by Lyn Denison
“Great. But if it’s raining I’ll come over and collect you. So we’ll see you tomorrow night then.”
“Yes. Thanks.” Fliss dived out of the car and made a dash for the covered veranda. Once under the protection of the roof she turned and waved, watching through the rain as the glow of his car’s taillights disappeared into the darkness. In the car he’d be taking the long way around to Allendale Cottage. It was far shorter if you followed the path from the back of the house.
Biting off an exclamation of self-disgust, Fliss went inside. She stood shivering in the dark hallway. Slowly, moving on autopilot, she flicked on the light, squelched through to the laundry, shed her wet coat, jeans and sneakers and socks. For long moments she stood in her damp undies, only moving on into the shower when her teeth began to chatter.
With the hot water cascading over her chilled body she relaxed slightly, hands bracing herself on the cool tiled wall, her eyes closed. Only then did she allow herself to consider what she’d agreed to do.
What could she have been thinking, she admonished herself, accepting an invitation to the Macraes? How was she going to spend time with them, eat a meal? No, not with them. With Bailey Macrae. Even now, eight years later, she couldn’t hear Bailey’s name without her insides twisting.
In the beginning, after Bailey left the island and her career began to take off, Fliss had sought out her image, on television, in Marcus’s trashy magazines. She’d stare at that beautiful face, knowing every perfect feature, every contour of her incredible body. She’d watch her wonderful lips mouth the words, feeling the heady sensation of those lips moving over her body. It had been an exquisitely painful pleasure.
Eventually she’d realized setting herself up for that conflicting pleasure, pleasure that was becoming heart-wrenching pain, was far from healthy. By the time Bailey married the handsome sports presenter, Grant Benson, a year later, Fliss had convinced herself she was over it, that she was moving on with her life.
What a huge burst of self-delusion that had been. Fliss thought it had been painful when Bailey left the island, but when she appeared on the television screen in her designer wedding dress, cameras flashing, Fliss felt a small part inside her curl up and die. From that moment on she studiously avoided any sight or mention of Bailey Macrae.
Fliss was late for work the next morning. She usually arrived at the gallery half an hour before it opened so she could answer e-mails and see to some of the seemingly endless amount of paper-work that needed her attention. But she’d had such a restless night she’d overslept.
The rain had continued to fall the evening before and Petra had rung to remind her sister she was staying over with their father and his partner, Annabel. Their father, a widower for four years, had met Annabel, a divorcee, when Petra started seeing Annabel’s son Liam. After their mother’s death, the life seemed to go out of their father, so when he’d shown an interest in Annabel, although they’d been surprised, they were also more than a little relieved. Fliss acknowledged that Annabel had been her father’s saviour.
So, alone in the house, Fliss had prowled around trying to keep her thoughts at bay. Thoughts of Bailey Macrae.
What had possessed her to agree to go over to John Macrae’s for dinner? She had no interest in resuming her acquaintance with Bailey, she told herself. Bailey Macrae, the face of Australian current affairs television, had broken Fliss’s heart and left her to pick up the pieces. If she were honest, the sense of that loss still had a hold on Fliss after the all these years.
With painful memories crowding in on her and sleep eluding her, Fliss had vigorously cleaned out the refrigerator, tidied the linen cupboard and then watched a mindless TV show. Finally she’d gone to bed, taking with her the mystery best seller she’d been meaning to read.
As soon as her eyelids drooped she’d switched out the light, only to toss and turn until she’d finally drifted off to sleep well into the early hours of the morning. She slept through the alarm and woke thick-headed and disoriented, dismayed that it was so late.
It was still raining, although not as heavily, so she pulled on an old pair of denim shorts and a T-shirt and stowed her work clothes in her backpack. And as she was so late Fliss rode her bicycle along the cycle path. Bad move, she admonished herself, as she struggled over the short, unpaved section of the track. Mud splashed back from the wheels onto her legs and shorts and by the time she reached the gallery she was wet and dirt-splattered.
She had a quick shower, dressed in fresh jeans and a pale blue T-shirt with the gallery’s emblem printed on the front. She opened just a few minutes late and, although there were no hoards of customers queuing to enter, Fliss didn’t think keeping erratic business hours was very professional, even on an island where time didn’t seem to be as important as it was on the mainland. With a sigh, she switched on the computer.
An hour later the phone rang.
“It’s Chrissie. I saw you riding past the café looking like a bedraggled kitten.”
“I slept through the alarm.” Fliss tried not to yawn and failed. “And I bet you didn’t take time for breakfast either.”
“I had some orange juice,” Fliss said and her tummy gave a growl. “But I am looking forward to lunch.”
“Lunch? That’s not for hours.” Chrissie clicked her tongue disgustedly. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Chrissie, I—” But the phone buzzed in Fliss’s ear. She set the receiver back on its cradle. Chrissie was a good friend. And yet Fliss had never confided in Chrissie about her involvement with Bailey Macrae. Oh, Chrissie had known Fliss was upset over a broken relationship, but she’d surmised it was over a college friend of one of their school friends who had shown an interest in Fliss. Fliss had never told her how mistaken she was on that score. Or confided in Chrissie that she preferred women. So many times she’d started to tell her, but the moment had passed and Fliss kept her secret.
A short time later Chrissie breezed in carrying a cloth covered tray, which she set on Fliss’s desk. The aroma of one of Chrissie’s famous cooked breakfasts wafted in the air and Fliss murmured appreciatively.
“I was going to say I feel like I’m taking advantage of your good nature, Chrissie, but this smells so delicious is it okay if I eat first and be guilty later?”
Chrissie grinned. “Don’t you know breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” She whipped off the cloth. “Voila! Specialty of the house. Scrambled eggs, bacon, grilled tomato, toast, island honey and, or course, your favorite coffee.”
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“No, you’re still here. Now, sit and eat it before it gets cold. I’ll join you in a cup of coffee.” Chrissie took a sip and sighed. “Mmm. I needed that. I feel like I’ve been slaving over a hot stove for hours. Actually I have been slaving over a hot stove for hours.”
“I’m starting to feel guilty again. But, seriously, Chrissie, I don’t know how you keep up with it,” Fliss said sympathetically and her friend shrugged.
“I’m sorry I burdened you with my troubles yesterday,” she began, giving her coffee mug her attention.
“That’s okay, Chrissie. You know I’ll listen any time you want to talk or let off steam. You’d do it for me too.”
Chrissie nodded. “Of course I would.” She gave a wry smile. “Except that you’re too sensible to get into the stews I get into.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, love. You work long hours at the café, have a husband and a family to organize. I know I couldn’t cope the way you do.”
“Yes, you would.” Chrissie paused. “You know what I was talking about yesterday? Well, I really do think Paul is having an affair. No. Honestly.” Chrissie held up her hand when Fliss went to refute that idea. “We’re not, you know, as close as we used to be.”
“You’re both busy,” Fliss put in.
“We haven’t even made love in months. He has to be seeing someone else.” Chrissie’s eyes brimmed with tears and one trickled down her plump chee
k.
“Oh, Chrissie. Not necessarily.” Fliss reached over and squeezed Chrissie’s hand sympathetically. “Have you asked him if anything’s worrying him?”
Chrissie shook her head and fumbled with her tissue. “We just don’t get any time alone together and I don’t want to get into it on the phone. Then last night when I rang him I said I’d love to get away for a while, like you suggested, but he said he was too busy at the moment.”
“Isn’t he staying with his brother on the mainland?”
Chrissie nodded.
“Then maybe you could go over one evening and have dinner with him. He has to eat. I can babysit the kids for you. You need to give him the opportunity to tell you how he’s feeling and you need to tell him your concerns, don’t you think?”
Chrissie nodded again and stood up. “I just—I love him so much, Fliss. I couldn’t bear it if he left the kids and me.”
Fliss stood up, too, and put her arms around her friend. “I know you do, love. And I’m sure Paul knows that, too. But there’s no point upsetting yourself like this.”
“I know I’m being, well, needy.” Chrissie pulled a face. “I don’t know. I guess it’s my hormones playing up.”
Fliss grinned. “Probably. But ring Paul as soon as you get back to the café. Make a date with him.”
“A date?” Chrissie laughed. “Lord, we haven’t been on a date for six years or so.”
“Well, then, maybe you should ask him out. Take a stand for liberated womanhood.”
“What would I do without you, Fliss?” Chrissie gave her another squeeze. “Thank you.”
Fliss indicated the breakfast tray. “I know without you I’d probably starve. So, thank you.”
They both laughed and Chrissie gave Fliss another hug before turning to pick up the tray. Fliss drank the last mouthful of her coffee. “That was delicious,” she said as she added the empty cup to the tray.
At that moment the bell over the door of the gallery chimed as the door opened and they both started at the sound, turning in unison to see a tallish woman standing just inside the doorway.
Moving with an easy grace the woman started across the polished wooden floor of the gallery. Fliss heard Chrissie’s gasp of surprise and made herself draw air into her own suddenly laboring lungs. The woman wore a pair of denim cargo pants and a dark blue tailored short-sleeved shirt. Her short, styled dark hair was a little tousled by the wind and Fliss reflected that women paid the earth to try to achieve that carelessly ruffled look.
As she came forward the woman reached up and removed her dark glasses and Chrissie gasped again, this time in recognition. “Wow!” she breathed softly.
Fliss herself had known who the woman was immediately and her heartbeats were still skittering around, refusing to settle. She knew the lithe economy of movement so well, the tilt of that dark head and the curve of that soft, inviting mouth.
“Good morning,” said the so familiar, husky voice.
Fliss’s throat closed and she couldn’t have spoken had her life depended on it.
“Oh. Hi!” Chrissie stammered. She glanced sideways at Fliss, obviously expecting Fliss to greet the woman. When Fliss remained silent Chrissie picked up the tray. “I’ll just get this stuff back next door.”
“At least the rain has stopped,” the other woman said easily enough, her dark blue eyes still watching Fliss.
“Yes. But it’s supposed to fine up. Well—” Chrissie glanced at Fliss again, a faint inquiry in the lift of her eyebrows. “I guess I’ll see you later, Fliss.” She paused imperceptibly and then she was gone.
And Fliss immediately wanted to call her friend back, ask her not to leave her alone with this woman. She even wanted to run after Chrissie, escape from the rising tension that had begun when the other woman entered the gallery. But she stood there transfixed, her stomach churning with a burning turmoil. And another far more dangerous emotion.
As the door closed behind Chrissie the corner of the other woman’s incredible mouth lifted into a wry smile. “So, Fliss. I see you’re still rescuing weeping damsels in distress.”
Chapter Three
“I saw you through the window,” she explained when Fliss made no comment.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable.
With no little effort, Fliss pulled herself together. “Hello.” What could she add? Long time no see? Visiting the scene of your famous crime? “John said you were visiting him,” she added flatly as she moved behind the small counter. At least the solid timber was some tangible barrier between them.
Bailey stepped a little closer. “Yes. I’ve been here a couple of days.” She paused and Fliss sensed she was choosing her words with some care. “I had to come into the village to get some supplies for dinner tonight so I thought I’d check to see if you had any likes or dislikes, food-wise.”
So Bailey had put all memories of that time out of her mind, Fliss thought bitterly, and then wondered why she was surprised. Bailey Macrae had shown her true colors years ago. Yet Fliss remembered Bailey couldn’t abide oysters, that she loved baked dinners and that she had a sweet tooth she admitted she had to curb. “No. No dislikes,” she said.
“Well, that makes things easier.” Bailey smiled and brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear.
If it had been anyone but the so-in-control-of-herself Bailey Macrae, Fliss would have thought the gesture was an indication of nervousness.
“I thought I’d do baked fish and vegetables,” Bailey continued. “John’s gone down to the jetty to see if your father has any from his catch today.”
Bailey didn’t care for seafood or pumpkin. The thought came unbidden. “I seem to remember—” No. No memories. She couldn’t bear it. “I thought you didn’t like fish,” she finished quickly.
A shadow of emotion passed over Bailey’s face. “You remembered?” she asked softly, huskily.
The smoldering ember of wanting that had been lying dormant in the pit of Fliss’s stomach suddenly became a burning fire. She wanted to—To what? Throw herself into Bailey’s arms? Feel the wonderful softness of her lips?
“Actually, I still don’t care very much for seafood,” Bailey was adding. “But I’ve learned to like fresh fish and they don’t come any fresher on the island. Straight from the ocean.”
Now was the time to tell Bailey she’d changed her mind, that she couldn’t come to dinner, that something had come up. “Fish is fine,” she said flatly.
“If John can’t get a fish we plan on falling back on one of his famous concoctions. He’s quite a good cook.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Bailey held her gaze for long moments and then she turned slightly to look at the gallery. “Are you—? Do you work here alone?”
“Yes. Most of the time.”
“Oh. I just thought perhaps you could get away and we could have a coffee and, well, talk. Catch up.”
Fliss stiffened, her heart twisting. There was no need for her to catch up with any facet of Bailey Macrae’s life. Her life was part of the public domain. It had been good for magazine gossip columns for years. And if Bailey had wanted to know how Fliss was getting along she could have picked up the telephone. She swallowed, part of her recognizing that her rationality seemed to have left the building.
“Catch up?” She made herself smile. “The advantage of being in the public eye and being such a popular personality means we don’t need to do much catching up. Your life has been an open book.”
“It’s not an advantage, believe me,” Bailey said without intonation. “I was thinking more about you. John kept me—” She slipped the strap of her bag from her shoulder and put her bag on the stuffed lounge chair Marcus loved draping himself over. She turned away from Fliss, folding her arms. “Now and then John let me know what was happening on the island.” She turned back.
“I was sorry to hear you lost your son,” Fliss said gently. “I was going to phone or write but I”—she gave an empathetic shrug�
�� “didn’t know what to say.”
Bailey paused, a polite mask shadowing her face. “Thank you.” There was that same gulf of heavy silence between them and the tension thickened again.
“John told me your mother died.”
Fliss nodded. And she had to hold back a sudden and uncharacteristic urge to share her devastating loss with the other woman, ask her about her son, talk about her mother. Real friends would have done that. They’d have talked, held each other, cried. But she and Bailey hadn’t been simply friends. They’d been so much more than that. Or at least Fliss had thought they were. That had been the problem. What they had, it had meant so much more to Fliss than it had to Bailey Macrae.
Bailey broke the silence. “The gallery’s wonderful,” she said, looking around with genuine interest. “John told me you run it now, that you’d expanded it and that you’ve been very successful. Now that I’m here I can see he didn’t exaggerate. Do you still have some of your mother’s work?”
“Yes. Most of it isn’t for sale though. The family wants to keep it. So I branched out and take other local artists’ work.”
Bailey nodded. “If this is any indication, there are certainly a lot of talented artists on the island. John said you get a fair bit of tourist trade.”
“Yes. Mum was always going to try to tap into that but she didn’t have time, what with her painting.” Fliss smiled faintly. “Mum was a wonderful artist but even she admitted she had trouble with the business side. I have no artistic talent but I can handle balance sheets. So—” Fliss shrugged.
“You have some great pieces here.” Bailey bent over a small bronze sculpture of a reclining woman. “This is a Mayla Dunne. And this as well.” She gazed at a larger piece in delight. It featured two figures, two female figures, intertwined, and it was sleek and sensual. Obviously more than friends, Marcus called the piece.
“Mayla lives here on the island. Actually, she’s lived here on and off since she married Angus Dunne twenty-something years ago.”
“I thought I heard that.” Bailey turned back to Fliss.
