Lighthouse Bay

by Kimberley Freeman

  She stepped back inside and locked the door, then called the local police station.

  “Sergeant Scott Lacey.” He sounded sleepy.

  Libby breathlessly told him where she was and what had happened.

  “And they’ve gone now?” Sergeant Lacey said.

  “Appear to be.”

  “I don’t think you should be too worried. Living at the beach . . . People are always down there at odd times.”

  “He wasn’t visiting the beach. He was lurking around my house.”

  “That place has been vacant a long time. He probably thought it was empty . . . but I’ll come by in a car to check in a little while, and if you like I’ll make sure we include you on our beat most nights this week.”

  Libby’s ribs unclenched. “Would you? I’d really appreciate that.”

  “Sure. You didn’t tell me your name.”

  “Libby Slater.”

  “Libby? Juliet’s sister? You don’t remember me? I was in your math class.”

  Libby scoured her memory. Scott Lacey. Wild surfie curls and a firecracker in every pocket. “Ah, yes. Scott.” She wasn’t reassured that he was in charge of the police station.

  “It’s good to have you back in town. Juliet’s an old friend.”

  Libby realized that if Scott was an old friend of Juliet’s, he would also know about Libby’s past, and she felt a sudden flush of shame.

  “Don’t worry, Libby, we’ll keep an eye on you.”

  His words were meant to comfort her, but all she could feel was the distance between her and the safety she craved. Sometimes, when Mark stayed at her Paris flat, she would fall asleep with her head on his chest, breathing in the warm, male scent of him. On those occasions she felt safe; more than safe. She felt as though there was an impenetrable bubble around her. Inside was love and light. The idea that she would never feel that again made her feet tremble. She pushed them hard onto the floorboards. “Thanks,” she managed to say to Scott Lacey. “Good night.”

  Libby went back to bed. After half an hour she heard the police car come and go, but she didn’t sleep until dawn came and nothing could hide in shadows.

  Libby kept telling herself she didn’t care that Juliet hadn’t called, but she did. Libby had taken the first step; surely it was Juliet’s turn to take the second. It was Saturday afternoon before she realized that she hadn’t left a phone number and Juliet might not be comfortable just dropping by.

  Damn, why was she so bad at this family stuff?

  So, with a heart that fluttered slightly, she phoned the tea room. Juliet answered on the third ring.

  Libby became very aware of the words she chose. “It’s Libby,” she said. “Is this a bad time?”

  “I’m just locking up.”

  “I’d like to see you.” Did that sound too bossy? Too soppy? Libby remembered the last time they’d met. The messy tables. Juliet’s harassed air. “I can help you clean up if you like.”

  If anything, this offer made Juliet cooler. What had she said wrong? “No, no, I can manage by myself. I always have. Why don’t you come by around seven? I’ll make us some dinner.”

  “That sounds great.”

  “I’ll leave the side gate open for you. We have a lot to discuss.”

  Libby’s heart ticked away like a bird’s as she showered and dressed. We have a lot to discuss. What did Juliet mean by that? Why did she sound so somber when she said it? Or was Libby’s guilty conscience getting the better of her? Libby knew she’d been a rotten sister. She knew she’d missed twenty years’ worth of birthdays and Christmases; she’d even missed their father’s funeral. She’d missed everything. She’d become a stranger to her closest living relative. Accidentally? Deliberately? But there was more to it than that; there were wounds so deep they may not have healed. Perhaps they could never heal.

  She pulled up outside the tea room at seven, and rounded the steps to the apartment she, Juliet, and their father had lived in twenty years ago. There was a smell of approaching rain on the night air. Juliet called to her down the stairwell.

  “Over here,” she said. “I converted our old place into B&B rooms.”

  And then they were standing, face to face, at the door to Juliet’s apartment, while the evening sea breeze rattled the fronds of the palms that lined the street. Libby didn’t know whether she should hug her sister. What was the protocol after half her life? Her arms seemed heavy and awkward all of a sudden.

  “Come in,” Juliet said, turning her shoulder away.

  “You’re living on the side overlooking the street?”

  “There’s not much traffic at night. I can still hear the ocean.” Juliet sounded a little defensive.

  “It looks lovely.” This was an easy, truthful statement to make about the apartment. Juliet had decorated in shades of sea blue and pale yellow, the couch was covered in lots of checkered cushions, and the space was lit softly by lamps. It was inviting. Homey. Libby felt the corner of a feeling: of the comfort and acceptance and warmth that only comes from family.

  “Sit down,” Juliet said, sounding a little distant and tired. “I’ve made a risotto. It’s almost ready.”

  “Thanks so much. I know you’re busy.”

  “You’ve no idea,” Juliet called from the kitchen.

  While Juliet served their meals, Libby glanced around the room: a computer nook with a desk piled high with paperwork, a bookshelf with a lot of battered paperbacks and . . . Libby’s heart sped. A picture of Andy. Juliet still kept a picture of Andy. She looked away quickly, studied her nails, the piping on the cushions, then stood up and said, “Can I help with anything?”

  “Nothing to do,” Juliet said, emerging from the kitchen. “Let’s eat on the couch, it’s more comfortable.”

  They settled. They ate. The silence was awkward, but the food was wonderful.

  “You are a fabulous cook,” Libby said.

  “Why did you come back?” Juliet asked, at the same time.

  They laughed uncomfortably about the sudden clash of their words, their intentions.

  “It was time,” Libby said, hoping the enigmatic answer might satisfy.

  It didn’t. “What does that mean?”

  Libby sighed. “Things went . . . badly for me. I was . . .” No, she couldn’t tell Juliet that. She couldn’t say she’d been having an affair with a married man for twelve years. “A close friend—the one who bought the cottage—he died.” It was awful to demote him to “close friend,” but she’d kept Mark a secret so long, it wasn’t hard to pretend to the outside world that he meant little to her. It was her inside world that spasmed with pain at the thought of him. “And I was tired of my job. I felt dislocated. I hoped that . . . I hoped that coming home would be a good idea.”

  Juliet visibly tensed, her knuckles blanching as they gripped her fork. Libby wasn’t sure what she had said to invoke this reaction.

  “So, you’ll be staying, then?” Juliet asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m in a transition phase, I guess. I’m just living moment by moment.”

  “And you want your half of the business?”

  “My half of the . . .”

  “Dad left it to both of us. Your name’s still right there on the paperwork.”

  “No! Oh, God, Juliet. No. This is yours. I’ve never wanted it and I certainly wouldn’t take it from you. I’d never even consider it.”

  Juliet, though still wary, relaxed. “I see.”

  “Put it out of your mind. I have no desire to take anything from you.” Libby squirmed. Her sister’s opinion of her was so low. But then, why should it be any different? Juliet knew nothing about her but what she remembered from their youth. And there was little from that part of her life that flattered her.

  “I feel bad about it,” Juliet was saying. “I don’t know what your financial situation is, but I’ve worked so hard here. It’s a very different business from the one I inherited. I’ve put some money aside for kitchen renovations, but I could give it to y
ou if you—”

  “I don’t want your money. You don’t need to worry about me. The keeper’s cottage is mine.”

  Juliet’s eyes rounded. “Really? Your friend left it to you?”

  “Yes,” she lied. No point in saying she’d owned it for six years and been too afraid to face her past.

  “Do you own the lighthouse too?”

  “It’s not on the title deed. I think the government still owns it. It doesn’t operate anymore, does it?”

  “No. It was decommissioned in ninety-nine. They built a fully automated one off the tip of Maroona Island instead.” Juliet pulled her feet up under her on the couch. “There was a preservation society that stopped the old one from getting knocked down. It’s pretty unsafe. But they couldn’t raise enough to restore it, and then the man who was in charge of it all died and I don’t think anything much has happened since.”

  “There’s a danger sign on the door.”

  “Is there? I’m not surprised. Melody, the young lass who works with me, told me she went in with a couple of friends. They climbed in a window. The stairs inside are dodgy, and she nearly broke her ankle.”

  Libby supposed that answered her question about who was in the lighthouse. Curious teenagers would always find something mildly dangerous to do in a small town.

  “So, fill me in on the last twenty years,” Juliet said. She was much more relaxed now Libby had reassured her about the B&B.

  They talked for a long time, but Libby didn’t tell Juliet everything, and she suspected Juliet didn’t tell Libby everything either. There were no problems talking about work, about travel, about world events. But nothing went deeper. Neither mentioned love nor lovers, children nor their desire for children, hopes or dreams for the future. And they certainly didn’t discuss what happened twenty years ago.

  It was only as she was leaving, standing at the door after the “Good-bye, I’ll see you soon,” that Libby finally found the courage to say, “I’m really sorry I wasn’t here. I’m sorry for . . . everything.” She thought of the photo of Andy.

  Juliet reached out and rubbed Libby’s forearm lightly, seemed about to say something, then recalled the words. Finally, she managed, “It’s okay.”

  Then they stepped apart, and Libby hurried back to her car, half-hopeful and half in despair. She told herself it was only early days. If she could just do everything right from this moment on, she could surely patch up this rift with her sister. And then, just maybe, there would be a time to discuss the past and make amends.

  A fresh wind off the sea had picked up by the time she pulled up at the front of the cottage. She had her front door key in her hand when she glanced up and saw the lighthouse door standing open and candlelight flickering in the very top window.

  Libby realized she was holding her breath. She badly wanted to go and look inside. She could knock. Or, she could just go inside her house and forget about it.

  But she wanted to see if there was anybody there.

  She withdrew her mobile phone from her handbag and clutched it in her hand like a knight taking a sword into battle. Then, with purpose, she walked up to the lighthouse. The sign on the open door read: DANGER: PARTS OF THIS STRUCTURE ARE UNSOUND. She knocked lightly.

  “Hello?” she called.

  All was dark within. She could make out two large cabinets on the bare floor, and the curve of the staircase leading up. The smell was one of oil and fish and seaweed.

  “Hello?” she said again.

  No answer.

  She switched on her mobile so it gave a little light, and moved inside. The two cabinets were glass-topped, and inside them were collections of shells and sea creatures pinned to boards, like a science exhibit. Beyond the cabinets was another door, boarded over. Libby stood at the bottom of the stairs in the dank darkness and looked up. Twenty feet up, the stairs disappeared into a closed hatch. She entertained the thought of going up there for a few moments, then realized she hadn’t the stomach for it. Especially if the stairs weren’t safe. She took one last look around and then went back out the door, then home.

  The next morning when she looked, the lighthouse door was firmly shut.

  Ten

  Libby hadn’t worried about money in twelve years. Even though most of her salary was eaten up in rent, Mark had never let her want for anything. He paid for all their meals out, all their clandestine holidays, he bought her shoes and handbags and clothes. His generosity had allowed her to save a lump sum, but she hadn’t been careful with it. She hadn’t invested. She had lived, as most mistresses do, on a day-by-day basis. She couldn’t plan for the future if she refused to acknowledge the future would come. Her long relationship with Mark had been a series of present moments. In fact, he had said it over and over: “Let’s be in the moment. Let’s simply be in the moment.”

  The moment had gone. The car had been expensive, as was the computer equipment and software she needed to complete the Winterbourne catalog. Without a steady income, she would run out of savings by Christmas.

  Libby sat in her new chair and gently swung it in a semi-circle. She had spent the day installing software, connecting to the Internet, downloading security and back-up programs and setting up an e-mail account. She was very pleased with herself. All these years she’d relied on Mark to do computer-y things for her.

  Thoughts of Mark: instant rain. Time to get on with work so she didn’t feel it so acutely.

  The old dining table wobbled when she leaned on it, so Libby wadded up a piece of paper and jammed it under the uneven leg. She reassured herself that her clients never needed to know that she was working on a wobbly table in the corner of an ugly lounge room. As she dialed London to let Cathy know she was ready to receive the brief for the Winterbourne catalog, she tilted her chair back and put her feet on the table.

  “Winterbourne Jewelers, Cathy speaking.”

  “Hello from Australia, Cathy, it’s Libby Slater again.”

  “Oh, I’m glad you called, Libby. I’ll just put you on to Emily so you can sort things out.”

  “I—” But the phone had already clicked. She was on hold with a Chopin waltz. And any second Mark’s wife was going to speak to her. Mark’s wife.

  “Hello, Libby?” She sounded cultured, of course, but also a little unsure.

  “Emily, hello. It’s nice to . . . er . . . meet you.”

  “Likewise. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “You have?”

  “Oh, yes. Mark was very enthusiastic about your work for us. When I heard you’d left Pierre-Louis, I was adamant that Cathy track you down. Things are in . . . Things are changing and I . . .” She faltered. Libby’s heart stung. “I want things to be the same as much as possible. You designing our catalog is part of that.”

  “I understand,” Libby said, but she felt as though she were watching herself from a long way outside herself. This is Mark’s wife. The rival. The enemy. The person Libby had needed to believe was cold or shrill or vain. It was clear, in the few seconds they had spoken, that Emily was none of these things. Not even a little. She suddenly remembered what she should say. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Mark was a wonderful man.” Was that too warm? “Or he seemed that way to me, whenever I worked with him.”

  “He was just a man, Libby. Sometimes he was wonderful, sometimes he was a pain in the neck.” She laughed lightly. “I’ve never learned to deal with his perfectionism.”

  There. Emily had slipped into present tense. Libby felt strangely comforted: she still thought of Mark in present tense too.

  “But for all his faults, I loved him dearly and I miss him more than I can say.”

  Libby blinked back tears. “Are your daughters well?”

  “Oh, yes. They have their own lives. And I’m looking forward to becoming a grandmother in July. I take each day as it comes. Oh, listen to me! As if you want to hear all my nonsense. I’ve been blubbing to strangers and people who don’t care since the moment he died.”

  Libby licked her
lips, choosing her words carefully. “I’m not a stranger and I do care,” she said.

  Libby heard a drawn breath on the other end as tears were withheld. Then Emily collected herself. “Still. Business first. Work is keeping me ticking along. So, how does this work? We send you the pictures?”

  “Mark commissioned the photographer and sent me the files, yes. Then we’d sit down together and talk through the season’s theme, how he wanted the brochure to look, which pieces he wanted to feature and so on.”

  “He did all that? No wonder he was gone to Paris so much. Libby, I’ve no idea, but you worked with Mark for twelve years. Can you do it alone?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll pay you extra.”

  “There’s no need.” Libby kicked herself. Winterbourne Jewelers was a huge business. But she couldn’t bring herself to charge Emily, because Emily was Mark’s wife, and Libby had spent the last twelve years—be honest—wishing Emily didn’t exist.

  “Can you commission the photographer too?” Emily asked.

  It was getting tricky now. “I know a few good people in London and Paris, but I’ll need to see the new collection first. Can you send me some photographs? They don’t need to be high quality. Just take them with your phone and I’ll sort through them and send you some ideas.”

  “Yes, I think I can manage that. It will keep me busy. Now you don’t mind if I call you directly, Libby? I’m going to rely rather heavily on you for this.”

  “Any time,” Libby said. She gave Emily her phone number and new e-mail address and then hung up the phone. She shot out of her chair and pulled her flip-flops on, and headed straight for the beach.

  It was dark; cool but not cold. She walked down to the water’s edge and stood there, the waves licking and sucking around her ankles. What was this unpleasant lurking feeling that had driven her out of the house? Grief: yes, that was still there. Anxiety: that was normal, but she would be able to coordinate the job easily once she’d found the right photographer.