The Cottage at Rosella Cove

by Sandie Docker

  At the end of the long street was a park of manicured green grass dotted with dark wooden benches and tall bottlebrush trees that offered shade.

  Nicole spotted the hardware store, Trevor’s Tradies, and entered, taking her list out of her pocket. She moved quickly through the rows of shelves, grabbing only what was on her list.

  ‘You must be the new resident of Ivy Wilson’s cottage.’ The volume of the overly cheery checkout woman’s voice made Nicole drop her paint scrapers onto the counter.

  The woman continued, her red curly hair bouncing with each emphatic nod. ‘So nice someone’s in there finally. You know, that place used to be the pride of the cove.’

  Nicole forced a smile. The run-down cottage she’d stumbled across on the internet being the pride of anything was a strange concept.

  ‘All it needs is some TLC.’ The lady’s smile was full of warmth. ‘I can’t believe they found anyone to rent it given the state it’s in.’

  ‘It does need some work,’ Nicole said, nodding. ‘Can you tell me where I can find mould remover?’ She looked around.

  ‘Aisle three.’ The older lady at the next register butted in. Cheryl, as her bright yellow name tag indicated, waved her hand towards the back of the shop.

  ‘Yes, well, you’ll probably be needing that, won’t you? That place has been shut up for so long now.’ The redhead stuck her hand out. ‘I’m Mandy, by the way. Welcome to Rosella Cove.’

  Nicole shook her hand briefly. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Mandy helped her load her things into the car, not stopping for breath as she offered up her son to help with the garden if Nicole needed it. That yard was in quite a state, after all.

  Nicole thanked her for her help and drove off. In the rear-view mirror she could see Mandy watching her all the way up the long street.

  Nicole moved slowly around the cottage. In the dappled afternoon light, she took in the sight before her. A thorough clean had certainly helped.

  With the dust and mould washed away, she could now see what was in need of a simple cosmetic makeover – the laundry, hall and spare bedroom; and what was in need of serious repair – the kitchen, lounge room and fireplace, and verandah.

  She pulled the small notebook out of her back jean pocket and made another list.

  The items of furniture under the dust sheets, as few as they were, were in relatively good condition. Between that and the newly fixed door, she figured she was safe to stay the night inside. Safe enough, anyway.

  With aching shoulders, and dust and who-knew-what in her hair, Nicole shuffled into the bedroom and flopped onto the old bed that came with the place. She buried her head in the pillow and contemplated her new life in all its uncertainty, and the life she’d lost, once so bright, now broken.

  November, Three Years Ago

  ‘Hey, Nicky,’ Mark called as he came through the apartment door. ‘I’ve got news.’

  Nicky wiped away her tears and closed her emails. Another rejection. This one stung, though, just a little more than the others. She’d met this editor. She’d thought they’d hit it off. Was ‘not right for our list at this time’ the publishing equivalent of an ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ dating brush-off?

  ‘Nicky?’ Mark came into the darkened bedroom, flicking on the bright light. ‘Is everything all right?’

  Nicky stood up and turned into his embrace.

  ‘Oh, Nicky. Another one?’

  She choked back a sob.

  ‘I did tell you not to get your hopes up.’

  She stepped back.

  ‘Not because you’re not good enough. You’re more than good enough. But this is a tough road. You tell me all the time how terrible the odds are, don’t you?’

  ‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘I just thought this time …’

  ‘I know. But you just have to keep trying. I believe in you. You’ll get there one day.’

  Nicky forced a small smile.

  ‘When you work hard enough, good things happen.’ Mark moved back with his hands on his hips, a wide grin stretched across his face.

  ‘You got it?’ Nicky asked.

  ‘Yep. You are now looking at the youngest partner at Gregory and McIntosh Solicitors.’ He threw his arms open.

  Nicky hugged him tightly. ‘Congratulations. You’ve worked so hard for this. We should go out and celebrate.’

  ‘Only if you feel up to it.’

  Nicky swallowed hard. She didn’t really feel up to it, but Mark had been working towards this promotion for so long; he deserved to go out and enjoy his success.

  ‘Of course. Just give me a few minutes to get ready and we’ll head.’

  ‘Are you going to wear the blue dress?’ Mark winked at her as she opened the cupboard. She pulled out the dress he’d bought her not long after they’d first met. Fitted, but not too tight, with off-the-shoulder cap sleeves, full length with a long split up one side.

  At the whisky bar, the noise was so deafening it was hard to hear anyone speak. Most of Mark’s colleagues were there and acknowledged her in greeting but didn’t bother to make conversation. Some of Mark’s friends had also managed to come after a quick round of texts.

  Nicky kept an eye on the bar door while pretending to be interested in whatever the monotone secretary from the firm was telling her. Mark was holding court, receiving congratulatory pats on his back, and beaming from ear to ear. She was so proud of him, even if she had trouble mustering any real enthusiasm for the festivities around her.

  Dressed in a tight black dress, her best friend, Jane, burst into the bar, her tall frame enabling Nicky to catch sight of her immediately. Jane pushed her way through the crowd and hugged Nicky when she got to her.

  Jane bent slightly and whispered in her ear, ‘You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.’

  ‘No. It’s okay. He’s earned this,’ she replied, looking fondly over at Mark.

  ‘Maybe so. But I think we both could do with a drink.’ She threw her long blonde plait over her shoulder.

  They tucked themselves away in a dimly lit corner of the bar. It was marginally quieter than where the rest of their party was. The quilted leather benches were soft and comfortable, the large pillar candles in the middle of the dark wooden tables let off a gentle yellow glow.

  ‘So, what’s the downer?’ Jane asked as she sipped on her single malt.

  Nicky drank her water and told Jane about her latest rejection.

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ Jane sighed. ‘Serving smashed avo on sourdough tomorrow to the tourists should make you feel better. Not.’

  They clinked their glasses in toast of Nicky’s weekend job. Monday to Wednesday she worked at an accounting firm, and weekends she waited tables in a little café down near The Rocks. It wasn’t such a bad working life. Having Thursday and Friday as her weekend did mean she could tuck herself away and write without distraction. Though the downside of having a different weekend from the rest of the world was nights like tonight, when everyone else was partying hard and she had to be up at five for a six o’clock start.

  Not that she was a stranger to early starts. Since she first started writing she’d got up at five-fifteen on the dot every workday to get an uninterrupted two hours writing done.

  ‘Just think,’ Jane continued, ‘when you’re super famous, and you will be – I know that for sure – you can look back on these days and laugh. You just have to hang in there.’ She reached across the table and squeezed Nicky’s hand, her tan in stark contrast to Nicky’s pale skin. She had her mother’s English complexion to thank for that.

  Where would she be without Jane? She’d been her best friend for a decade now. A writer herself, unpublished too, Jane was the only one in Nicky’s circle who truly understood what it was like.

  ‘And when are you going to finish?’ Nicky said, eager to turn the conversation away from her own failings.

  Jane grinned. ‘You can’t rush perfection.’ It was her standard answer whenever Nicky asked about her progress.

&nb
sp; ‘No. But you can give it a little push along,’ Nicky replied with a laugh.

  Mark strode across the room, glass of whisky in one hand. He sat himself between the two women and put his drink down.

  ‘How are we going, ladies?’ He threw an arm round each one and pulled them towards him. ‘Enjoying the evening?’

  Nestled in his shoulder, Nicky drank in his musky scent. ‘Not as much as you, it seems.’ All night he’d worn the biggest grin, his dimples working their magic on everyone around him.

  ‘Maybe we can work on that,’ he whispered in her ear.

  ‘Okay. That’s my cue to leave.’ Jane slipped out from under Mark’s arm and stood up.

  ‘So early?’ Nicky rose, Mark’s hand in the small of her back.

  ‘We’ll talk next week.’ Jane hugged her tightly. ‘Congratulations, Mark.’

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said. ‘I reckon we might head off too. Just let me say goodbye, princess.’ He kissed Nicky and went off to work the room one last time.

  ‘Man, you’re lucky.’ Jane said, wistfully. ‘Smart, rich, devastatingly handsome. And totally into you.’

  Nicky smiled. She knew how lucky she was the second they’d met. His boss, Mr Gregory, had handled her mum’s will. It wasn’t the sort of thing the firm normally did, especially not for someone with as little to leave behind as Nicky’s ageing mum. But it was a favour for an old friend, apparently. Nicky suspected they were once more than friends, but never asked. She didn’t really want to know. When she came into the office to sign the paperwork, she was awestruck by the lawyer she’d run into in the foyer. Tears were falling down her face as she said her final goodbye to her mum. His kind offer of a handkerchief – who even used handkerchiefs anymore – and offer of a coffee melted her heart. She knew even then that he was the one she wanted to be with.

  From across the bar he waved, indicating he was ready to go, and into the cold night air they stepped.

  Snuggled together tightly in the back of the taxi, Mark ran his fingers through Nicky’s long black hair.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he whispered in her ear.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Well, yes, that. You know what this dress does to me. But I was also thinking about your writing tonight.’

  ‘Oh?’ She wasn’t expecting that.

  ‘Now that I’ve made partner, I’ll be bringing in more money. What if you wrote full time?’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘Give up your jobs. Just for six months to see how it goes. You could write your next book. Go to conferences and festivals. Network. It will all help, won’t it?’

  ‘I … I guess it couldn’t hurt. Having a second book would be good …’ Nicky knew this was every writer’s dream – the time and space to write full time. ‘But I couldn’t ask you to do that for me.’

  ‘You’re not asking. I’m offering.’ He took her face in his hands. ‘I just want to give you everything. At least think about it.’

  He kissed her and she leaned into him, heat teasing every inch of her skin.

  Two

  Nicole barely slept, alert to every noise – every hoot, creak, scuttle – in this strange place. She dragged herself out of bed just as the sun was rising and looked at the next task on her list. Clear out the kitchen. That was a big job. Maybe too big a job. Back at home – ouch. That word, ‘home’, really stung. Back in Sydney, whenever she was faced with a task she didn’t want to do – edits that were giving her grief, research that wasn’t inspiring her – she’d go for a long walk. It always worked. Surely here, so much closer to nature, it would be even more effective.

  Making her way along the hillside that poked into the sapphire ocean, she drew in long breaths. Gentle fields of emerald grass surrounded her with tall strong eucalypts, their bark shedding as the turning season dictated; the forgotten cottage, her cottage, and its tangled mess of shrubs and long grass fell away behind her and somewhere down the long dirt road she’d come in on yesterday sat the town, with its own small beach to the south.

  As the path before her dropped down a long slope to the cove below, an earthy-grey drop of shimmering boulders of brown was gently caressed by the in and out of constant waves; Nicole came across a run-down boatshed perched on the edge of the peninsula. The panels of wood were cracked and the once-blue paint, possibly the same blue that coated the cottage, was now yellowed and flaked. The dirt splattering the bottom of the building made it hard to see where earth ended and building began. The decrepit planter boxes, suspended beneath grimy windows, were overgrown with weeds, and the surrounding grass reached as high as Nicole’s knees. In the absence of human care, nature was slowly reclaiming her territory.

  The only part of the property not touched by the ravages of time and neglect was a wooden bench nestled against the eastern wall. Nicole moved through a gap in the fallen picket fence, drawn to the bench. It wasn’t new – scratches, marks and dents suggested its age. But the finish was that of a piece of furniture often oiled and looked after. There was a worn carving, initials, perhaps an ‘I’ and ‘T’ or maybe ‘F’, in the centre of the backrest. It looked as though no dirt or dust had ever touched the intricate letters. Nicole glanced around, searching for further indication of someone frequenting the place, but found none and she lowered herself on to the bench.

  She was all alone.

  How quickly and totally the life she loved had disappeared. Perhaps she’d wake tomorrow and find this had all been a dream, or a nightmare. But the vibrant life she once had seemed so very distant now. Perhaps it was the dream, never real to begin with.

  Enough. Dwelling on the past would do her no good.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here at my boatshed?’ An old man with a weathered face rounded the building, his voice low and full of contempt.

  ‘E … excuse me? Your boatshed?’

  ‘Yeah, my boatshed. I live ’ere. What are you doing?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. I had no idea …’ Nicole stared at the bedraggled man before her holding a fishing rod and tackle.

  ‘No idea is right.’

  ‘Sorry. I was just admiring the view. Taking some time out. If I’d known someone lived here I certainly wouldn’t have intruded.’

  The old man seemed to be sizing her up as she spoke and she returned in kind. His brown corduroy pants were clean, but did have tears in them. His blue checked shirt also looked clean but was threadbare around the collar and elbows. His beard was long and grey, and curled in all directions at once. His blue eyes showed a hint of forgotten spark.

  ‘You actually live here?’ Nicole asked.

  ‘Yeah, I do. And I don’t like visitors.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m Nicole.’ She extended her hand but it was left midair until she withdrew it. ‘I’m living in the cottage up the hill. I guess that makes us neighbours?’

  ‘I know who you are.’ The man grunted and placed his fishing gear on the ground. He folded his arms across his chest.

  ‘Oh. Okay then,’ Nicole said. ‘I guess I’ll be off.’

  No answer.

  She headed back up the path. Who was he and why was he living there?

  Stop it.

  How long had he been there?

  It’s none of your business.

  She had no intention of taking any interest in anything or anyone ever again. Certainly not for the short time she was going to be here. She walked away.

  Is he alone in there?

  Charlie watched the young woman until she was out of sight. He picked up his tackle box and dinner catch and touched the carved initials in the bench gently with two fingers. From the cove he’d seen her sitting there and he didn’t like how it made him feel. No one had sat there for four decades. No one had the right to.

  He looked up to the sky and pictured the green eyes he still missed so terribly. There was no point thinking of the past. There was new life in the cottage now. He pushed the long-buried memories from his mind and went inside.

 
Why hadn’t she been afraid of him? Most other people were. Who did she think she was, destroying his peace like that? The locals had learned long ago to leave him to himself, but he knew instinctively she was different. Those blue eyes. There was something behind the sadness. He’d known it was a risk, his plan, but he had no other choice.

  For the last few days Nicole had been debating where on earth to start the renovation. The kitchen needed the most amount of work, but probably wasn’t the best place for a novice like her to start. She had to get her feet wet with something a little more manage able. Even fixing the walls seemed a rather daunting job.

  She’d reordered her lists, prioritising each task from smallest to biggest.

  Nicole stood in front of the fireplace. The plasterboard covering the opening was rotting. Well. No point putting it off. Today was the day she’d scheduled its demolition, and she always followed her schedule. She picked up the large mallet she’d bought and pulled a dust mask over her nose and mouth.

  She wouldn’t be able to restore the beautiful old fireplace on her own. That required specialist skills. And probably more money than she had. But she could at least strip it back and clean it up.

  There were no specific instructions when she’d signed the rental paperwork as to how far she needed to take the renovation. ‘Clean and repair to ensure the habitability of the cottage, with thoughtful restoration.’ What did that even mean?

  She swung the mallet and threw it forward into the sheet of plasterboard.

  Crack.

  A primal surge coursed through her. She swung again, frustration channelled into the mallet. She took another swing.

  Crack.

  Anger burst forth. She drew the mallet back, further this time.

  Crack.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  One more swing.