Jasmine Sea

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  Thirst drove him to the fridge and he chuckled seeing Randall sitting on his bed, frisbee dangling from his mouth. “Soon, mate.” He stopped to scratch the dog’s head. “We’ll go for a swim a bit later.”

  Water in hand, Martin stood for a while, staring at nothing. Only a few months ago, his days were filled with his beloved work, punctuated with time on the beach and evenings back in the studio. Painting from his heart and subconscious, building exquisite timber pieces, and occasional stints mentoring youngsters who’d lost their way, were all he needed. That and Randall, and Thomas of course. Straightforward, predictable, unemotional.

  Until Christie burst into his life and shone a light on the deep, abiding loneliness he’d buried since the day his parents died. She’d rattled his world and shown him exactly what was missing, filling that emptiness with love.

  She would be safe here. With him and Randall, Christie would never have fear in her eyes again, as he’d seen at the cottage. Whatever resolve he’d had to keep his distance was rapidly disappearing.

  ***

  The last thing Christie felt like doing was venturing out of her room, but Daphne’s cheery text message reminding her of their lunch date gave her little option. Once Trev left, hopeful he had some good prints to check, she’d headed to the café on foot.

  The day now lay in ruins. The ruins of her relationship with the cottage, and with Martin. Her fault entirely. She tried to ignore the stone in her stomach as she neared the café

  A sign in the window of the hairdressing salon caught her eye and she wandered closer to read it. Business for sale. Enquire within. What was the point? If she couldn’t work things out with Martin, then River’s End would no longer hold any attraction.

  This upcoming trip to Auckland would open new doors in her own industry again. Christie’s heart raced so fast she had to put a hand onto the window to steady herself. The idea of going back to what once was a challenging and fulfilling career suddenly sounded like a prison from which she would never escape.

  Chapter Thirty

  Unlike Christie, who loved to drive with the car’s top down, Ingrid detested the inevitable mess the wind made of her hair and make-up. It was bad enough returning to the backward little town without having to make herself presentable the moment she arrived. Instead, she played classical music and had the air conditioning turned up high.

  Just after Green Bay, the Porsche caught up with a familiar, much slower sedan, cigarette smoke wafting from the partly open driver’s window. Ingrid dialled Rupert. Twice, because he clearly didn’t want to talk to her.

  “What is it?” He finally answered.

  “For a start, get that pile of junk out of my way.”

  “Go past.”

  “If you hadn’t noticed, there are hairpin corners all the way along here.”

  “And?”

  “And you are forgetting your place. People like you are dispensable.” She almost spat the words.

  “Oops. Sorry, ma’am. Was there any other reason for the call?”

  I’d like to run you off the edge of the cliff. “Why are you going to River’s End? Has she called you?”

  “No, Christie hasn’t, but I expect she will. Might as well be close by to seal the deal. And why are you here?”

  If anything, the sedan slowed even more and Ingrid continually had her foot on the brake. “God, can you go any faster? And what I’m doing is none of your business.”

  “Well, it sure was nice catching up then.”

  “Wait.” Ingrid scowled. “If you’re going to be in town, I might have something for you to do. Later.”

  “I’m shocked. Remember I’m happily married with a bubba on the way.”

  “Remember I’m behind you and just might give in to my desire... to see the back of your car sinking under the waves. No woman in their right mind would marry you, Rupert, let alone have your devil-child.”

  He snickered. “You know you want me. Hey, you’re a bit too close. Back off, okay?”

  The road forked and both cars took the left turn, off the Great Ocean Road. “You go do what it is you do. I’m going to see Martin Blake and stir things up. In the unlikely event I fail, you might need to repeat last night’s events, but in his studio.”

  Ahead, the River’s End sign signalled a reduced speed limit. If Rupert drove any slower, his car would stall. They passed the road to the cottage, then went down the hill to town. “Are you there?”

  “Damaging whitegoods is one thing. Valuable art quite another. If I got caught—”

  “Well, don’t. His ridiculous scribbles cannot be worth much except to hurt him. If I have to, I’ll chase both of them out of this town.”

  “I’m stopping just up here. Do you want to continue this face-to-face?”

  “Are you insane? Just keep your phone on and let me know if you hear from her.”

  “From Christie? I dare you to say her name.”

  Ingrid jabbed the disconnect button. The sedan indicated and pulled into a parking spot near a bakery. She drove past, ignoring Rupert’s wave and turning onto the road to Martin’s house.

  ***

  “But, lovely, you’ve got to put yourself first. Such a dangerous world it’s becoming.” Daphne dabbed tears from her eyes with a handkerchief. She hadn’t touched her lunch since finding out about the break-in.

  “Please, please don’t be so upset,” Christie reached across the table to pat Daphne’s hand. “I was never at risk. I’m sure it’s just one of those random things and there’ll be no repeat.”

  “Isn’t it time you sell? No, don’t frown, give it some thought. Surely Martin would rather you move in with him and after all,” she lowered her voice, “I’m convinced he has a proposal on his mind.”

  Christie had no answer. He’d told her to give it time. Again. It reminded her of when she’d admitted to reading Thomas’ love letters. Furious, Martin had walked away from Christie and she’d thought she’d lost him forever.

  “Besides,” Daphne continued with a smile. “That young man Rupert is all ready to buy, so it’s not like having to list it.”

  “Oh, you need to know Trev will drop by to ask about Rupert. He is following up all possibilities.”

  “My goodness, the young man is all about his family, not damaging whitegoods!”

  “Daphne, I don’t know what to do. Thomas and Martha will be home soon and I wanted to give them the cottage, all perfect and ready for their life together.” Her voice caught and she looked at her own plate, just as untouched as Daphne’s. “This sets things back.”

  “But do you really want them living there now?”

  Christie’s eyes flew up. “Why not?”

  “What if this break-in is the first of many? There could be someone coming into the area looking for trouble. Even one of our own. Your little cottage is isolated and it’s not like those two are getting any younger. They might be better going into the new estate.”

  “No offence, but it’s like a city suburb up there.”

  “Fair enough. Actually, I don’t know if I’ll ever step foot up there again after what that dreadful woman tried to do in one of the empty houses!” Daphne stabbed little holes into the top of her pie with a fork.

  “What woman? Oh, was this something to do with John rushing in yesterday? He looked upset.”

  “He was! She tried to blackmail him into something but he stood up to her and sent her packing. Nobody messes with my John.” Smiling proudly, Daphne finally took a mouthful of lunch, not seeing Christie’s mouth drop open.

  “Who? And why, I mean, what on earth happened, Daphne? Blackmail?”

  “This woman tricked John into meeting her twice in secluded spots, to try and get him to turn his back on the arrangement we have with Bryce Montgomery. When he refused, she threatened to tell me they were having an affair!”

  An icy chill gripped Christie. “What’s her name?”

  “Hmm? I don’t actually know. John refuses to say another word about it.”r />
  “Then, what does she look like? Short, platinum hair? Anything.”

  Mouth full again, Daphne shook her head and shrugged.

  Christie’s hands shook. It had to be Ingrid. What was she playing at now? And was she behind the break-in?

  ***

  Martin’s plans for a swim went on hold with a text message from Bethany Fox. There in ten minutes. After sending a confused Randall into the house, he closed the sliding door. He’d make it up to him soon.

  Back in the studio, Martin again checked the watercolour for dryness. He’d built a narrow, lightweight box to protect it. As long as Bethany liked it, all would be good. If she didn’t, she could have her money back. No more working for her or anyone else.

  “Hello, darling!” Ingrid wandered in without knocking and went straight to the portrait. With barely a glance at it, she nodded. “Wonderful job. Clearly you are not the typical abstract artist.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She fluttered her eyelashes at him, moving closer. “Most of them work from chaos. The scribblings of a disorganised mind. But not you.”

  Why does that sound familiar? “I’ll box it up. Just make sure it is properly handled, particularly if being flown.”

  “Sure.” Her voice was bored. “When will you start on the oil painting?”

  Martin took the watercolour to the box. He lowered the lid and jumped as Ingrid’s hand ran up his back.

  “You didn’t answer.”

  “Very well.” He stepped away, deliberate about widening the gap between them. “This watercolour is it, no more portraits.”

  “Why? We have an arrangement.” Her face reddened and her tone sharpened.

  “And I’ll return your deposit, less the cost of this. Your mother is going to love it.”

  Ingrid wandered to one of the windows. “I don’t want my money back, Martin. I’d like to increase my payment and take you with me.”

  Martin picked up the box. “Bethany, I’ll carry this out for you.”

  “You see, my mother isn’t long for this world. I need you to paint her. Paint us both, together with my father. In England.” She turned around, her face grave. “I’m quite serious and frankly, I have the money to pay whatever you ask.”

  “There are hundreds, thousands of artists in England. Good ones, better than me.”

  “But they are not you. Please, Martin, please do this.” Ingrid swayed back to him, stopping within arm’s length. “Name your price and I’ll make it happen.”

  Martin stared at Ingrid, at the near-grief and desperation in her face. Then at her eyes. Cold, hard eyes. “I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” She almost snarled. “You’ll be a fool to refuse.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Then he remembered. The garage, with Christie.

  She’d admitted defending Martin to Derek and Ingrid, even though she barely knew him then. Eyes full of fire, Christie had spoken with quiet anger. “Ingrid said abstract art is the work of a disorganised mind and I pointed out you have the one of the most logical, intelligent minds I know.”

  Martin put the box down. “What the hell do you want, Ingrid?”

  She gasped.

  “I knew there was something wrong from the beginning. You tell me now what this whole thing is about.”

  Ingrid glared at him. “Think what you will. I’ve done nothing wrong, just commissioned a painting.”

  “Why? What is your motive? If you’re after—”

  “What do you think your little princess will do when she finds out we’re involved?”

  “She won’t believe you. Remember, Ingrid, she’s seen you in action before.”

  “And look what happened. No more engagement, or apartment, or career. I have a way of getting what I want.”

  “Get out.” Martin grabbed the box and forced it into her arms. “Leave.”

  With a shrug, she walked away. At the door she paused and looked back with a smirk. “She was never yours and before this week is through you’ll have lost her. Her place is still with Derek, as pathetic as it is.”

  Martin strode across the floor but she slipped through the door and disappeared. He slammed it behind her and dropped into a squat, hands pressed against his eyes.

  ***

  Almost turning an ankle on the grass in her hurry, Ingrid swore and took off her shoes. How had he worked out her identity? Thank God Derek had insisted she spend last night in the city. No way to pin the break-in on her. No, she was safe – at least, once she got to her car she would be. For all she knew, he might set the dog on her.

  At the gate, she glanced back. Damn him. Damn Christie and, mostly, damn Derek. She didn’t want him, but she hated losing. Anything.

  With all her strength, she threw the box toward the cliff. It hit the ground with a satisfying smash and bounced almost to the edge. She wanted to kick it over, send it into the ocean to rot. Except now she could hear the Lotus.

  Flying into her car, Ingrid prayed she could get to the fork before Christie did. No point making things worse for herself at this point. Throwing it into gear, she forced the accelerator down.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The Porsche drove down the hill toward Christie. She slowed a fraction to give herself the best chance of a good look at the driver. Before she was close enough to see, the other car took a sharp turn and accelerated past Palmerston House.

  Now what? She could hardly follow. For a second, she imagined the two sports cars in a thriller, a movie where she was hunting down the criminal. Another time. She continued toward the cliff top instead. There were things Martin needed to know.

  She parked, got out, and locked the car. Never again would she fail to lock anything. That was one of her resolutions. Inside the gate, her eyes, as always, wandered to the vast ocean. It felt like ages since she’d been down on the beach for more than a shortcut. Randall barked, taking her attention. He galloped across the grass, tail high with excitement and she met him halfway.

  “Hello, gorgeous boy.” She stroked his velvet ears when he finally stopped circling her. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Don’t know about ‘Dad’, but I’m here.” Martin called.

  Christie and Randall almost ran into him as they went around the corner. He steadied Christie then, holding her arms, studied her face.

  “You look so worried. Is everything okay?” Christie’s heart sank.

  “Had the other car gone when you arrived?”

  “Yes, it turned off in a huge rush heading toward the estate. Why?”

  “There’s something I have to tell you. Let’s sit.” Martin led her to the deck. “You sit.” He leaned against the house.

  Christie dropped onto the top step. “I know you want to tell me something, but I need to ask about your client and I’m sorry if it’s out of line. Daphne had some problems with a woman, well, John did. She’s a property developer and threatened to tell Daphne they were having an affair if he didn’t agree to help her. What?”

  Martin’s hands were clenched. His eyes were impossible to read. “Go on.”

  “Daphne doesn’t know anything about this woman apart from her deceitfulness, oh and that she dresses provocatively. It just made me wonder...”

  “You think Bethany Fox is Ingrid.”

  Christie nodded. “I’m sorry, it’s so stupid of me. Forget I said anything.” Martin’s expression was so stern. She’d made a dreadful mistake. Again.

  Martin crouched down in front of her and put a hand on either side of her face. “You are right, sweetheart.”

  “What!”

  “She came to get her watercolour and something she said stuck with me. I finally remembered a conversation you’d recited and I called her out on it. It was Ingrid, and God, I’m so sorry.”

  Christie’s face paled. Martin stood up and drew her into his arms, holding her as if he’d never let go. “I’m so sorry I let her back into your life.”

  “How is it your fault?” Her voice was muffled and
he loosened his arms. “She’s an insidious person and must hate me with a vengeance.”

  “She has some problems. We’re going to give Trev a call, okay?”

  “And I need to fill in Daphne and John. Make sure they warn the other real estate agents in the area. What made you suspicious?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Martin released Christie. “Come on, we’ll ring Trev now.”

  His face was stern, a vein pulsing in his neck. What did Ingrid do? Would she never be free of this woman?

  ***

  Parked in the back street of the estate, Ingrid tried to tune out Derek’s voice as he yelled at her. How Martin had worked out her identity was a mystery, but now he had, it was time to mop up.

  Eventually, he stopped yelling. She waited a moment to be sure.

  “Are you still there, Ingrid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well? What have you got to say?”

  “Do you want her back?”

  “What does Chris have to do with this?”

  “I’ve never heard you so angry and I’m sure it isn’t out of concern that I might end up in jail. So, is it because she won’t believe anything about me and Martin?”

  “No. Yes, but only because you were convinced you could break them up. One more way to secure the cottage, or so you insisted. Yet here we are with no phone call from Rupert and you blowing any chance of working with John Jones. What’s worse, Ingrid,” he raised his voice again, “my name will get dragged through the mud with yours.”

  “Oh, calm down! It isn’t nearly that bad and there is a lot still to play out. First of all, what have I done wrong? The fact Martin Blake is virtually engaged to your ex is enough reason for me – a person she hates, wanting a portrait by that artist – to avoid unpleasantness by using another name. Secondly—”

  “What do you mean, virtually engaged?”

  “They are an item, darling. He’s like some Neanderthal when it comes to protecting her and she, well, she just swoons when he looks her way.”

  “Shut up.”

  Ingrid smiled. “I’m sorry, that was out of line.” Her tone was soft and apologetic. “I’m just upset and a little bit scared at the moment.”