Lighthouse Bay (13 page)

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 you 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.

L
ibby 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.

Guilt.

It wasn’t that she’d never felt it before. She’d felt it for twelve years, vaguely, stirring from time to time, like a coil of nausea that never quite develops enough to purge the stomach. But this was a different kind of guilt. Mark had a wife. Her name was Emily. She loved Mark. If she’d known that Mark was seeing Libby, it would have ruined her happiness.

Libby would have ruined her happiness.

She still could. And suddenly she was desperate that the secret never,
never
come out. In the past, she’d sometimes secretly hoped it would, forcing Mark’s hand.
Leave her; be with me!
Now it seemed impossible that it could stay a secret forever. Cathy already suspected: those letters would have seemed greater proof. Who else had suspicions? Who else might let down their guard now Mark wasn’t around to urge them to be silent?
Please, no, never let it come to light. Never let anyone know what a selfish human being I am.
Libby stood on the beach for nearly an hour, while the tide came in around her legs, and the sea roared, drowning out her sobs of shame.

L
ibby arrived outside Graeme Beers’ house at four o’clock the next afternoon. She’d spent the day sketching, enjoying getting the detail of ropes and sails right: their complex crisscrossing, texture and shadows. Mostly she’d been copying pictures out of books, but she had become determined that it was the
Aurora
she wanted to paint. The only image available online was too small to be useful, and she hoped Graeme could give her a copy of the picture he had in his folder. So, on a whim, she’d driven north to Winterbourne Beach.

No boat out the front. Still, she climbed out of her car and went up the stairs to knock. No answer.

Libby sighed. She should have looked up his number and phoned first, perhaps. Then she thought, he must have taken a diving group out. It was growing late, so he had to come in soon. She got back into her car and drove towards the beach.