“Did you meet my mother and father?” Christie touched the locket.
“Just once.”
Eyes wide, Christie grabbed his hand. “When? What were they like? Was I born?”
“One question at a time.” Angus chuckled. “It was your mother and she came to visit with you. I’d only been working for Miss Dorothy for a very short time and picked you both up from the airport. You were about four, if memory serves me, and such a chatty little thing.”
“I can’t imagine that. Where was my dad?”
“Working, I believe. Your mother came for Miss Dorothy’s birthday. The visit was cut short, unfortunately, after your mother and Miss Dorothy disagreed about something.”
“They argued? What about?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say,” Angus knew exactly what it was about, but telling Christie would serve no purpose. No, he remembered the day with alarming clarity.
***
It was the second day of Rebecca and Christie’s visit, in the middle of the morning. Angus carried a tray holding tea, a glass of milk, and some small cakes into the informal living room. The formal areas of the house were off limits to children and kept in pristine condition, should visitors drop by. Not that they often did, for Dorothy had few friends.
Little Christie flicked back and forth through a colourful picture book, engrossed and chatting quietly to herself. But Dorothy stared at Rebecca with a cold expression, whilst her daughter’s face was creased in distress.
“But why won’t you visit us? Never is a long time, Mother.”
“You made the choice to live where you do. Instead of enjoying a good life with friends and family, and a purpose, you blindly followed him to such a remote and barren place. Working amongst people who can’t even pay you.”
“I have a very good life, and lots of friends, thanks for caring. Julian and I love the community. It is a work of love and I most certainly do have a purpose!”
As Rebecca raised her voice, Christie looked up with wide eyes. Angus offered her his hand as he went past, hoping to remove her from the escalating argument, but she didn’t see it.
“I did not raise you to live in such squalor, Rebecca! You are a Ryan, and one day you will inherit everything I’ve worked my life for.”
Rebecca stood up as Angus reached the door. “No. I am an Oliver. And I most certainly do not want or need your money. You were happy enough for me to marry Julian, so what changed?”
Dorothy also got to her feet and Christie slipped out of her chair. “As a doctor he should have put his own family first. Not the needs of... what do you call them? A community? This is your last chance to change your mind. Come home and live the life you deserve.”
“What I deserve? Do you think this is it? Oh my God, Mother, you have no idea!”
As Dorothy took a step toward Rebecca, Christie backed away. Straight into a stand holding a ceramic vase which teetered, then crashed onto the floor and shattered. Angus hurried to begin picking up the pieces as Dorothy turned her attention on the child, stalking toward her, palm open.
“No!” Rebecca flew to Christie and lifted her up, away from her mother. “You will never raise a hand to my child!”
“Then get out of my house.”
Angus took Christie from Rebecca and carried her out of the room. “Hush little one, Mummy is okay. Grown-ups say silly things sometimes.” She clung to him, her head on his shoulder. He walked as far away from that room as he could, taking the child out of earshot.
An hour later, he drove Rebecca and Christie to the airport and waited with them as Rebecca booked a flight home. He never saw Rebecca again.
***
“Angus, are you okay? You’re very quiet and you look sad.”
“I was just remembering how beautiful your mother was, and how very much she loved you.” It took all of Angus’ resolve to keep those memories to himself. “There was nothing she would not do for you.”
Christie’s smile was enough to tell Angus he’d made the right decision.
***
Watercolour was the least favourite medium Martin used. It was, however, a relatively fast drying way to paint and the best option in these circumstances. If he finished it today, with drying time and proper packing it should be safe to travel by Wednesday. This wasn’t ideal and, for Martin, the pressure was not welcome.
Laying out his paints and setting up an easel directed his brain to that place of unwavering focus for his subject, his job. This time though, Christie’s face kept intruding. Her lips, so soft and sweet. Those emerald eyes capable of inspiration or devastation. God, he wanted her here, more than ever. All of his plans were on hold now, because he wasn’t prepared to subject Christie to his moods when he painted.
He needed to talk to her, to warn her again about the tight little cocoon he wrapped himself in. To ask her to give him just a little bit of time so he could do this, and then be free to be with her. No doubt she was at Palmerston House. He’d missed any opportunity to have her here and, in reality, this was bad timing. Get it done and move on. Just one quick call, then he would paint.
***
Dusk fell as Christie drove into the cottage driveway. Barry and his team were long gone. She sighed at the inevitable mess left behind. After sweeping, she peeked into the laundry. Completely gutted, the walls had new holes cut in to provide access for the washing machine and new sink. Stepping carefully past a pile of tiles, she checked the laundry door was secure.
One by one, Christie ensured the windows were all tightly locked. Before leaving, Christie stood in the kitchen, gazing around. The place felt a bit alien now with the work in progress. Once the door was locked, Christie headed for the garage. That was secure. Everything was the way it should be.
Christie wished she was going to Martin’s now. She felt alone and a bit sad. But he was painting and the slight tension in his voice when he had rung gave away his need to be alone.
Rain pattered on her windscreen as she turned onto the main road. Storm clouds loomed from the south-west. A lone yacht scurried beyond the cliffs, hurrying to its mooring. Not the night to be out on the water.
***
John stood at the kitchen doorway, watching Daphne stir something in a pot. She hummed, her face relaxed, as she put a lid on the pot.
“Smells good, love.” He decided it was time she had a kiss.
“Oh, I didn’t hear you come in!” With a big smile, Daphne opened her arms. He wrapped her up in his, squeezing her until she protested with a giggle. Then, he kissed her. A romantic, lingering kiss that left both of them a bit surprised and breathless.
Red-faced, Daphne wiggled away. “My, oh my, John Jones! It’s got terribly hot in here all of a sudden.”
“Well, I should cool you down with a nice bottle of red.”
“But it’s only Monday.”
“You get the plates and I’ll get a bottle.”
Daphne dabbed her forehead with a tissue, then gave the pot one more stir, replaced the lid, and turned off the flame.
John wandered back, reading the label of the bottle he’d selected. “Think this will do. Been keeping it for a special occasion, and today fits the description, don’t you think?”
“I think you are the most wonderful man in the world.”
“Then let’s open this baby and drink to us.”
While he found a bottle opener, Daphne filled two plates with stew and added a bread roll on each. Instead of their customary dinner in front of the television, she rushed into the dining room and set the table. John appeared behind her with the plates. “You sit down, I’ll get everything.”
“First...” Daphne opened the glass cabinet and found a pair of crystal glasses, the good ones they kept for entertaining.
After John filled their glasses, they clinked them in a toast from him, “To the best darned real estate agency in the world!” which resulted in more giggles from Daphne.
For a few moments they ate in silence, then Daphne sighed and too
k another sip of wine. “I truly cannot understand what that woman was thinking. As if I would believe for one minute that you would stray.”
“She’s used to getting what she wants and I just hope she’s gone for good. The trouble is she’s nosing around all over the region and, before long, just might find someone who doesn’t see through her.”
“Should we warn the others?”
“Don’t see how we can, love. Not without the risk of a law suit, should she get wind of it. She’s good though. Very clever at getting a person to see her vision, and it’s not a bad vision.”
“Just a bad woman. Well, doll, you saw through her and sent her packing back to Melbourne.” Daphne stabbed a piece of potato as if it were Ingrid.
John put his hand on hers. “If you hadn’t reminded me how much we owe Bryce for his loyalty, then I might have signed something and got us into a lot of trouble. I just want to be sure we’ll be comfortable when we retire.”
“You did nothing wrong and you never would have. Now, tonight is special and we’re going to stop talking about horrible women and start talking about helping Bryce with his next endeavour!”
John smiled and nodded. Talking shop was never old with Daphne. Telling her about Ingrid’s attempt to intimidate him today reminded him why he loved her so much. Ingrid was gone, and, like Daphne, he hoped it was for good.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Good God, I am happy to be back.” Ingrid sank onto the sofa in Derek’s office. She considered taking off her shoes, but Derek was touchy about things being out of place, so casually draped one leg over another instead.
Through the floor to ceiling windows, Melbourne city stretched out, lights defining the buildings. A sprinkle of rain dotted the glass, not heavy enough to spoil the view. Derek brought over two glasses of brandy. “Here, you deserve this.”
“Yes, I most certainly do, being sent to purgatory for all this time.”
“I would have thought Martin Blake would appeal to you.”
“He does in that primitive, alpha sort of way. But he’d get tiring quickly, so no need to worry.” She smiled very sweetly, then tasted her drink. “This is nice. Civilised. But I thought you wanted me to stay there longer?”
“Not tonight. The best thing is you being very visible here, just on the off-chance anyone suspects your involvement.”
Ingrid covered a yawn. “Sorry, darling. I’m tired. I’ll just come home with you and that way I’ll have a perfect alibi.” She glanced at Derek through partly closed eyelids, a tiny curve on her lips.
“Nope. We’re off to the casino. Between dinner with friends and then a move into the gaming rooms, you’ll be safe from any accusations. Don’t pout. Go home and have a shower and I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
“Fine, but expect me to drink a lot of very expensive champagne.” She leaned over and touched her lips to his. “It’s been hard work dealing with those idiots and if I must go out, then I shall do so in style.”
She started to get up, but Derek’s hand whipped to the back of her neck. “I expect nothing less.” He pressed his mouth against hers, forcing her lips open in a fast, hard kiss. “This will be over soon. Then we’ll book that trip to the Alps.”
***
Elizabeth suggested a game of Scrabble after a delicious dinner served in the kitchen. Angus and Christie looked at each other and groaned aloud.
“Well, what about cards then?” Elizabeth frowned.
“No, it’s a great idea! We love Scrabble but we are so competitive and nobody else ever wants to play.” Christie explained. “Angus is the king of unusual words and I like to make things up to delay everything whilst somebody researches to prove me wrong.”
“Well then, I’m sure you won’t mind me joining in and seeing what I can learn.” There was a suspicious glint in her eye.
Half an hour later and trailing behind them both, Christie shook her head. “Always the quiet ones.”
“Sorry, dear?” Elizabeth laid out a particularly difficult word and Angus sighed.
“Nice to see we’re teaching you something.” Christie grumbled.
“Care for a glass of sherry? Or wine perhaps, I seem to remember you enjoy the local chardonnay. It might help.” Elizabeth actually giggled and Christie caught Angus gazing at her with the softest of expressions.
“I’ll go and find alcohol for us all so that Angus and I can drown our sorrows.” Christie headed for the kitchen. Laughter drifted behind her, and she smiled. She found a bottle of wine, a beer she thought Angus would like, and glasses.
Back in the living room, she put them on the table. “Is it my turn yet?”
Angus stood with a bit of effort. “Go, see if you can complicate the situation! I believe I am now coming last.”
“Shall I take it easy on you?” Elizabeth asked with a deadpan expression.
“Yes. Yes, I believe that is an excellent idea.” Angus spoke with such resignation that Christie and Elizabeth burst into laughter. He handed them each a glass of wine, opened the beer and offered a toast. “To f-r-i-e-n-d-s.”
“Ooh, yes!” Elizabeth added, “to g-o-o-d-t-i-m-e-s!”
“Which leaves me to toast to m-e-w-i-n-n-i-n-g.” Christie grinned.
“That’s not how you spell Elizabeth.” Elizabeth stated.
“But it’s how you spell success!”
Angus took his chair again. “In that case, I shall try this word and you may both try to spell it!”
Christie overflowed with happiness. All that was missing was Randall and Martin to have made the evening perfect.
***
Martin put down his brush. His watch was in the house and he refused to keep a clock in here so had no idea what time it was. He tried to focus on the watercolour but exhaustion tricked his vision. Too many versions already ripped in two, until he’d spent a few minutes scratching Randall’s tummy, letting the gentle wag of his dog’s tail soothe him. In a better frame of mind, he’d finished the portrait in a few hours.
He knew what the problem was. Bethany Fox being on Jasmine Sea. Self-reproach bubbled just below the surface. Instead of controlling the situation, he’d been too concerned about money to keep his integrity, which annoyed the hell out of him. Never again. Instead of worrying about having enough in the bank to cover every future contingency, it was time to trust himself. Trust these hands that didn’t fail him. Trust Christie to love him no matter what.
This could stay here and dry overnight. In the morning, unless there were serious flaws, he would call Bethany about collecting it. Whether it would be fully dry was another matter, but he’d worked with a light touch. Cleaning up the brushes, all he wanted was sleep in soft sheets and drift into a dream as the rain tapped a lullaby. If Christie was here, it would be perfect.
Before turning off the lights, he took a moment to look at the oil he’d shown Christie last night. As if she understood exactly what his vision was, she’d got to the heart of it. Nobody in this world instinctively knew him, yet she had from the very first moment.
“Bedtime, Randall,” he said. A very sleepy dog reluctantly got up, stretched, then padded out. The rain was heavier now and Randall dashed for some bushes before catching up with Martin at the house. Something made Martin close and lock the sliding door behind them. He was accustomed to leaving it open, but it was beginning to feel hypocritical to be on Christie’s case all the time about locking doors, yet not bothering himself. Once she lived here, he’d insist on more security, so he might as well start now.
***
By two a.m. the short-lived storm had moved on and the rain slowed to a drizzle. Cold and stiff from sitting for several hours, Rupert dragged himself out of the car. He’d parked it close to the railway station, backed up into bushes right off the road where he could keep an eye on the cottage.
He grabbed a short crowbar and a pair of gloves from the car boot, then trudged through the muddy ground, past the desolate station and down the cottage driveway. During his visit thi
s morning, he’d scoped his target areas. This wasn’t about damaging the cottage, more about scaring Christie. He felt sick about it. She was nice.
He circled the cottage, flashing a narrow light through windows, stopping at the sight of the box in Christie’s bedroom. The painting. It was Rupert who’d packed it up and got it shipped here, following Derek’s instructions.
Inspection done, Rupert rattled the garage doors. Locked. He slipped one end of the crowbar between the doors and twisted it from side to side until the old lock gave. He pulled the doors closed behind himself.
A few boxes were open. A beautiful clawfoot bath became the first casualty with a few hard swings of the crowbar. Shards flew in every direction, one hitting Rupert’s cheek.
“Goddammit!” He dropped the crowbar, grabbed a handkerchief from a pocket, and cautiously wiped blood away. Once the bleeding stopped, he retrieved the tool, angry. More careful now, he wrenched the door off the dryer and the lid from the washing machine, knocking some huge dents into each appliance for good measure.
He ignored the enclosed boxes. Instead, he uncovered a container full of accessories. Fittings, wall mounts, screws. Lifting it high up, he turned it over, spilling the contents right across the floor. That would do. Enough damage to put fear into someone living alone.
Outside, he leaned against the doors and lit a cigarette with shaking hands. His face hurt. She didn’t deserve this, the woman with emerald eyes. No matter what she’d done to Derek, it was becoming a joke. No more. From now on, he’d find a way to avoid this sort of job. That resolved, he tossed the butt away and left.
***
From across the gaming room, Derek contemplated Ingrid. She might have been tired in his office, but a decent meal and copious champagne had revitalised her. She was stunning in her tight short dress and stilettos. Red hair suited her. Men wanted her and women wanted to be her. Pity she wasn’t a little more... amiable. Still, she had her purpose and was an asset.
The small group she was in split up but one man stayed, leaning very close to her, his body language clear. Ingrid smiled and whispered something in his ear, her hand on his arm. He pulled back abruptly with a scowl. Without looking back, Ingrid tottered across to Derek.
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