Jasmine Sea

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  He rattled the door, noticing a slight gap near the lock. After inserting the flat end of the tyre jack, he put his weight against it until, with a satisfying ‘pop’, the lock gave. With a glance over his shoulder, he nudged the door open and went inside.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Warm early-evening air enveloped Christie as she left Palmerston House on foot. Her white cotton dress felt nice against bare legs as she walked toward the river.

  Despite her talk with Angus, or maybe because of it, worry creased her forehead. He was right about everything, including her overreaction upon seeing the watercolour. The mature and sensible course of action would have been returning to the house with Trev and simply asking Martin why he’d painted Ingrid on Jasmine Sea.

  She didn’t feel very mature or sensible when it came to Ingrid, because every fibre of her being knew Derek was behind it all. Two attempts at blackmailing decent men into doing Ingrid’s will. Three horrible break-ins leaving thousands of dollars of damaged were hardly a coincidence, but what was the connection? Poor Daphne. Of all people, she hadn’t deserved that.

  As she followed the path by the river, Christie’s heart raced. She’d rejected several phone calls from Martin. Run away from his place. Perhaps he’d actually had enough of her emotional behaviour and was going to tell her, over dinner, this was over.

  The narrow path through the cliff opened to the beach, where the ocean stretched out forever, bathed in golden sunset. The river broadened into a shallow lagoon. At its edge, staring at the sea, Martin stood with one hand on Randall’s head. Dressed in a white shirt and black pants, feet bare, he radiated masculinity. Desire coursed through Christie. She stopped, her breath hurting. It was more than desire. It was love and, no matter what happened next, she belonged to Martin now and forever.

  ***

  It was past six o’clock and she wasn’t here yet. Not one returned phone call, nor reply to his message. He hadn’t even got to the cottage earlier, hearing the Lotus go down the hill as he was running up the stone steps from the beach. She’d got his message to wait, and hadn’t.

  Instead of chasing her anymore, he’d continued his plans for dinner on the beach. He’d sat with George for a while. Shopped. Anything to avoid thinking about what the evening might bring, if Christie couldn’t see past his poor judgement.

  In the distance, a family wandered along the tideline, two children running ahead. Randall wagged his tail and then sniffed the air. Martin closed his eyes. Please be here. His toes curled into the sand.

  “Martin?”

  He slowly exhaled, giving thanks to whatever had brought her here. Then, and now. He felt Randall leap up and heard Christie laugh as he ran to her. Then he opened his eyes and turned around.

  Like an angel, she was dressed in white, her feet and legs and shoulders bare, sandals dangling from her fingers. Her hair, loose around her face, reflected the sunset behind him, turning it into burnished copper. She straightened from patting Randall and their eyes locked. A surge of electricity jolted him. Had a woman ever been more beautiful than Christie was at this moment?

  She wasn’t smiling. Her expression gave away her apprehension. Fear that he created by his carelessness. Time for that to end. He held his arm out, a single red rose in his fingers. “Sweetheart.”

  She ran to Martin, straight into his arms.

  ***

  He was a decent artist, this Martin Blake. Rupert knew nothing about fine art, but he admired the bold colours and interesting subjects. The half-done painting of a couple at three ages was kind of sweet and sad all at once. This studio reminded Rupert of his mother. He imagined her sitting on the sofa, enjoying the sunlight through the skylights as she had a smoke. Except she couldn’t be now, because of those smokes. Life sucks sometimes.

  At the bar, Rupert found an old, unopened bottle of scotch. He opened it. Inhaled the warm scent then took a long swig. That’s what’s good in this world. He carried it around the room looking at the other paintings. Abstracts that made no sense. Some reminded him a bit of the one Derek used to have in the foyer. Why he’d sent it to Christie was a mystery. Idiot still had feelings for her.

  Another long, appreciated slug from the bottle in front of the portrait of Christie. Dammit, she was a fine looking woman. And so real and nice. Too nice for Derek. No, she suited the artist and he loved her, no doubt about it. Look at how perfect he’d made her skin, how alive her eyes were. On her hand was an engagement ring. Lucky man.

  Rupert dug around in a pocket for his phone. He dialled Ingrid. It rang, then went to voicemail and he hung up. A second later, she rang back.

  “So you do know how to answer calls?”

  “Ingrid, Ingrid, Ingrid. Time to have a chat.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Planning on it. I’m in Martin Blake’s studio.”

  “Thank goodness. I hope it is in pieces. About time you got something right.”

  He wandered back to the sofa and perched on the arm. “It isn’t. And it won’t be.”

  “What the hell—”

  “So this is what’s going to happen. I have five voice messages from you. Two are just you ranting and raving. Another two mention the cottage. But the last one... all about you telling me to destroy the very studio I’m sitting in.”

  “What do you want?”

  “That’s better. I want money. A lot of money, in my account. In the morning.”

  “Those messages incriminate you too. Why should I?”

  “Ingrid, you and Derek can go run off into the sunset for all I care, but I’m not doing your dirty work anymore. Now, if it means I go visit the local coppers and cut a deal, then so be it.”

  “You’re not serious!” Ingrid hissed. “You’ll go to jail!”

  “I’d be more worried about you going to jail. So, you’ve got until my bank opens in the morning to deposit double my annual salary plus ten times the bonus I was getting.”

  “Why? Why are you doing this?” She sounded close to tears, which kind-of made Rupert happy.

  “Sometimes life sucks. But not tonight. Not for the good people of River’s End anymore.” He hung up. He had his whiskey and tomorrow he would have enough money to disappear for a while. He raised the bottle to his mother. “Cheers, Mum. Love you always.”

  ***

  Hand in hand, Christie and Martin stood at the edge of the ocean. No words had passed between them, but Christie held the rose close, glancing at it from time to time. Out to the horizon, gold and red streaks turned the sky into a postcard. It was still quite light and perfectly warm.

  Not far away, the children made sandcastles as their parents sat on the beach talking. Randall watched them, tail wagging. A little boy jumped up with a huge smile. He spoke to his parents who nodded, and then he walked closer. Stopping near Randall, who kept looking at Martin for permission to go to the child, he called to Martin, “May I pat your dog?”

  “You may. Go on, Randall, but gently.”

  Randall flew over and let the little boy pat him, sitting very still before suddenly bounding around him in joy. Christie laughed and Martin shot her a glance. There was a different light in her eyes.

  “You like kids?”

  She turned her smile on him. “I love them.”

  He pulled her closer and leaned down to whisper, “So do I.”

  Happiness coursed through Christie.

  “Are you hungry?” Martin asked.

  “I am now.”

  Martin pointed to the jetty. “Then please join me.” At the far end of the jetty, a table and two chairs were set up. Christie giggled as he did a small bow while he handed her up onto the timber boards. The tide was rising but very calm, creating a soft backdrop of lapping against the pylons. The table was set with plates, glasses and a candle.

  “Now, whether this will stay alight...” Martin lit the candle, which flickered frantically before settling. “We’ll see.”

  He stood behind a chair. “Please.”

&nbs
p; Christie sat, rather stunned by the effort he’d gone to. She’d never have thought of having a proper dinner out here, yet it was the most romantic setting imaginable. Away from the beach, over the darkening water, under the coloured sky. Randall joined them, plonking himself to one side. Martin opened his backpack.

  “Oh, that smells divine. Shall I help?”

  “You can sit there and look at the sea.”

  I’d rather look at you. Everything was okay. Mostly okay. Right now, in this place, life was perfect. There was nothing Christie needed or wanted except for each precious moment to last. She followed every move Martin made with adoring eyes as he filled the table with a foil-covered seafood lasagne, salad, freshly baked bread, and olive oil.

  He pulled a bottle of wine out last, and hesitated. “I should have got champagne.”

  “What are we celebrating?”

  “I didn’t think it through. Maybe I should go and see if the pub has any.”

  “Okay, because we’re going to be super honest with each other from now on, I will tell you something nobody else knows. I don’t really like champagne. Too many reminders of the past.”

  Martin opened the bottle. “Are you just saying that?”

  “Nope. What I enjoy is a lovely, crisp dry white. Which you’ve instinctively offered me since the first glass.”

  He poured the wine. “Then you’ll love this. Made by our friends over the hill, it is their recently awarded gold medal winner.”

  He handed Christie a glass and sat opposite. “To things working out the way they’re meant to.”

  Christie caught her breath. That was exactly his toast the very first time they’d shared a bottle of wine. He remembered. She tapped her glass against his. “And to dreams coming true.”

  ***

  They lingered over dinner, nibbling the last of the bread with olive oil poured over it. The sun was almost below the horizon when Martin reached into his backpack for a lantern. When lit, it cast a glow across the old boards.

  Martin packed up the plates and leftovers, until all that was left was the wine, the candle, and the rose on the table between them. He sat again and stared solemnly at Christie. “There are some things we need to talk about.”

  Heart sinking, Christie glanced away. For the past hour she’d pretended the rest of the day hadn’t happened.

  “Why do you assume the worst?”

  Christie forced herself to meet Martin’s eyes. He was unreadable. Not a wall, but a considered expression that gave nothing away. He took something out of the backpack and put it in the centre of the table. It was an origami boat.

  “Unfold it.” Martin suggested.

  “Why did you... I mean, Ingrid?”

  Martin sighed and sat back in his chair. “Okay, let’s get this sorted. You do know I had no idea who she was?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No, listen. Please. I had a client who, although annoying, was paying me a lot of money for a portrait. She got a phone call saying her mother, in England, was on her deathbed and begged me to set the portrait on the yacht.”

  Ingrid would have pleaded, probably with her hand on Martin’s arm and her body leaning toward him. “Couldn’t you have just superimposed her onto a sketch without her actually being there?”

  “How do you know I didn’t?”

  “Oh. Did you?”

  “No. I only had the money on my mind, Christie. I didn’t think it through.”

  Money? All those times... Christie jumped to her feet.

  “Sit down, sweetheart.”

  “All you’ve ever done is criticise me for having nice things. My car, jewellery. You’ve always thought those things matter to me and they don’t, but now you’re telling me they matter more to you than—”

  “Than what? Than you?” His tone was mild. “Do you want to know why I wanted the money? Sit down.”

  Christie spun around and stormed away.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  She didn’t make it off the jetty. Martin’s arms swooped around her, stopping her in her tracks.

  “Let me go!”

  “Not going to happen. Now, you can come back to the table on your feet, or I can carry you.”

  The heat of his body radiated through Christie as he held her firmly against him, his mouth near her ear so she could hear him all too well. She held her body stiffly, resisting its annoyingly natural urge to sink into him.

  “I recommend the first suggestion,” he continued. “If I have to pick you up, I may just forget that we are out in public. We’ve had this discussion about your temper, and not very long ago.”

  “I’m really upset.”

  “Come on,” he released her. “There’s something you need to see.” He walked away. Back to the table, where he stood waiting. Without his arms around her, a sudden chill made her shiver. The weather wasn’t cold, but she was, inside. It took all of her self-control to go to him, but she did.

  He motioned for her to sit, and pulled his own chair out. The origami boat was on the timber boards of the jetty and he scooped it up. When she sat, he offered it to her and this time, she took it.

  “I don’t know what screwed up ideas have gone through your head lately, but if they are about Jasmine Sea and Bethany or Ingrid, whatever her name is, then forget them. The facts are I wanted the money for a good reason, except things got to a point I wasn’t prepared to deal with the devil any more. Unfold the boat, Christie.”

  Her fingers struggled, still trembling with emotion. Then, as it opened, she realised what it was and her eyes flew to Martin’s. “This is the boat registration.”

  “I know. Who is the registered owner?”

  “Me.” Her voice was tiny.

  “And what is the date the ownership changed?”

  She scanned the document. “This can’t be right.”

  “Do you remember when we talked about your attraction to yachts in spite of your fear of water?”

  “Before I went to Docklands Studios last time. You gave me Jasmine Sea all that time ago?” Her eyes were huge.

  “I finally found something worth giving you.”

  “But you don’t need to give me anything, Martin,” she grabbed his hand, leaning forward. “Your love is everything. Not gifts or money or anything except you. And Randall.”

  He watched her for a while, then sighed deeply. “All I knew was that the most perfect girl in the world loved me. How could I compete with what you had? What you were used to? Why would you stay when your world was so far removed?”

  Christie slipped out of her seat and dropped to her knees beside Martin. “This is my world.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “My world, which I will fight for with every breath in my body.”

  Martin lifted her effortlessly to her feet as he rose to his. Christie noticed his hands were shaking a little. What’s wrong? He looked so serious.

  “I know you’re not ready. This is too soon, but I can’t leave you wondering any longer. I can’t wonder any longer.” He released her hands.

  Puzzled, Christie watched him fumble around in his pocket and pull out a small box. He suddenly grinned. “This had better not end up falling in the ocean. George will never forgive me.”

  Under the starlight, Martin sank onto one knee. Christie gasped as he took hold of her left hand and gazed into her eyes. “I fell in love with you the moment I first saw you. You frustrated me and challenged me and utterly delighted me until I gave in and admitted to myself that you, Christabel Ryan Oliver, are the centre of my being. Will you marry me?”

  Christie barely nodded.

  “I think that was yes?” Martin opened the box. “Is it yes, Christie? Will you be my wife?”

  Inside the box, on a bed of black velvet, was a diamond solitaire with four emeralds. They sparkled by the light of the lantern, perfect in a gold setting.

  Randall padded over and sat beside Martin, leaning against him and looking at Christie with big, soulful eyes. “See,” said Martin, “both of us are aski
ng. We both need you.”

  Christie realised that she still hadn’t spoken, and now tears were making everything misty. “Yes, Martin,” she whispered. “Oh, yes, I will be your wife.” For the second time in minutes, she dropped to her knees, this time to put her arms around Martin’s neck. “I love you.”

  Randall buried himself between them.

  ***

  For a long time Christie and Martin sat on the edge of the jetty, their feet dangling. They held hands, talking quietly about nothing at all. Anecdotes about other times and places. Little insights into each other’s pasts. Every so often, they’d kiss. And laugh. As if barely believing it was on her finger, Christie kept sneaking looks at the ring.

  “Do you like it?” Martin asked, his voice a bit worried. “If there’s something else—”

  “I love it! Did you say something about George? Did he make this?”

  “He did.”

  “So beautiful.” Christie watched the diamond and emeralds sparkle. “Four emeralds?”

  “Your eyes are the same colour,” he captured her hand. “One emerald represents the first time I saw you. The second reminds me of the first time I kissed you. The third is for tonight.” He raised her fingers to his lips.

  “And the fourth?”

  “For the day we marry. And the diamond will be our children. You do want a family?”

  She nodded, too overcome with emotion to speak.

  Then yawned. Martin burst out laughing, stirring Randall, who looked up with an indignant groan.

  “Sorry,” she smiled, then yawned again. “I’m suddenly exhausted.”

  “I’ll walk you home. It’s been too long a day.” Martin stood and offered Christie his hand. “Tonight you sleep and tomorrow we’ll concern ourselves with any unresolved issues. We’ll check up on Daphne in the morning, and see Trev. Okay?”

  “Okay. I’m not going to argue.”

  Slinging the backpack onto his shoulders, Martin chuckled. “Let’s get that in writing. In fact, I might prepare our wedding vows.”