigh.
‘Sapphie? You understand?’
We are not who we were.
I’m lightheaded with longing and weak with desire. I tighten my legs around him. ‘Yes.’
Our mouths meet again, gliding together, apart and together. I rest my hand against his jaw. I find the roughness of his stubble and the beats of his pulse. He threads his fingers through my hair and deepens the kiss. A thick silk ribbon in a deep shade of crimson wraps around my heart.
When I pull at the buttons of my coat, he lifts his head. He undoes the first two buttons but stills my hand when I tug at the third. He groans softly as he kisses my neck and nuzzles under the collar of my shirt.
I shiver.
He yanks my coat closed and forages for my hands, picking them up, rubbing them slowly. ‘Where are your gloves?’
‘I can’t remember.’
He holds my face and presses kisses on my mouth. ‘We can’t stay here.’
The dip beneath his cheekbones is pronounced. His jaw is tense. When I run my hands over his chest and tighten my legs even more, his breath expels in a rush. His heartbeat drums on the palm of my hand. I’ve never felt this need before.
Only with him.
I stiffen.
He raises my chin with the back of his hand. ‘Sapphie?’ His voice is rough like gravel. His eyes are bright. ‘What’s the matter?’
A whimper escapes from the back of my throat. ‘It’s all wrong.’
His hands on my body clench and release. He grasps my chin and kisses me again, swiftly but firmly. When he takes my hands and looks down, I smell his shampoo. He lifts our hands higher, stepping closer and trapping them between us.
‘Explain what you mean.’
Sapphire Beresford-Brown. Sapphie Brown.
I’ve kissed him twice. Just a kiss. Why does it feel like so much more?
‘I—’ I shake my head to clear it. ‘I don’t want this.’
He releases me so abruptly that I sway and grasp the platform. He turns his back and puts his hands in his pockets. When he walks a few steps and kicks a lump of rubber out of the play area, it sits on the concrete, dark and alone.
He turns. ‘I’ll draft an itinerary. I’ll message you.’
‘Please, Matts. Don’t do this.’
‘It’s done.’ He looks towards the road. ‘We shouldn’t have come here.’
I slide to the ground. ‘I don’t know what you want.’
‘At your mother’s funeral … you knew what I wanted.’
‘You had tissues in your pocket.’
‘And you refused them.’
‘I hadn’t forgiven you.’
‘You haven’t forgiven me now.’
I wrap my arms around my middle. ‘I don’t want to feel like I did. I relied on you. I trusted you. You meant far too much.’
I loved you far too much.
A shadow crosses his face. ‘You didn’t read my letters. You turned your back on what we had.’
‘And you haven’t forgiven me for that.’ I look down, blinking back tears as I pick up my bag. ‘So why did you kiss me?’
‘I made a mistake.’
The same words I used when I kissed him.
He walks past the roundabout, the slippery dip and the small metal horses on tightly coiled springs. When he reaches the swings he hesitates but then he walks on, past the bubblers, the bottlebrush trees and the noticeboard.
I was nineteen on the day of Mum’s funeral, and had been living in Horseshoe for over two years. I’d assumed Matts had moved back to Finland, and I suppose that he had, but I was standing outside the church, swallowing tears, when I saw him in the crowd. The service had finished and he was on the lawn with scores of my father’s faceless friends. Matts was alone. His hair was brushed back and his arms were stiff by his sides.
When we went to school together in Canberra, I was aware that Matts was handsome. Even girls he didn’t know would smile and smooth their hair when he came close. They’d ask me questions. Did I have his number? What music did he like? Did he have a girlfriend? When I teased him about it, he’d ignore me or talk about something else. By the time Mum died and he was twenty-one, I could properly see what others had. His athletic body. His deep grey eyes, his cheekbones and jawline. His bearing. His confidence. The way everything fitted perfectly together. It was painful to look at him at the funeral, but impossible to look away.
When it was his turn to pay his respects he stood directly in front of me, so close he blocked out everybody else. His cheeks were flushed. His lashes were spiky and wet. I stared at the folded tissues in his pocket, starkly white against the darkness of his suit jacket. I pretended not to see the way he held out his hand, palm up, between us. He didn’t want to shake my hand—he wanted to hold it. The idea of grasping his fingers, of walking to the gardens together, of wiping my face with the tissues and folding myself into his body, tripled the size of the lump in my throat.
I clenched my fists. I nodded. I thanked him politely for coming.
CHAPTER
20
Trust and mistrust. Love and hate.
If only it were as clear as that. Black and white. Neutral grey.
The universe tilts when we kiss.
I swallow through the tightness in my chest as I kneel in the farmhouse garden. The dandelions have grown so tall that their flowers are tangled together. Digging with a trowel, I pull them out by the roots and throw them into a bucket. I spread spent bark from the red gum over the freshly dug soil.
‘That’s looking better.’
Prima, tied loosely to a verandah post, looks up from her hay net.
‘Thanks for keeping me company.’
When I hear a car, I turn towards the road. The speed limit is eighty, but the car is travelling much slower than that. I recognise it—the blue sedan that passed the Honey girls outside the pub last night. Just before the bend, the driver does a U-turn and parks out the front, pulling over on the far side of the red gum.
I walk to Prima, taking a firm hold of her lead rope and straightening her cotton rug.
The man who gets out of the car is the man I saw in the pub last night. He reaches into the back seat for his coat and then he looks around. When he sees me, he lifts a hand. I check that Prima is tied securely before walking back to the wildly flowering azaleas and picking up my drink bottle.
The man smiles politely as he approaches. He’d be in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, but he’s fit. His thick black hair is swept back from his forehead. When he holds out his hand, I take it.
‘Gabriel Garcia.’ Is he Spanish? Argentinian?
‘I’m Sapphie Brown.’
‘The hotelier believed I might find you here.’ He nods towards the farmhouse and gardens. ‘This is very nice.’
‘Why were you looking for me?’
‘I’d like to speak with you, if I may?’
Not many strangers travelling on their own come to Horseshoe. My father is concerned about the media—is the man a journalist?
I drink from the bottle as he follows me up the ste
ps to the verandah. ‘Are you a tourist? We don’t get many at this time of year.’
‘My sister lives in Melbourne. I see her next week.’
‘You’re a long way from there.’
‘This is what my sister said.’ He rubs his hip and glances at the deckchairs stacked under the window. ‘May we sit?’
‘If you like.’ I pull out two chairs and open them, brushing off the dust. ‘What’s going on, Mr Garcia?’
He smiles. ‘Gabriel, please. And you are Sapphie now?’
I stiffen. ‘Now?’
‘We have met before.’
‘When? Why were you looking for me? Who are you?’
‘It was many years ago.’
‘In Buenos Aires? I don’t remember you. What do you want?’
‘You are afraid of my motives.’ He smiles reassuringly. ‘I do not wish to alarm you.’
‘So tell me why you’re here.’
‘I am not a policeman, nor am I from the press. You do not recall me? We met at the Laaksonen residence.’
‘When?’
‘You were a very young girl. You had come to make flowers.’
I only did that once. And it was the last time I ever saw Inge. When I arrived at the house unannounced, Inge’s hair was loose. She introduced me to a tall, dark-haired man. Was it Gabriel? I glance at his hands, one placed neatly over the other in his lap.
‘What sort of flowers did I make?’
‘Bougainvillea.’ He points to the scarlet bracts that climb over the fence near the gate. Only he doesn’t point, because the only finger on his left hand is a thumb.
‘I remember.’ I take a deep breath. ‘And I saw you again, didn’t I?’
Inge, quiet and modest, had been very different from Mum. But she was a well-respected diplomat’s wife and had died young and unexpectedly, which probably explained why the church was packed full. I was waiting for Matts to leave the group of family members gathered around the priest when I saw the man for the second time. I was curious about his hand, but I tried not to stare. He crouched by my side and smiled sadly. Even though he was an adult, I suspected he’d been crying. I thought that was curious too.
‘Hello, Miss Sapphire,’ he said. ‘Did you like the flowers in the church? They were very beautiful, were they not?’
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