Lighthouse Bay (39 page)

Not Tristan. Graeme Beers. The disappointment was acute. His car was parked up on the street, his son at the wheel.

“Sorry for not calling first,” he said. “I didn’t have your number and it was . . . um . . . urgent.”

“Urgent?” She wrapped her robe closer around her, very aware that she was naked beneath it.

He held out a thin sheaf of papers. “Yeah, it seems I . . . ah . . . overlooked asking you to sign these before your dive.”

Libby frowned, took the papers from him and glanced through them. It was some kind of a legal agreement protecting Graeme and his business from responsibility for any loss or injury his divers suffered. She almost laughed. He was afraid she was going to sue him over the incident on the dive the other day.

“Come inside,” she said. “I’ll find a pen.”

“Yes, I just don’t understand why I didn’t remember to show these to you. I—”

“It’s fine. I’m not going to sue you. Or report you.” She found a pen on her desk, ticked the “I agree” boxes and signed it. “Here.”

“Thanks. I’m . . .”

Perhaps he had been about to say, “I’m sorry,” but that might
have been admitting fault. She waved him away. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

He nodded, backing out towards the door. She closed it behind him and turned to her desk.

Then she heard it.

The car engine. The one that had been idling outside at night. She raced back to the front door to see Graeme and his son speed off. And if she had any doubts remaining, the car backfired for good measure at the bottom of the hill.

No, no doubt at all: it was Graeme Beers and his son who had been creeping around outside her house. Her skin rose in gooseflesh at the thought. What did they want?

Still in her robe, she marched straight up to the lighthouse and hammered on the door. No answer. “Damien!” she called. But he wasn’t there.

She made her way back down to the cottage. What should she do? Call Graeme and confront him? Go to the police station and report it to Sergeant Lacey? She checked the time again. Was Tristan out of his meeting and available to talk it through with her?

She tried his mobile phone and it went straight to voicemail. She quickly copied down the office number and home number he left at the end of the message, then called the office.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Catherwood isn’t in today.”

“Not in?” Perhaps his meeting was out of the office.

“Yes, he’s on leave for the rest of this week.”

She put down the phone and gazed for a long time at the home number she’d written down. After the intimacies they’d shared yesterday, surely it was acceptable to call him at home.

On leave. An early meeting. Libby told herself not to read anything into it. Tristan was ambitious: it wasn’t inconceivable for him to have a meeting while on leave. She snatched up the phone before she could think better of it, and dialed the home number.

One ring. Two. Her heart began to slow: he wasn’t going to answer. On the fifth ring, the line went live and a woman’s voice said, “Hello?”

It took Libby a full two seconds to find her words. “Oh, hello. I’m looking for Tristan.”

The woman’s voice went hard. “Who shall I say is calling?”

“Elizabeth Slater.”

“One moment.” The phone dropped onto a hard surface. A few moments later, Tristan was there.

“Hi, Libby,” he said evenly.

“Tristan, I need your help—”

“Look, can I call you back? Just . . . just give me five, okay?”

“Okay.”

The line clicked. Libby threw the phone across the room. It landed with a rattle up against the leg of the couch. She wasn’t stupid. She knew all the signs. He was married.

Just like Mark.

She went to the shower and turned it on hot. The phone rang, but she ignored it, sitting instead on the shower floor to let the water run through her dark hair and down her spine. She breathed deeply. The terrible fall from this morning’s heights of happiness and hope was crippling.

But then she realized, it would all be fine. She would sell the wretched house and move back to France. All her problems would go away: Tristan, Juliet, Graeme. She would move into a luxury flat and lock all the doors and never have to open up her heart again.

The hot water eventually ran out. She climbed out of the shower and wrapped herself in towels. The phone rang again. This time she answered it.

“Libby, it’s Tristan,” he said.

“Are you married?”

A pause. “No,” he said.

“Who answered the phone?”

“Look, can we have this discussion in person? Libby, please don’t be jealous. Jealous women make life so hard for themselves. This relationship is only new.”

The admonishment stung and her face flushed with guilt and embarrassment. What right did she have to question him? She must look like a crazy woman. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. Then her skin prickled as she remembered. “How did your meeting go this morning?”

“Fine. It wasn’t a work meeting. A legal thing. I have some real estate issues I’m sorting out.”

Yes, she was behaving like a crazy woman. Worrying about his meeting had made her jump to conclusions about the woman’s voice on the phone. A sister, a flatmate, even a cleaner. But not a wife. He had said so. Not married. It was just a hangover from her relationship with Mark.

“Let me take you to dinner Friday night. I’d love to see you again,” he said. “I’ve got a busy week taking care of this legal business, but by Friday evening I’ll be ready for a nice glass of Shiraz and a good meal.”

“It sounds wonderful,” she said, and she meant it.

His voice was calm and reassuring now. “So, you said you needed my help. I was worried when I couldn’t get hold of you.”

“Ah, yes. I think I’ve sorted out my problem. I know who’s been hanging around my house at night, but once I’ve moved it won’t matter.”

“Who is it?” There was a frown in his voice.

“Graeme Beers. The dive director from Winterbourne Beach. I recognized the sound of his car.”

“Why would he be hanging around your house?”

“I don’t know.”

A short silence. “I don’t know, Libby. It sounds a bit . . . implausible. Surely a lot of cars sound the same.”

“I am absolutely sure.”

“Okay. Well, then, I believe you. And I don’t like it, so call the police and let them know. Don’t confront him yourself.”

She was touched by his protective urge, and hoped it would mean he would offer to come and check up on her tonight, but it stopped there.

“I’m sorry, Libby, I have to go. I have a few other appointments today and I’m already running late.”

“Sure, that’s fine. See you Friday?”

“Can’t wait.”

She put the phone down and dressed, then decided to call Scott Lacey. Her stomach growled and she realized she hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. She switched the kettle on.

“Sergeant Lacey.”

“Scott, it’s Libby Slater.”

“Oh. Good morning.” Cool.

She quickly explained the situation, but she could feel his doubts harden on the line before he’d even uttered a word.

“I’m sorry, but that’s just not enough to go on.”

“Really, the sound of that car engine is burned into my brain.”

“Perhaps it’s exactly the same make and model of car, but that’s a coincidence, not a reason to go knocking on his door and asking him to explain.”

Libby fell silent a moment. Then said, “Is this because I’ve upset Juliet?”

“What? No. What a ridiculous thing to say. I am quite capable of doing my job regardless of how I feel about you.”

Libby bit back a retort. “I’m sorry,” she said, knowing it sounded forced.

“It’s okay. You’re worried about your safety. I understand that. Your house is still on our patrol list. We haven’t forgotten you.”

Libby thanked him and hung up. The kettle boiled and whistled and she switched it off, but stood for a long time gazing out the window at the sea beyond, feeling anxious and unsatisfied and not sure what to do next.

D
amien worked in the kitchen every afternoon between lunch and afternoon tea, got out of the way between three and four-thirty, then came back to continue work when the tea room wasn’t busy. Sometimes he worked until seven at night, always sensitive to the fact that Juliet had to keep the business running. Rather than rip the whole kitchen apart, he cleared one defined space at a time.

The cupboard doors were plain oak panels that he had begun to stain outside the building by the compost bin. Between lunch and afternoon tea, while she was waiting for scones to bake, Juliet hung about near the kitchen window to steal glances at him working in the sunshine: strong arms, tanned skin, gleaming hair.

Cheryl silently sidled up next to her. “Eye candy, isn’t he?”

Juliet jumped. Embarrassment crept over her skin. “Oh. No, I’m not . . . I was just seeing what the stain looked like. He’s chosen a lovely shade, don’t you think?”

Cheryl doubled over with laughter, and Juliet’s cheeks flamed.

“It’s okay, Juliet. I’ve been eyeing him too. He’s very tasty. Pity he’d never look twice at old birds like us, eh?”

Juliet’s heart fell.
Old birds like us
. She was seven years younger than Cheryl, but still a full decade older than Damien.

Cheryl examined Juliet’s face and frowned. “You’re kidding. You haven’t developed a crush on him, have you?”

“No, no. Of course not.”

Cheryl lifted an eyebrow dubiously. “Well, I hope not. I want you to find somebody wonderful and stable who will love you when you’re old and wrinkly. Somebody who has a bank account would be a great start.”

“His ex has frozen their accounts.”

Cheryl waved the comment away. “Don’t be too trusting. And don’t lose your heart on a young stallion.” Then Cheryl was off with a bottle of disinfectant spray and a cloth, to clear up the dining room.

Juliet sagged against the sink, her back to the window now. She felt such a fool. It was true she was attracted to Damien, but not just because he was young and good-looking. He was kind. He spoke gently. He had a strong moral compass. These were important qualities in any man.

But Cheryl was right: she would seem old to him. She used to be his babysitter; he probably thought of her as a mother figure, or at the very least an older sister. The idea made her cringe. She remembered him holding her hands the other night. His hands were young and tanned, but hers were getting thin-skinned and veiny. Not to mention the lines around her eyes. And she hadn’t stayed out of the sun like Libby had, so her arms and décolletage were unevenly colored. Suddenly, she felt like a hag, pushing middle age. The idea of young love and building a life together and babies was ridiculous, a fool’s fond dream. It was already far too late for that.

That night, back on Datemate, she searched the profiles of men Damien’s age: they were all advertising for women in their twenties, not women of nearly forty. Half-heartedly, she scrolled through men her own age or above, but not one aroused her interest. It
was always this way, and for a long time she’d thought that it was simply because she’d never find another man as wonderful as Andy.

And after twenty years, perhaps she had. It depressed her to realize that he wouldn’t see in her what she saw in him.

L
ibby worked long hours over the following days. She was getting used to talking with Emily from time to time. She even ventured to ask if Emily had any family insight into the wreck of the
Aurora
. Emily was delighted to know Libby had dived the wreck, and vowed to dig up anything that might be of interest.

The photographs came back from Paris and most were superb. She’d requested three be rephotographed and was waiting for an e-mail from her photographer, Roman Deleuze, with the new images. Until then she continued to rough out the pages, moving and refining images and design. Although she had done the Winterbourne catalog for years, this year it was exciting. This year, Emily wanted something different, not so stuffy. Libby enjoyed every moment of the job. She wished Mark were alive to see it. She wondered what he’d think, how his opinion of Emily might change when he saw what she was capable of.

The sound of the mailman’s motorcycle roused her from her work. She leaned back and stretched; time for a break and a cup of tea. She let herself out of the house and walked up to the mailbox. For the first time, the touch of cool in the afternoon air let her know autumn was on its way. It hardly seemed possible: Lighthouse Bay seemed a place permanently locked in summer sunshine and warm sea air. She breathed in the freshness deeply, flipping open the mailbox and withdrawing a large envelope from Ashley-Harris Holdings.

This would be the contracts on the sale. She tore open the
envelope and saw pages and pages of legalese, clause after clause. She supposed to Ashley-Harris it was a standard contract, but to her it looked as though it was written in another language.

She needed legal advice.

Libby sighed. She just wanted it over with quickly, but a few thousand dollars on a solicitor was probably prudent in the light of such a big property deal. She let herself into the cottage and dug out a local phone book, called the first legal firm listed and made an appointment for Monday.

She made tea and returned to her desk—removing Bossy from her office chair—to see an e-mail from Roman Deleuze. She opened it and saw the new photographs, and quickly sent back a message saying they were fine and wishing him well.

A moment later, another message pinged into her inbox.

Miserable weather in Paris. I envy you.

She smiled as she scrolled down to see he had included a picture of peak-hour traffic outside his apartment window. Rain. People with their heads bowed under umbrellas, squeezed up against each other’s raincoats. It looked utterly miserable and she had to laugh. On a whim, she grabbed her phone and went out the back door and through the bushes until she reached the beach: the wide white expanse of sand, the deep blue sky, the turquoise sea. She snapped a picture of it and returned home, hooked her phone to her computer and sent it back to him.

All this, and it’s autumn.