Christmas at Waratah Bay (15 page)

He held her for maybe five seconds and then tugged her up. She emerged looking puzzled.

“I didn’t float.”

“I didn’t give you long enough.”

“Why not?”

“I want you to be confident before I let you go.”

“I’m confident. Take that as a given. Now let me float.”

So much for nerves. She ducked again and this time he counted to ten, and at the end, he let his hands drop a little before he tugged her up.

She spluttered a little, but the look on her face was one of intense concentration.

“I think I felt it. Longer.”

Fifteen, but at eight he dropped his hands, not all the way, so she could still feel his touch, but not his strength.

He felt her stiffen as she realized she was on her own. He expected her to panic, fight to find her feet, splutter to the surface as each of his siblings had done and was surely natural for the first few times.

He felt the almost supernatural effort she made to relax, relax, relax.

At fifteen, his hands caught her again and tugged her up. She squatted in the shallows and her eyes shone with excitement.

I felt it. I felt it take me. I can do it. Do it again.

He wanted to kiss her so much it was like a magnetic pull, the strongest he could think of, and heaven alone knew the effort it took to grin and put his hands under her and have her float again. Over and over until she was doing it without his hands, just floating.

And then, he put his hands under her again and said “Try stroking. Four strokes, two with each arm, and then put your face to the side and breathe. I’ll stay holding you so you can concentrate, but if you can, breathe and then float again.”

This was about lesson three, day three for his siblings in the normal run of teach-a-kid-to-swim. She looked at him wonderingly, then lay prone again, felt his hands come under her, put her face in the water and stroked.

He hardly held her, just touching so there was no panic, so she could feel the security of him.

She stroked, she breathed, she floated.

She surfaced and the beam she gave him was something he’d never seen before. Happiness didn’t begin to cut it.

“I did it. I did it. Let me do it myself.”

And she did, four strokes, breath, then another three before she spluttered to the surface, gasping for air but radiating joy.

“All by myself! I swam seven strokes all by myself. I can do it. Max, I can do it, I swam, I swam! Oh, Max this is the best Christmas . . . ”

And a man would have to be inhuman, and Max wasn’t inhuman. He was caught, held, mesmerized by her joy.

And she . . . somehow she seemed to be caught by him. Her eyes were shining, and her gaze was locked on his. Afterwards, he could never recall whether it was her hands who reached for his, or his for hers, but their hands locked regardless, and suddenly her body was melting toward him and he was tugging her close, and the most beautiful woman in the world was in his arms and holding him.

Skin against skin. Their bodies were wet and glistening. The tiny scraps of cloth that formed their bathing gear might not have existed. His chin was on her soaking curls, his hands tugged her closer, closer and then her face was lifting to his.

The kiss was right. It was everything a kiss should be and more. It was heat and need and right.

Two halves of a whole. Where had that thought come from? It was a crazy thought, nuts, but it was there all the same. She was melting against him. He could feel the beat of her heart against his and he could feel the warmth and strength of her—and it was as if the beat of his heart slowed, skipped and then started again. Only, this time it was beating in time with hers.

The world could disappear—maybe it had disappeared. They were standing in the shallows with the gentle swell of the water washing around their thighs, but neither was thinking of the water. There was nothing, nothing, nothing, but the feel of this woman in his arms, and the knowledge that he wanted this woman forever.

“Stay.” He heard himself murmur the words, and it was as if someone else was taking over his body, but he didn’t care. All the resolutions he’d made through his adult life—where were they now? They’d disappeared. They’d all been based on the premise of a life without Sarah, but now Sarah was here, they’d gone to dust. He kissed her again, more strongly still, and he gloried in her response. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. He could feel it. He knew it.

And yet, when finally he put her away from him, just an inch or two because they needed to surface for air and no matter how wonderful a kiss, lovers had to surface sometime, her face was troubled.

“Sarah?”

“This is for now,” she whispered and her hands came up and caught his face and she tried to tug him down so his mouth merged on hers again.

But, things needed to be said. “Sarah, I’ve never felt this way before.”

“Nor me.” She was still tugging. Trying to hide the trouble on her face? “It’s been the best Christmas. I’ll remember you . . . I’ll remember it forever.”

“So stay,” he said, more urgently now. “Harold’s happy. We can keep him here until . . . ”

“I need to go back.”

“To what?”

“New York. Work. It’s where I live.”

“It’s where you’re famous.” It was impossible to keep disdain from his voice and she heard it. Her hands stopped their tugging and she pulled back, so she could see his face clearly.

“You think that’s important?”

“Of course it is.”

“I’d give it up in a minute if . . . ” But then, she paused, and shook her head, sending a spray of droplet from her curls. “No. I need to go back. Max, what’s happening between us . . . you’re right, it’s amazing, but it’s also impossible. My home’s in Manhattan. I need to be back there by New Year.”

“So you’re here for Christmas and that’s it?’

“That’s it.” Her face closed and she backed a little further. “I . . . Harold might be awake now. I need to get back to the house. I’ll organize leftovers for Christmas tea. Katie’s so tired, I can’t leave it to her.”

“I can . . . ”

“No one’s asking you to do anything,” she said, and she suddenly stepped forward again and touched his cheek with the curve of her palm. “You’ve been wonderful. You are wonderful, but you’ve done enough. You’ve made us all happy for Christmas and that’s so much more than I expected. I’ll remember you as wonderful, Max, but this is time out, and we both know it. I need to go home.”

“Home being?”

She took a deep breath and looked around her, at the sweep of sapphire ocean, at the golden beach, at the undulating pastures rising to the homestead beyond.

“Not here,” she said. “Never here. No matter how much I wish it.”

And she turned and walked out of the water, grabbed her towel and Santa hat and headed up the path toward the house. He was left to follow if he wanted.

No pressure.

This was what he’d wanted, he told himself bitterly as he watched her walk away. No pressure. No people in his life. Independence, peace, solitude.

Could one Christmas change everything?

No question. One Christmas just had.

*

She should explain.
They walked back to the house in silence, but the silence in her head was filled with explanations, excuses, the big lie that was at the center of everything. She should have explained at the start—and yet if she had, would Harold be home for Christmas?

Where to start? Where to start, where to start, where to start?

She rounded the final bend on the sandy track before the beach gave way to pasture and a thin, stick-like rope was lying across the path.

Snake. She should squeal, she thought, but honestly, what was the point? But she did stop dead and Max, walking behind, almost bumped into her.

“Snake,” she said, and he stilled as well.

The snake had been gathering the last rays of sun. He raised his head and looked at them, and Max put his hands on her shoulder and tugged her firmly but gently backward. No sudden movements.

She didn’t make any. She felt . . . wrung out, she thought. She didn’t have the energy left for a snake.

They backed off. The snake considered them. They considered the snake.

The snake cracked first. He gave them one last beady stare and slithered off into the undergrowth.

“Good girl,” Max approved. “Not even a drama. Harold trained you well—or was it someone else?”

It certainly hadn’t been someone else. Harold? She tried to think if she’d seen a snake while she’d been here last time. It had been winter. Probably not.

In fact, come to think of it, this was the first snake she’d seen. But she’d been taught not to react. To everything.

This Christmas, her decision to come here, her joy in giving Harold—and Max and his family—a Christmas to remember . . . Well, she’d been reacting all over the place, she thought.

She’d especially been reacting when Max kissed her.

The snake was gone. Max still had his hands on her shoulders. One move from her and she’d be twisted and kissed again.

No. She’d reacted to the peril of the snake exactly right. No emotion.

She could do this, she told herself. She tugged away and turned again toward the house.

“Harold or someone else?” Max asked again, sounding puzzled, and she shrugged.

“Possibly Harold. I can’t remember anyone teaching me. But snake or not, we need to get on.”

‡

H
arold was awake
when they returned. He was stretched out on the big, old settee on the veranda, with five dogs lying under his makeshift bed. He watched them coming toward them, and smiled and made an effort to wave.

It was a huge effort, and when they reached him, they heard the struggle he was having to breathe. Max had thought Sarah would head straight for the bathroom; instead, she tossed her towel-sarong aside, and moved to adjust Harold’s pillows.

“Help me lift,” she told Max. “Harold, you need to be a bit more upright. You’ll get more air into your lungs that way.”

“I don’t think . . . I don’t think I need much more air,” Harold gasped. “I’ve been lying here thinking . . . thinking it’s pretty much perfect. You two . . . ”

Sarah had her arm under Harold’s shoulders. She motioned Max to do the same, and together they shifted him into a sitting position. He wheezed a bit, but then settled, and his breathing did seem to ease.

He’d lost what little color he had, though, Max saw. It couldn’t be long . . .

“Did you find out she can’t swim?” Harold breathed. “Wanted to teach her . . . Wanted her to stay . . . ”

“Max has just taught me,” Sarah said, making sure the oxygen flow was on full. Grimacing when she saw it was. Then she regrouped and summoned a grin. “Less than an hour and I can swim seven strokes already.”

“You ought to stay,” Harold wheezed. “Learn to swim seventy . . . ”

“She’s a natural,” Max told him. “Plus, she doesn’t squeal at snakes.”

“It’d take a lot to get our Sarah to squeal, I reckon,” Harold muttered. “Bloody low-life parents . . . Geez, girl it’s good to see you.”

“And it’s so good to be here,” Sarah told him, hugging him with care.

“I’ve been telling her she should stay,” Max said. Yeah, this was unfair, using the old man to put the pressure on, but if it worked . . .

“She’ll do what she has to do,” Harold muttered. “Always has. But if you could do something to get her out of there . . . ”

“Out of the US? You have to be kidding.” He looked at Sarah in bemusement. “You must be one of the top paid models in the States.”

“So I am,” Sarah said, attempting a lightness, which didn’t quite come off. “But still . . . ”

“She belongs here,” Harold said, as fiercely as his lungs could manage. “We always knew that, didn’t we, Sarah. But it wasn’t . . . we couldn’t . . . ”

“Harold, it’s past. There’s no point in remembering.”

“No, but if you’d stayed . . . you would have met Max. He’s a fine lad, Sarah. You could do worse. Marry him. Join the farms together again. Have a baby or six.”

“I don’t think Max is the marrying kind,” Sarah said, carefully not looking at him. “And he’s definitely not into babies.”