He returned the pressure. “Let’s just say that they are fans of Chris. And that artist. Tread gently.”
“I heard you the first time. Where is the painting?”
“You do your job and I,” he suddenly got to his feet and walked to a small bar. “I will take care of mine.”
After pouring two glasses of brandy, Derek wandered back to the desk and handed one to Ingrid. “To taking what’s ours.” Their glasses clinked.
“To loads of money.” Ingrid replied.
***
Once Christie unpacked the shopping, she followed the echo of hammering down the hallway. As usual, debris and dust covered the floor and it got worse by the minute. Barry stood aside as one of his men pounded on newly exposed brickwork between the bedrooms.
“Sorry.” Barry raised his voice over the noise. “Whoever did this went to a lot of effort to make it solid. Two rows of bricks.”
“It was the stationmaster.”
“Huh? Hey, Dave, take a break.”
Happy to put his tools down, the other man nodded to Christie and headed toward the kitchen.
“I said it was the stationmaster himself that did this. The last one.”
Barry rubbed his forehead. “Was he hiding a body?”
“Where’s the cupboard?”
“Garage. Boys got it out in one piece so it’ll make good storage out there if you want. Which reminds me, you had a delivery.”
“Me? But I haven’t ordered anything.”
“Are you sure? It’s pretty big. We signed for it, hope that’s okay, and put it in the garage as well. Here, I’ll show you.”
Christie followed Barry, glancing into the lounge room as they passed. The walls were ready for painting and the mantelpiece back in place. She couldn’t wait to decorate the room.
Inside the garage, a large, thin box – much like one housing a giant flat screen television – leaned against a wall. Something about its size and shape was familiar. Christie glanced at Barry. “Do you know who sent it?”
“Just a regular delivery van. Barely fitted in.”
Christie looked for a return address.
“Want me to open it?” Barry pulled out a box knife and when Christie nodded, sliced carefully along one seal. He peered inside. “Think its art.”
Sudden dread filled Christie. With uncanny insight, she knew what it was. As Barry sliced through the other sides, she opened her mouth to stop him, but nothing came out. He pulled the front away, then thinner packing board behind it.
“Wow! This is one fine painting.” Barry stood back to admire it, missing the fear that swept into Christie’s face.
It was a fine painting. One that she loved as much as she loved its artist. The problem was that Sole Survivor belonged to Derek.
Chapter Twelve
“Why? Just why?”
Christie paced around the garage. Martin stood like a rock some way back from the painting in silent thought.
“What on earth is Derek up to? This has to be some sort of screwed up message from him but why?” As Christie stomped past Martin for the third time, he reached out and gathered her into his arms. In the safety of his embrace, her heartbeat gradually slowed. Fear and frustration seeped away until Martin’s steady breathing surrounded her.
“I don’t know. But you being distressed doesn’t help us work it out.” Martin kissed Christie’s hair before releasing her.
“Sorry. It just shocked me.”
“I can see that. You’re sure there was no note?”
“Barry helped me search. Unless something fell off inside the delivery van, then no. And I’ve checked all the packing and box.”
“An anonymous gift.”
“Are you sure he bought it? I know he said he did, but that might have been to rattle me because I’d defended you when we first saw it.” Christie gazed at the painting, absorbing the stunning colours.
“I am sure. The receipt was from his business. What do you mean you defended me?”
“He and Ingrid made some stupid comments about abstract art and I disagreed.”
“And?”
“And... I may have been rather forceful and offended them. But it was their own fault! Ingrid declared abstract art is the work of a disorganised mind and I pointed out that you have one of the most logical, intelligent minds I know. Or something along those lines. Why are you smiling?”
“Because I adore you, my little ball of fire.”
“Well, I wasn’t about to stand there and let that woman judge you with no basis for her ridiculous comments.”
“It really doesn’t matter what other people think. You know that. Only the people you love matter.”
Christie touched the man in the painting. Misshapen, he dragged an anchor twice his size from a broken shipwreck. All the colours were back to front and incredibly beautiful. Sole Survivor. The person left behind when all around him was lost. She turned to Martin, her green eyes dark with emotion. “This is you.”
About to deny it, Martin bit his lip. Christie had a way of seeing through him, bypassing his defences with her perceptive kindness. Whatever that painting was, he had not meant for it to be identifiable, yet it was. To this woman who gazed at him with the glimmer of tears, held back no doubt to stop him commenting on them.
Drawing her into his arms again, Martin chose to kiss Christie instead. To let her feel his answer rather than hear it. Her arms slid up around his neck. He tasted her sweet lips with longing, wishing that they were somewhere, anywhere, other than here in the old garage dealing with her ex-fiancé again.
***
Martin locked the garage and handed Christie the key. “We need to decide what to do with it. I’m not comfortable with it staying here.”
“In the garage? I guess it isn’t the best place.”
“No, here at the cottage. You have enough to worry about without this as well.”
“Oh, that reminds me. Come and see what’s going on!” Smiling at last, Christie took Martin’s hand and they wandered to the cottage. “You won’t believe what we’re doing!”
“Installing a proper kitchen with appliances that order and prepare your meals?” Martin teased. “Gutting the cottage to open a cinema showing all the films you’ve worked on? Ouch, don’t dig your nails into my hand. Let’s see, turning a room into a beauty salon?”
Christie stopped at the back door to pat Randall, who lay fast asleep in the late afternoon sun. He groaned and rolled over to have his chest scratched and Christie obliged. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“Which one?” Martin leaned against a post to watch them interact.
“I could open a salon. Probably not here though, just a bit too far from town.” She tilted her head. “You know, I wondered when I arrived here whether anyone provided beauty services.” She gazed at Martin.
“Don’t ask me. I was joking.”
“Of course.”
“It would interfere with your career.”
“Yes. It would.”
“Not give you the income you’re used to.”
“Are you trying to talk me out of it?” Christie took his hand again, playing with his fingers, keeping her eyes on his. “I’d be in River’s End all the time. No more travelling. No more absences.” Which was what Derek used to complain about. “I love living here.” She opened the door.
Martin caught up with her in the lounge room. He inspected the wall above the mantelpiece. “Nice job. Once the room’s painted, I’ll find you a painting.”
“It suits the seascape. Thomas’ painting. So I do hope they’ll accept the cottage as a gift.” She missed the flash of misgiving that crossed Martin’s face. “By the time they get back, I hope to have everything ready.”
“There’s a lot of history here. It is incredibly sweet that you want this so much, but what if they can’t get past that history?”
“I don’t know. I shall probably sell. But, hopefully it won’t come to that. Particularly once Thomas sees what we’re doing wi
th the front door.”
“You found out about it.”
“I went to see George and he told me when and why it was closed off. Poor Thomas, he was only sixteen... oh, you don’t know.” Christie turned away and went to the window. The trees cast long shadows with the approach of evening. After a moment, Martin came to stand behind her, his hands resting on the windowsill, one on either side of Christie.
“What I do or don’t know is beside the point. George should know better than to discuss Thomas behind his back.”
“He was trying to help. Not being a gossip and after all he was there when it happened.”
“It isn’t your business though. Nor mine. Stop trying to fix everything, sweetheart.”
Staring at their reflections in the window, Martin’s face so hard, like it had been time and again when they first met, Christie’s heart sank. Why don’t you trust me? “I’m sorry. I won’t speak of it again, but I will put the front door back where it belongs. As you said, Martha and Thomas may not wish to live here, so I need to think about myself, or the value of the place should I sell.”
“Who would you sell it to? It seems to be developers who want it.”
“And you know I will never sell to them! I don’t know who and anyway, it isn’t my priority.” She fell silent, aware that her voice had sharpened.
Martin moved his hands from the windowsill to Christie’s waist, gently turning her to face him. She kept her eyes down.
“Christie? I’m not cross with you.”
Still, she stared at their shoes. He chuckled and in surprise, her eyes flew to his.
“You want to say something. And you’re holding it in.”
She tightened her lips into a straight line and stepped out of his loose embrace. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”
“Yes, but don’t get defensive and change the subject. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I’m scared of loving you too much. I want a family with you but what if I lose everything? What if you don’t feel the same? “I’d rather not, just now. I might go and see what looks good to cook though.” She softened her tone and managed a small smile.
Martin nodded. “I need to feed Randall. We’ll be back in a little while.”
“I love you.”
“I know you do.” Martin squeezed her hand on his way past and left Christie alone in the lounge room.
***
Just after dark, Christie heard a familiar woof from the street. Such a little thing to make her happy, yet it did, so much. Randall was the dog she’d never had as a child. Gran would not tolerate any pets, not even a goldfish, leaving Christie to daydream about owning a cat, or a dog. Sometimes even a donkey, with long velvety ears.
She turned on the back light and unlocked the door, then returned to stirring a bolognaise sauce. He knocked.
“It’s unlocked,” she called.
“It shouldn’t be.” Carrying a bottle of wine and a small chiller bag, Martin came in with Randall. “Do we need to discuss this, Christie?”
His tone reminded her of the day he’d found the door unlocked after twice reminding her to lock it. A shiver went up her spine. Part apprehension and part attraction. She waved her spoon at him. “I only unlocked it when I heard Randall bark. I promise it was locked before then.”
After leaving the wine and chiller bag on the kitchen table, Martin wandered to the stove. He kissed Christie’s cheek. “Smells fantastic. Keep the door locked please. Particularly at night.” He took wine glasses from a cupboard. “Perhaps you should get some lights around the cottage as well?”
“Why? This is a safe town, how often have I heard you say that? Everyone says it, in fact.” As a pot of water came to the boil, Christie turned down the sauce and collected fresh pasta from the fridge. She added salt and oil to the water, then the pasta.
“Shall I stir?” Martin took a spoon to the pasta anyway and Christie stopped what she was doing to watch him with a grin. “What?”
“I just like looking at you.”
Martin turned off the sauce and opened the wine, but with just a hint of a smile that filled Christie’s heart.
“Randall’s gone to your bedroom. Is that okay?” He handed Christie a glass of wine. “Cheers.”
“Cheers. He can sleep wherever he wants.”
“Yes, he has that effect on people all the time.”
“Mmm.”
“What does ‘mmm’ mean?”
Christie took a sip of wine before answering. “He is so special. I’d like to have a dog one day but how on earth would I get one like him?”
“He’s one of a kind, like they all are. You know he has chosen you as one of his people? It isn’t a case of who owns Randall, but who Randall wants to be with. You’re definitely high on that list.”
“But—”
“No buts.” Martin busied himself finding cutlery. “Who am I to tell him who to love? It’s not as though I don’t feel the same.”
Then why are you holding back so much? Christie turned away so he wouldn’t see the conflict in her eyes. Somehow, she had to learn patience.
Chapter Thirteen
Dinner was long finished and the washing up underway. In between kisses, Martin washed and Christie dried. Randall sat hopefully in the middle of the kitchen. With no scraps coming his way, he wandered off again.
“The kitchen will be so wonderful once it’s done.” Christie folded the tea towel. “Coffee?”
“Thank you. You’re putting a lot into it. If it really is all for Thomas and Martha, then they need to buy it.”
Christie stopped filling the kettle to look at Martin in surprise. “I couldn’t do that!”
“And why not? Martha is selling her home in Ireland and Thomas – assuming he agrees – will sell his little place up the mountain. On top of that, he’s made a decent living as an artist for a long time, so money is not an object.”
The kettle plugged in, Christie collected mugs and teaspoons, giggling as Martin barricaded the drawer by leaning against it and refusing to move until she kissed him. “You can make the coffee if you don’t stop!”
“Perhaps I should. Do I need to buy you a coffee machine?”
“There’s nothing wrong with yours.”
“Except it’s at my house.”
“Exactly. So why we would need two?” Christie sneaked a glance at Martin. He was opening the chiller bag he’d brought with him. He mustn’t have heard.
“What’s in there?”
“Aunt Sylvia sent them.”
“Sylvia? How sweet... and surprising,” Christie joined Martin. “Did she know you were coming here?”
“Behave. She likes you a lot. Just give her time to get over Belinda moving to Melbourne.”
“I like her too. It must be hard for her without Belinda, particularly in the bakery. Does she have anyone else to help? Ooh!” Her eyes got rounder as Martin lifted two perfect mini cheesecakes out of the bag and then she rushed to the cupboard to find plates.
“To answer your question, yes, she has taken on a lad to train up. She had been considering an apprentice for a while, so in some ways this forced her to do it. He’s a good kid, committed and keen.”
Cheesecake on plates and coffee in hand, they settled back at the kitchen table. Christie smiled. “Between Belinda and now Sylvia, I have no chance of wasting away. I am pleased about her new assistant. She’s done it tough, hasn’t she?”
“Aunt Sylvia is a tough lady. And kind.”
“Very. Was there ever a Mister Sylvia? Don’t look at me that way, I’m not gossiping, just trying to fill in back story.”
“It’s her story to tell, but to stop you putting your foot in it, no there never was. Belinda and Jess’ father would never commit to marriage and eventually, he moved on. No.” He put his hand up as Christie went to ask more. “That’s it. You want to know more, you ask Sylvia.”
Christie gave him a little smile as collected the plates and went to the sink. Martin’s eyes followed
her, admiring the slender lines of her body under jeans and t-shirt. She looked amazing in anything. Or, out of anything. His mind wandered.
“Another coffee?”
“Hmm?”
“You were miles away.”
“No. Not miles.” He checked his watch and stood up. “Time to let you get some sleep.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You should be, with all the work you’re doing here.” Martin held his arms out and Christie snuggled into his warmth. “I have an early meeting that I must prepare for.”
“Banker? Insurance broker?” she teased.
“Are you free in the afternoon? Might go for a sail if you’d like to keep practising.”
“That would be wonderful!”
Martin whistled softly and a moment later, Randall padded down the hallway, yawning. Christie followed them out onto the back porch.
“Sweet dreams. Lock the door.”
“I will. Have a nice walk home.”
Now wide awake, Randall took off after a rabbit. “My cue.” Martin squeezed Christie’s hand before following Randall into the darkness.
***
At almost midnight, Christie pushed her laptop away and made another coffee. In the last couple of hours she’d filled her head with nautical terms and rules of sailing, preparing for the Marine Licence exam. There were quite a few differences from what she’d learnt in California, sailing around Santa Monica with some of the cast of a film.
Those were heady days. In spite of her fear of the sea, and that she would embarrass herself being seasick, Christie had ended up on board the producer’s yacht one evening and loved it.
There was a freedom in the wind-filled sails unlike any other. How cleanly and quietly the boat cut through the waves. More modern than Jasmine Sea, it comfortably carried the group out and around the gorgeous bay. One evening turned into many. Christie got on well with the producer, Carlo Palmero, and he gave everyone the chance to learn to sail.
It was extraordinary that she now had her own yacht. It didn’t feel real and part of her still couldn’t understand why. Did Martin believe that Christie needed the boat in order to feel at home?
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