The bedroom at the bow was simple and comfortable with a freshly made bed. There was a tiny bathroom and a functional galley with a table and seats. Between the steps and the galley, a walk-through area housed cupboards, a shelf with a radio, maps, and a hatch leading down to the engine room.
Christie ran up the steps to find Martin. Night softly fell. The gentle lapping of water against the hull was soothing. The other yachts were ghost ships under the moonlight. They were alone out here in this harbour.
“Umm... it’s night time. Does the motorcycle have working headlights yet?”
Martin glanced over to her from the bow. “If I say no?”
“Then we’re trapped here tonight.”
“Do you have somewhere else to be?”
“I don’t have a change of clothes.”
He made his way back to her and took her face in his hands, eyes serious. “If you want to go home, I’ll make it happen.”
“I think I’d like to stay here.”
Martin smiled and released her. “Go up to the bow. I laid out a picnic whilst you were looking around.”
“Two picnics in a week!”
“Easiest way to make sure you eat. Go on.”
“Where are you going?”
“Always a question!”
True to his word, Martin had a picnic laid out. A seafood salad and platter of cheese and fruit made Christie’s mouth water. She had only stopped for coffee during the day so no wonder she’d felt faint earlier.
A moment later, Martin joined her with an ice bucket, a bottle of wine, and glasses.
“Champagne is a big part of changing the name of a boat. Didn’t have any on hand, so hopefully your favourite white will do to toast the change of ownership.” He poured two glasses and held one out to Christie.
“I thought it was bad luck to change a boat’s name. Thanks.”
“You have no idea.” He tapped his glass on Christie’s. “To Jasmine Sea.”
“To you.” Christie leaned over and kissed him. He smelt male and salty and utterly desirable. Her stomach growled and she giggled.
“Eat.” He instructed. “In fact, you hold my glass and I’ll get your food.”
She watched in contentment as he picked the best morsels of seafood and added buttered sourdough to her plate. “How did you change her name?”
“With champagne and ritual.” He swapped his glass for her plate. “There is a formula. One has to appease Poseidon and it must be done with correct words in a specific order and plenty of quality champagne tipped into his domain to make him happy. Only then can one offer a new name.”
“You are joking.”
“I am not. In fact, you can ask Belinda because she helped me do it.”
Martin lifted a forkful of salad, winking at Christie’s incredulous expression. What had gone on in those few days she was away? All this conspiracy.
“Have you ever had a surprise party?” he asked.
“Yes. I hated it.”
“Thought as much.”
“It’s just...”
“It’s just what? Here, have some tartare.”
“Oh, yum. I don’t know. I guess I’m good with some predictability.”
For a while they ate in silence. The air was warm with just the hint of a breeze. Although the tide was on the rise, the movement of the boat stayed gentle.
Martin refilled their glasses. “I’ll show you the basics in the morning,”
“We’re going sailing?”
He laughed. “Just around the harbour to start with. Alright? And you have to sit your Marine Licence before I hand over the keys.”
“I’m sorry. About before.”
“Which bit, sweetheart? Not eating properly again? Or looking for an ulterior motive in my gift?” He spoke mildly but underneath, Christie sensed disappointment. In her.
“I don’t deserve it.”
“That is my decision.”
“And it means more than you know.”
“Then don’t second guess it. Other people may have gifted you expensive toys for the wrong reasons. Not me. I am not Derek.” With a shake of his head he stood, not seeing the hand Christie held out as he went to the stern.
She followed with their glasses. She leaned against him. “I belong here. With you and Randall.”
He put an arm around her, pulling her tightly against him.
Chapter Eight
It might have been the smell of bacon and eggs cooking, or the subtle movement of the boat, or even sunlight on her pillow that woke Christie. She stretched like a cat.
Through the half door, she watched Martin take plates from a cupboard. As if sensing she was awake, he glanced over. “Two minutes then this will be served up on the deck.”
“No breakfast in bed?”
“Beds aren’t for eating in.”
I may have to work on that belief. Few things in life were as indulgent as curling up with a book and a meal in a comfortable bed.
“One minute and counting.”
“Hey! That went fast.” She complained but with a grin, sliding her feet out of bed.
***
Morning had barely begun but it was already warm enough to eat at the stern. It was serene here, so private. The other boats bobbed in a strangely erratic rhythm.
“Thanks. I mean, for breakfast and coffee.”
“Not for letting you sleep in, or...” He deliberately left it unfinished and she blushed.
“What is it called?”
“Coffee. And this is bacon, which comes from...”
“Very funny. This place?”
“Willow Bay. Named for the native willows along the ridge. This has been her home for longer than I’ve lived.”
“I never knew it was here. So hidden and perfect.”
“Not completely perfect – there are a few spots to be careful of. The channel is pretty safe, but there are a couple of tricks to avoid trouble.”
“But you’ll teach me?”
“Every step of the way.”
***
In the dinghy, heading back to shore, Christie was silent. She watched Martin row, powerful sweeps of the oars cutting through the water with next to no effort. How could he be so good at everything?
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Okay. Actually, turns out I can’t sail after all.”
Martin put the oars down and let the dinghy drift. He took both of Christie’s hands in his, rubbing their palms. “Actually, you can. It takes time to understand each boat, and this one is old. She has some idiosyncrasies.”
“But how could I ever handle Jasmine Sea on my own? She’s so responsive in your hands but I made her stop.”
“Practice. Anyway, hopefully you won’t feel the need to go off alone. Doing the marine course will help, and so will I.” He kissed each hand then picked up the oars.
“Can we sail somewhere? For a few days?”
“When you get that cottage of yours finished, then yes. We’ll take Randall and go down the coast a bit.”
“So he really likes the boat?”
“Loves it.”
The dinghy bumped through the waves near the beach and Martin clambered out. Christie joined him, helping pull the little boat to shore. She lost her grip and sat down in the shallow water.
Martin held out a hand, laughing. He pulled her to her feet, keeping her hand in his and dragging the dinghy along. “I think you need a life jacket.”
“That’s not funny.” She spluttered, trying to wipe wet hair from her eyes. “I look a mess now!”
“Yes. But in a beautiful mermaid kind of way.”
She stopped, slipping her hand from his. He kept going, getting the dinghy high up the beach and turning it upside-down. Then, he wandered back to the shore, grinning.
“Are you going to stand in the waves all day, or would you like to go home?”
“I’m a mermaid. I can’t leave the sea.”
In response, Martin strode into the water and swept Christie into his arms,
lifting her as though she weighed nothing. “Always wanted a mermaid and now I have one.” He stood, legs apart to brace himself. “So, which is it? Go home and have a shower, or...”
“Or what?”
“Or I throw you back in.” He turned as if to follow through.
Christie wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. “Home! I mean, I’d like to go home.”
“But mermaids live in the sea. And besides, you forgot something.”
Giggling, Christie nestled into his arms. “Please. Take me home, please?”
“Much better. Manners are important for mermaids.” A car door slammed at the parking area. “And that is our cue to leave.” Martin murmured, stepping onto the beach and gently placing Christie back on her feet.
***
A hot shower had rarely felt so good. The ride home on the motorcycle resulted in semi-dry, cold clothes that she was relieved to peel off. Martin had dropped her at the end of the driveway and Christie had watched him go, part of her longing to leave with him. It had always been this way, even early on when they were at odds with each other. The minute they were apart, she missed him.
With a sigh, Christie turned off the shower and reached for a towel. Her relationship with Derek had never felt like this. When they dated, she loved being with him, but was just as happy to go back to her apartment and plan her next job, or go out with friends. Even once he moved in with her, there had not been this longing to be together all the time.
Christie stopped drying her hair and stared in the mirror. Jasmine Sea. Words that had mattered to her, significantly mattered, at pivotal moments in her relationship with Martin. Now, he had changed the name of his own yacht.
You don’t deserve it. The words whirled around in her mind. More than once, Martin had mentioned what he called her expensive toys. Her car, Derek’s very expensive ring. Even a new phone when she threw hers against a wall to stop it ringing.
Now he had given her the most expensive toy of all, for she had no doubt the yacht was worth more than the cottage Gran left behind. It felt wrong.
Perhaps it was not the gift itself she didn’t deserve. Perhaps it was his love.
Chapter Nine
Palmerston House was as impressive in its modern role as a bed and breakfast, as when the stately home of the Ryan family. Immaculate gardens enticed weary travellers to wander and enjoy the European-inspired beauty. Wide verandahs offered views of the gardens from seating nooks. The pond out the back was busy with birdlife.
“Oh, I thought I heard your car!” Elizabeth White hurried down the curved stairway from the mezzanine level.
“Yes, I have no hope of sneaking anywhere quietly!” Christie crossed the floor to greet the older woman with a kiss on the cheek. “You look well.”
“Not having to worry about those newlyweds helps!”
“Have you heard from Martha?”
“Only a one-minute phone call when they arrived in Dublin. Shall we have tea?” Elizabeth didn’t wait for a response.
Christie followed her down the picture-studded hallway. Framed photographs of old timber yards, the industry that elevated the Ryan family’s fortunes. The railway station in its heyday, bustling with people and activity. Different houses. At the very end, an empty hook. Faint differences in the colour of the wallpaper gave away the size of whatever had once hung there.
“Elizabeth?” Christie joined her in the kitchen. “What photograph is missing in the hallway?”
“Would you get the milk out, dear? Do you know, I haven’t thought about that for a long time. It must have been missing when I purchased Palmerston.”
Christie collected the milk and took it to Elizabeth, who was busy serving slices of meringue.
“Did you make this?”
“Of course. Old recipe, handed down from my great, great, great... oh, who am I kidding? Belinda showed me how to make it.”
“It looks amazing.”
“The trick is to make lemon curd and use that in place of fruit. Then lots of double cream. You aren’t dieting, are you?”
“Not today!” Christie took a bite and closed her eyes with a moan. “I don’t know how you get so much lemony-ness into the curd!”
“Ah. Past the pond and through the archway, there’s a whole orchard of fruit and nut trees, and lemons just taste better straight off a tree. Oh! I just remembered!”
Christie stared blankly at Elizabeth.
“That photograph. I found it in the back of a closest when I first moved in. The frame was damaged. I packed it away planning to get it fixed and forgot.”
“The one from the hallway? So, was it another photo of the region?”
Elizabeth put her cup down. “No, dear! If this sudden memory serves me well, it is a photo of your cottage.”
***
A narrow hallway led to steps going down to a cellar, where dusty wine racks filled two walls. Elizabeth pushed open a door on the far side and turned on a dim light.
“I don’t know why I forgot this! Probably because Keith was busy fixing up the place, seeing as it had been boarded up for so long.”
“Keith?”
“He was such a good man. My husband for twenty amazing years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We were happy for a long time. Now, let me look in here.” Elizabeth opened a long cardboard box. “Here it is! Oh my, it is exactly as I recall!”
Christie took the offered photo, holding it up under the light. Layered with dust, its frame was broken in several places, but the photograph was intact.
Taken from the front of the driveway, it captured a manicured garden, much smaller trees, and something that almost made Christie drop the photo. There was a path leading from the gate to the centre of the front wall. Not the overgrown, solid weatherboard wall Christie had yet to clean up. This was a wall with a front door.
***
Barry tapped the glass in front of the photograph. “Not surprising really. Although some of these old houses weren’t built to any plan, I did think it curious that there wasn’t some kind of main entry.”
“So, there are no house plans?”
“None. Nothing lodged anyway. Have you had a look for it?”
“The front door? Shall we?”
Instead of following Christie to the front of the cottage, Barry went to the back of his work truck and collected a shovel. He tapped away through the long grass. Clang.
“Got it.”
Christie rushed to see what he meant as he squatted down and brushed the grass to one side.
“Old path. You’d never know without the photo.”
Barry tapped his way to the front wall. In a deep garden bed, woody old bushes – well past their prime – blocked his progress.
“They can go.” Christie said.
With a couple of grunts, Barry pulled two bushes out. He dragged them to one side, leaving a narrow passage through the dirt.
“Oh, there’s a step!”
“Newish weatherboard. See how it’s just a bit different? Where your door is hidden, I’ll bet.”
“Wow. This is between the bedrooms. So the cupboard—”
“Yup. Behind it we’ll find the other side.”
“Okay. Let’s do it!” Christie almost danced in excitement.
Barry grinned. “Not that straightforward, but I’ll get the boys to have a look and let you know.”
“Oh. You can’t just knock the wall down?”
“Not until I know it won’t bring the roof with it. While we’re looking at it, you need to think about whether you really want a front door.”
Barry headed back to his truck. Why wouldn’t she want a front door? And more importantly, why had the front door been boarded up, and when?
***
“Do you think Thomas would know?” Holding her glass out hopefully, Christie puzzled over the mystery of the front door.
Martin refilled both their glasses. “Perhaps. It depends how long ago it was boarded up.”
“So many questions. Okay, don’t look at me that way. You might have to wait to ask him.”
Christie wandered out to the deck. The smell of sea spray and jasmine reminded her of the yacht and she smiled.
“What’s that for?” Martin leaned his arms on the railing, watching her face in the glow of the sunset.
“I’m lucky. That’s all.”
“You’re beautiful.”
Christie blushed. Until Martin, no compliment ever raised the colour in her face, yet all he had to do was say something nice, or look at her with those dark, moody eyes, and she was lost.
“It’s sweet.”
“What is?” She swallowed some wine to cover her reaction.
“Here you are, this worldly, travelled woman who has brushed shoulders with the rich and famous for years. Yet,” he moved closer, turning her face to his with a gentle finger under her chin, “you blush like a teenager.”
“Umm... it’s the sun. The sunset. Just a reflection of the sun.”
He chuckled, the sound low and very appealing. Her body responded by leaning toward him, completely without her permission.
“Then I shall wait until the sun goes down and tell you again. And again. You are beautiful, Christie Ryan. And sweet.”
“I don’t want to be sweet.” The words were a mere whisper.
“Then just be my sweetheart.” Martin sat his wineglass on the railing and took Christie’s to put with it. He took her hands and held them against his chest.
“Do you feel my heartbeat? It’s racing. And that’s for you, Christie. Only for you.”
Shivers of delight coursed through her, nerves awash with sensitivity. The way he was looking at her, there must be something special coming.
“I waited my whole life for you.” His words were like a dream.
I love you, I love you! He was going to propose. It didn’t matter that they’d been together for such a short time. What they shared was real. True. Honest.
Martin kissed her forehead. Then reached for the wine glasses and offered Christie hers. Confused, she took it. Maybe for a toast? But he was an old-fashioned man. Wouldn’t he want to do the whole formal proposal thing?
Jasmine Sea Page 4
