by Carla Caruso
‘Uh, you work from home?’ Winnie asked, gesturing at Eden’s laptop and well-ordered trays of paperwork.
‘Yes, I have my own graphic design business.’ Eden clasped her hands together on the desk. ‘Professional dance – my former career – had a limited lifespan, unfortunately. I do personalised invites, business cards, brochures, you name it. That’s what’s brilliant about living back in Kingston. I can handle enquiries from all over the world by phone and email and I still get to enjoy the country lifestyle.’ A dreamy expression took over her features. ‘Our own invites are going to be quite regal-looking, complete with envelopes with monogram red-wax seals.’
‘Wow.’ Winnie tried to avoid staring at Eden’s red-painted mouth. It reminded her too much of a blow-up doll’s. ‘Does Flynn live here, too?’
‘Yes.’ Eden fiddled with her ginormous engagement ring. ‘Well, in the granny flat out the back. We’ve had a new house built nearby and we’ll move in when we’ve tied the knot. But for the moment, I’m back in my old bedroom, living with the parents.’
No living in sin for the couple then. Winnie edged her notepad out of her handbag. As she rested it on the desk, she felt a hand cover hers, and looked up.
Eden’s face was grave. ‘Before you start, I have a favour to ask.’
Goosebumps appeared on the tops of Winnie’s arms. ‘Um, sure.’
There was an awkward silence, then Eden let out a rush of words. ‘How would you fancy being one of my bridesmaids?’
‘Sorry?’ Winnie felt as though the pink shag rug under her feet had plunged beneath her right through the Earth’s crust.
Eden leant forwards. Her almost white foundation looked set to crack like an antique vase, her face was so pinched. ‘I know it’s last-minute, but I’ve had a bridesmaid from Adelaide pull out at the eleventh hour because she jolly well broke her leg. Imagine her hobbling down the aisle in plaster; it would have been a disaster.’ Eden’s voice had risen to a shriek. ‘As if that wasn’t enough, another bridesmaid’s pregnant and has been steadily growing by the day – just great for dress fittings. And I’ve got less than two months until my big day!’
Eden looked like she was about to have a cardiac arrest. Winnie was slightly terrified. ‘Um, yes, I can understand that would all be quite trying —’
The clink of ice cubes behind her signalled a welcome distraction. Eden’s mum, Mrs D, had appeared with a tray laden with a jug of iced tea and glasses. ‘Hellooo. Hope I’m not interrupting you girls. Just wanted to sort out some refreshments for you.’
Eden smiled tightly, gesturing at the desk. Pandora charm bracelets jangled at her wrist. ‘Here’s fine, Mother.’
Mrs D bent to set the tray down before her beady gaze rested on Winnie. ‘You know, I never did ask what position you preferred in netball.’
‘Oh.’ Winnie swallowed. She’d didn’t have a clue what positions there were. Pleated miniskirts and sport socks weren’t really her thing. It was all Alex’s fault, as usual. ‘Um, I guess I’d class myself as an all-rounder. Keeps it,’ she coughed, ‘interesting.’
Mrs D beamed. ‘That’s marvellous. You really would be quite an asset to the club.’
‘Oh . . . thanks.’
‘Well, don’t want to be a nuisance. I’ll leave you girls to your little chat.’ With a jaunty wave, Mrs D disappeared back in the direction she’d come from.
Winnie reached for the jug of iced tea, hoping it’d give her time to dream up a way to let Eden down gently. Unfortunately, the bride-to-be was right onto her. ‘So, about what I said earlier, what do you say?’
Beads of condensation formed on the outside of Winnie’s glass – much like the sweat developing beneath her bra’s underwire. ‘Um, you sure you don’t want someone more local involved? Someone you’ve known a bit longer?’ Sitting back in her seat, Winnie clutched her glass for dear life.
Eden’s dark eyes slid to her lap, where she flicked away non-existent fluff. ‘It’s been a long time since I lived in Kingston. I don’t know as many people as I used to.’
Goodness. Just like that, Winnie understood. The desperate look on her face. The wonky smile. Eden was just as alone and lost in the town as she was, despite her brave front. Okay, so maybe the woman had a slightly repellent personality, but Winnie could still empathise.
Despite being unable to believe the words coming out of her own mouth, Winnie kept her voice soft. ‘How about a trade? I’ll be in your bridal party if you design some free posters for Beach Life’s launch party to put around town?’
Eden seemed like the type of woman who would understand a business proposition. And it wasn’t like Winnie owed her anything. Giving in to Eden’s request would be taking one for the Beach Life team.
After a heartbeat of silence, Eden’s unnervingly red lips curved upwards. ‘Brilliant. You talk in my language! You won’t regret the decision either – it’s really going to be the wedding of the millennium.’
Winnie gripped her ice-cold glass tighter still and laughed weakly. Olive’s comment about Eden’s ‘poor bridesmaids’ echoed in her ears.
Full of confidence again, Eden sat up even straighter, if that were possible. ‘I have a final dress fitting in Mount Gambier on Sunday – after church. The girls are having theirs done, too. You’ll have to come along to see if my friend’s frock needs any adjusting for you. Everyone’s meeting at mine. It’s a two-hour drive, but it’ll be fun because I’ll drive us all down together.’
Winnie felt like a crown of thorns was digging into her skull. From go to whoa, it meant the equivalent of half a day in Eden’s company – on her weekend. The other bridesmaids were probably Eden clones, too.
‘Count me in,’ Winnie heard herself say faintly.
Eden finally plucked a glass of her own from the tray. ‘Now for the interview. Pity you have to write it up before the big day. It could have made a fantastic first-person account.’
‘Yes, pity,’ Winnie said, her voice drenched with irony. Not that Eden, in full bridezilla mode again, appeared to notice.
Chapter Nine
Alex elbowed open the front door of Beach Life’s headquarters on Friday afternoon, his laptop under his other arm. The office was dim – unusual. He was there to show Winnie the results of his shoot with Mrs Mannix, which had actually gone pretty well. A snooze between fishing and photography had also perked him up a bit.
‘Hello?’ he called out uncertainly, before spotting two heads in front of a TV in the dark recesses of the office. Both women sniffled into tissues. ‘Er, everything okay?’
Winnie was the first to turn around, the end of her nose pink. ‘Oh, hi.’ She blew unattractively into a tissue and waved at the TV screen. ‘My keyboard died after I tipped peppermint tea on it and —’
Alex edged closer, the twin desks like a fence between him and the emotional women. ‘You’re crying because your keyboard died?’
‘No, it’s this telemovie.’ Winnie’s voice sounded watery as Olive nodded behind her. ‘It’s a Nora Roberts one – Montana Sky – about these sisters who inherit their dad’s million-dollar ranch, provided they live there together for a year. It’s up to a weepy bit. We were taking a break while I waited for the postie to bring my new keyboard. I’ve been using my phone to do emails since . . .’
Alex shook his head. It was far simpler working on a boat with another guy and the endless ocean. But at least Winnie didn’t seem as peeved about the Cyndi incident.
‘Inherited wealth’s a curse in my book,’ he muttered, jostling the laptop under his arm. ‘Um, maybe I should come back another time.’
Winnie stood up, swiping another tissue beneath her eyes. ‘What have you got there?’
Now he felt nervous, which was unlike him. He shouldn’t care what she thought. He was a professional. He knew what he was doing. ‘I’ve brought the photos from the shoot with June Mannix. And the ones of Chester Wyatt from the other day.’
Winnie’s brown eyes widened as she stepped forwards. ‘You�
�ve done them already? I’m impressed.’
He rested the laptop on her desk. ‘It is less than two months until the magazine launches, right?’
‘True. Well, let’s have a look.’ She grabbed the back of her chair and sat down. The pale blue she wore that day suited her better than the darker, city-style hues she usually wore. Not that he was about to tell her that.
‘If you’re sure you’re not busy . . .’
Winnie shrugged. ‘The movie’s on an ad break.’
Alex sank into the seat opposite, clicked on a photo and spun the laptop in her direction. He started with the shots of Chester, then moved onto June. Winnie’s face was expressionless as she clicked through each snap.
‘I did every shot you asked for with Mrs Mannix, as well as a few other angles I thought I’d try.’ God, he sounded like an idiot.
She glanced up at him, her eyes shining, and relief pumped through him. ‘They’re gorgeous. Much better than I could have hoped for, in all honesty. Mrs Mannix will be so pleased.’
Olive, who’d apparently also recovered from the tearjerker movie, came up behind Winnie, a hand on her bony hip. ‘Oh, my giddy aunt. You’ve almost made dear old June look like a supermodel. Well, okay, a supermodel’s grandmother.’
‘Oh . . . thanks.’ Alex felt kind of ridiculous. His photos weren’t exactly up there with the likes of National Geographic yet. He still needed to build up his portfolio under the radar for a while, but he was certainly on his way. And he was doing it all on his own, starting from a clean slate. It was a good feeling. He glanced at Winnie. ‘Anyway, I’ll email you the shots when I’ve worked on them some more. Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.’
‘We are,’ she said, nodding, a strange expression on her face. Almost . . . respect. Not that he needed it from her.
He tugged on his ear. ‘And I teed up your trip on the boat for next Monday, too. The boss was okay with the idea – figured you’ve got pages to fill and all.’ Okay, so maybe he’d felt a bit bad for her after the Cyndi clothes-stealing episode and the whole stepping-in-manure disaster. That or he was getting soft.
Winnie beamed, clapping her hands together. ‘Excellent. Thanks so much. The magazine’s coming together. So, where and when do I meet you on Monday?’
Leaning forwards to click the laptop shut, he put it under his arm again and got to his feet. He didn’t want things getting overly chummy. ‘I’ll pick you up. Four-thirty a.m. sharp. No excuses.’
Her face dropped a little, but she quickly recovered, a cheeky grin lighting up her already decent-looking features. ‘You still owe me a driving lesson, so maybe we can squeeze one in afterwards, too?’
‘I didn’t think I owed you anything,’ Alex all but growled. ‘It was a one-time thing, as far as I knew. Though, I suppose I could do it as a favour. How’s tomorrow, though, instead? After lunch, about one. You’ll be too wiped out after the fishing trip, trust me.’
‘It’s a d—’ she began, before emitting a small cough and starting again. ‘It’s a deal.’
‘I’ll pick you up,’ Alex said, heading for the door.
He might have relaxed around her somewhat – he’d had to for work reasons – but the sourness of their first encounter still lingered, lurking in the wings. And he knew Winnie still considered him something of a caveman, good photographer or not.
The local museum was done up like a Halloween party for the refurbished maritime wing launch. Well, a small-town amateur version of such a soiree anyway. In line with the ghost-ship theme, faux cobwebs, metal chains and ancient life preservers adorned the walls and candle-lit bottles hung in clusters from the ceiling. Museum volunteers wandered about in costumes inspired by pirates and ghouls.
It was a far cry from Winnie’s typical Friday night in Sydney, in glossy places with equally glossy people. But the revellers here were actually smiling, not sporting cool, detached expressions. And they were prone to coming up and introducing themselves, rather than nonchalantly looking through her, which, admittedly, was kind of nice. Despite travelling solo, Winnie didn’t feel alone, although she’d rather die than go out by herself in Sydney.
Sipping cheap sparkling wine – obviously not a drop the region was renowned for – Winnie paused at a black-and-white photo of a lighthouse amid a wall of pictures. Rather than being perched on a cliff top, the structure sat majestically at the tip of a jetty, water swirling around it.
A hand on her elbow pulled her attention to the left, where she was met with a full display of Mrs Mannix’s horsey teeth – half probably not her own. The old woman was costumed in a neck-to-ankle white lace frock and grey swashbuckler-style hat, festooned with feathers. It was certainly a different look from her gardening gear, though the fish pendant still glinted at her neck.
‘Hello, my dear. Glad you could make it.’ Linking her arm with Winnie’s, Mrs Mannix nodded at the photo. ‘Admiring that shot of the Cape Jaffa Lighthouse? Looks marvellous, doesn’t it? It used to be out at Margaret Brock Reef, with two keepers doing month-long shifts on it before returning to shore.’
‘Wow,’ Winnie murmured. ‘That must have been pretty isolating for them.’
‘Yes.’ The woman suddenly ducked her hatted head, nearly tickling Winnie’s nose with feathers. ‘My husband was, in fact, one of the keepers.’ She looked up again. ‘There he is.’
She pointed an aged finger at a smaller photo of a young, fit-looking man with a short back and sides, standing on the edge of the lighthouse jetty, grinning. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, some sort of indistinguishable shiny neck pendant, and old-fashioned trousers belted high.
Mrs Mannix’s voice caught. ‘He loved the job, but unfortunately it wound up taking his life. After some bad weather one shift, he disappeared, never to be seen again. They say he got washed off the lighthouse platform when a big wave hit. I never did get to say goodbye.’
Winnie pressed a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, how terrible.’
Mrs Mannix’s expression grew glassy-eyed. ‘The other keeper was able to sail to shore, though unfortunately died of pneumonia shortly afterwards. And —’ she let out a weary sigh— ‘another tragedy in the seventies saw the lighthouse shut down. A new one was built in Robe in 1973 and Cape Jaffa’s light was extinguished. Its old platform is the only thing that remains on the water.’
Winnie nodded. ‘What did they do with the old lighthouse?’
‘They re-erected it at Kingston and now it’s a museum.’ Mrs Mannix looked wistful. ‘You can see it driving along Marine Parade. It was the first lighthouse on the Australian coast to be dismantled and brought to the mainland. For me, it keeps Peter’s memory close.’
‘I’m sure it would,’ Winnie murmured. ‘I’ll have to go check it out.’ She felt the old woman stiffen at her elbow as another aged female drifted into view. The woman in question had a crop of burgundy-dyed hair, streaked white at the sides, and a long, thin nose. Mrs Mannix, who ordinarily seemed gentle and peace-loving, was curt in addressing her.
‘Lorraine.’
The woman nodded back, her features similarly tight. ‘June.’
Their words may have been few, but they were certainly loaded. Odd. Just as quickly, the woman swept away again.
Seeming flustered, Mrs Mannix turned back to Winnie, though her eyes darted about. ‘Well, I’d better keep mingling, if you don’t mind, dear. Say hello to the mayor and the like. Keep those community grants coming for the museum.’ She offered a shaky smile. ‘No problems,’ Winnie said, trying to keep her tone light. Curiouser and curiouser. What was all that about? ‘I’ll be fine.’
With another nod, Mrs Mannix disappeared into the swarm, which seemed to be multiplying by the minute – parties were obviously few and far between in Kingston on a Friday night. Turning back to the photo, Winnie took another sip of drink, the bubbles prickling her nostrils. The sour wine had already begun to taste less pungent – not a good sign. She reminded herself to forgo the next free tipple, not want
ing a repeat of the whole drunk-dancing-by-the-jukebox episode.
The surprise of hearing her name echo in her ear almost made her dump her drink over her shoulder. Twisting to the left, she looked up to find Alex hovering, hands thrust in his pockets. Her pulse accelerated.
He was wearing a shirt for once, probably Target Country – a navy one, which somehow deepened the green of his eyes. It didn’t take away from his rugged outdoorsman look, though. The gash above his eyebrow appeared to have healed, thankfully.
‘Hi. What are you doing here?’ she stammered.
‘Mrs Mannix invited me this afternoon. When I did her photos.’ Alex swiped a glass of red from a passing volunteer’s tray. He shrugged. ‘I thought it might be interesting – seafaring’s in the blood.’
‘Oh, so you’ve followed in the family footsteps then?’
‘My grandpa was a real man of the sea. A true fisherman.’ Alex’s eyes became flinty. ‘My father has continued the tradition – in a roundabout way – with the help of my siblings.’
‘What about your mum?’ Winnie pressed quietly.
Alex stared into the bottom of his glass, as though it were as deep as the ocean. ‘She died of cancer, a long time ago.’
Another tragic story. The town seemed to heave with them.
‘Oh, that must have been hard. For you, your siblings – and your dad.’
Alex’s lips curled. ‘He’s been fine. He hasn’t exactly been short of a woman’s attention since.’
Like father, like son then. Winnie doubted she and the psycho Cyndi – who she hadn’t seen since Thursday afternoon, nor contacted – were the only women to have flung themselves at Alex. Abetted by alcohol or otherwise.
Winnie pushed on, trying to keep the conversation going, but it was a struggle. Sometimes communicating with Alex felt like talking a fuzzy phone line, with all the vital bits hard to hear. ‘Where did you say your family was from again?’
‘I didn’t,’ he said grouchily. Shifting his feet, he softened his expression minutely. ‘Like I said before, I’ve moved around a bit with the family. Most recently in America, but Europe originally.’
