Lighthouse Bay (40 page)

They went back and forth for a little while, her teasing him about city life and bad weather; him teasing her for living her entire life on holiday. For the first time, she realized she was living in paradise. Because she had grown up here, she’d taken it for granted. But the beach and the sky and the sun were miraculous and beautiful. Choking traffic fumes and damp crowds in overcoats
would eventually wear anyone down until they were dreaming of the warm ocean.

Would that be her, eventually? Would the luxury apartment in Paris one day not be enough for her? Would the tide of her longing reverse, and the Queensland coast call her back? Was she destined to be dissatisfied with wherever she was?

Roman went offline to go to a meeting and she began to think about making herself some dinner before the night shift. She was keen to have the brochure done, and working kept her mind off other things.

W
hen Libby arrived at Azzurro ten minutes late and didn’t see Tristan, she panicked a moment. Had he grown tired of waiting and gone home? Or worse, had he stood her up altogether?

The maître d’ saw her looking forlorn and came over to ask if he could help.

“I’m meant to be meeting Tristan Catherwood,” she said. “Is he here yet?”

“Ah. Mr. Catherwood is upstairs. Come, follow me.”

Libby followed the maître d’ through the restaurant, along a side path next to the kitchen, then up a hidden set of stairs. They led to a closed-off area and a huge balcony overlooking the river. On the balcony sat a single table, candlelit. Tristan was waiting.

She laughed. “Oh, my,” she said.

The maître d’ winked at her. “Mr. Catherwood insisted on something exceptional.”

Libby walked over and Tristan rose to his feet to pull out her chair, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, taking her seat.

“It’s no problem. I’m enjoying the view.”

Libby turned her eyes to the river, the bobbing yachts. “It’s pretty special.”

“So are you.”

She turned back to him, unable to hide her smile. “Well now. This is a lot of trouble and expense you’ve gone to. Don’t you know you’ve already won me over?”

He reached for her hand, and fondled it gently in his fingers. “You look beautiful, Libby. I’ve missed you this week.”

“Same.”

“Did the contracts come through?”

She was put off by his abrupt change of topic. “Yes. I’ve made an appointment to speak to a conveyance solicitor next week.”

“Wise girl.” He poured her a glass of wine and they fell to talking, picking up where they had left off the other night. She was reminded once again of what she liked about him. He was interesting, he had done so many things, but he wasn’t arrogant or egotistical. He had a freshness about him that she found intoxicating. They laughed and talked their way through the entree, but when he lifted the wine bottle to refill her glass, she covered it with her hand.

“I’m driving, remember?” she said, hoping he would invite her to spend the night at his place.

“Ah, that’s right.” He checked his watch. “Half a glass? We’ll walk on the beach after, if you like.”

“Sure,” she said. Then ventured, “Or I could come home with you.”

He smiled. He looked her directly in the eye. But he said, “No, not tonight.”

“Okay,” she replied, trying not to sound disappointed. She realized they had been talking for half an hour and still hadn’t
broached the topic of the woman who had answered his phone. She opened her mouth to say something and he stopped her with a gently raised hand.

“My flatmate. She’s got a thing for me. It’s a bit complicated. Just best if you don’t call me there or come by until I’ve sorted it out.”

“Okay,” Libby said again, nodding, staring at the candle flame. But she knew—she
knew
—it was a lie. Or at the very least, a half-truth. Rich forty-year-old men didn’t have female flatmates like that.

“Are you all right?”

She smiled brightly. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? And weren’t you going to pour me some more wine?”

He laughed, refilling her glass. She kept the brightness afloat, but her mind was turning over carefully. Tristan belonged to somebody else. The thought was disappointing, but then she reminded herself that no healthy relationship produces a partner who looks elsewhere. That’s what Mark had always said.

At the thought of Mark, she realized that she had done this before. She had made these excuses before. She had done it all before. And for that reason alone, she was the last person to judge Tristan.

L
ibby had seen no signs of life at the lighthouse for more than a week, so she was surprised when Damien turned up at the cottage on Saturday afternoon.

“Hi,” she said, standing aside so he could come in. “I’d tell you Bossy misses you, but I don’t know she’s even noticed.”

Damien found Bossy on the sofa and crouched to tickle her under the chin. She stretched and went back to sleep. “Cats, hey?” he said. “Always so glad to see you.”

“Where have you been?”

“At the B&B. I came to say thanks for putting me on to Juliet. I’m rebuilding her kitchen and I now have a nice soft bed to sleep in every night.” He stood and gave her a mock-stern look. “Though you didn’t tell her I was coming.”

“Ah, no. We’re kind of . . .”

“Yes, I know.”

“Juliet’s told you everything?”

“Juliet’s told me some things. Cheryl has told me a few others. Now, dating Tristan Catherwood, known enemy of the whole town . . . That took some guts,” he teased.

“Don’t,” she said, slapping him away playfully. “You don’t hate me?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You’re not on her side?”

“I’m on both your sides. I think you should try to work it out. Family. What can I say? You don’t throw that away.”

Libby felt self-conscious suddenly, so went to the kitchen to switch the kettle on so she could hide her face. “Tea? Or would you like to stay for dinner?”

“I’d love some tea. You don’t need to feed me tonight. Juliet’s always plying me with leftover quiches and roast beef sandwiches.”

She looked at him a little more closely. “Actually, you do look a lot healthier.”

“A week in Juliet’s care,” he said.

Libby thought he sounded wistful. She busied herself making a pot of tea and then cleared Bossy off the couch so they could sit together. “So, does this mean you’ve taken time out from the lighthouse mystery?”

“Not at all. I’ve cleared out the whole place and taken the boxes of papers to my room at Juliet’s. I’ve spread them all out and put them in date order, but there’s a lot of dates missing. Dates I’d be really interested to read about.”

She poured their tea and sat back with her teacup. “Go on.”

“I reread the journal I loaned you. Where Matthew Seaward mentions this mysterious woman called ‘I’ more and more often. He never talks about her at length, nor does he talk about his feelings, but . . . I don’t know, Libby, it sounds like he’s in love with her.”

“Really?”

“Perhaps I’m being mushy.”

“Mushy. Great word.”

“You know what I mean. Perhaps I’m reading things that aren’t there. From time to time, he talks about ‘my pretty bird’ and I wonder if he means her or if he actually had a pet bird. And elsewhere he talks about her going away to Brisbane on the steamer, and it’s just a single line that says it all. Something like,
The lighthouse seems emptier than usual.
He sounds lovesick.” He sipped his tea. “I wonder if she knew he felt that way.”

Libby considered Damien with a smile on her lips. “Damien, you sound a little . . . lovesick yourself.”

He gave her a sideways look. “Your sister
is
pretty special.”

His reply was so unexpected that her mouth dropped open. “Juliet? She’s ten years older than you. She used to babysit you.”

“I know, so she’s never going to look at me and see anything but a kid, right? But we’re both adults now. Do you think I have a chance?”

She wanted to reassure him, to encourage him, but she couldn’t. “I honestly don’t know,” she replied. “How sad is that? I don’t know enough about my sister to answer that question. I suppose she’s a conventional kind of woman, so . . .” Then she smiled, unable to resist teasing him. “Is this why you want me to work things out with her?”

He laughed lightly. “Forget I asked.”

“Your secret is safe with me. Besides, I don’t know if Juliet will ever speak to me again, so I’ll probably never have an opportunity to tell her.”

They fell silent for a few moments. Bossy moved onto Damien’s lap and the sound of the sea and the beat of the fan lulled Libby into a reverie. Then Damien said, “Juliet told me about what happened the night Andy died.”

The guilt, the mortification, was crushing. All she could bring herself to say was, “Oh.”

He let the topic hang there, scratching Bossy’s ears.

Finally, she said, “I know I did it. But it seems as though it happened to another person now. Twenty years. Half my life ago. I felt like an adult then, but I see now I was practically a child.”

“When Juliet told me, I felt terrible for her. And I felt just as terrible for you.”

Libby looked at him dubiously. “You did?”

“We all make mistakes in our youth. Most of them aren’t fatal. You were very unlucky. I told Juliet that.”

She looked down into her teacup, and noticed that her hands were shaking. Memories of that night were washing through her. The salt water in her throat, the chill wind, the sirens, the growing dread. Worst of all, Juliet’s screams like those of a wounded animal, not a person. “I was an idiot,” Libby managed to spit out. “He’d still be alive if I hadn’t gone in the water. He and Juliet would have married, had children. She would have been happy.” Tears brimmed. She blinked them back.

“You don’t know that. They were kids when they got together; it might have all gone wrong down the track. There aren’t any guarantees.”

“No. But I took away their opportunity to try to build that dream. I ruined her life.”

“Her life isn’t ruined.”

She looked up. “She said the same thing. Exactly.”

“Then it must be true.” He smiled warmly, gently. “Is the accident the reason you ran away to Paris?”

“Yes. I mean, I always wanted to get out of town. But when it happened, I wanted to be as far from Juliet as I could
possibly be. The guilt was crushing me. It helped that she told me she never wanted to see me again.” Libby paused a moment, Juliet’s words still echoing in her ears, making the sickening guilt fresh again. She wanted to close her eyes and sink into the floor and never have to think of it again, but Damien was waiting for her to finish. “My French was good, so I bought a one-way ticket. I ran away. Literally. And somehow one year turned into two, then four, then ten, then . . . I missed everything. Every birthday, every Christmas, Dad’s funeral. I have no idea what Juliet did because I never asked her. I presumed she would tell me if she got married or had a child. Sometimes I wondered how her life was going, but it made me feel so guilty I . . .” Her voice shook and she had to take a deep breath to stop herself from crying. “I made myself forget about her,” she breathed.

Damien rearranged Bossy on his lap and reached over to touch her arm gently. “It’s okay.”

And something about his touch, his voice, made her fire up with anger. Who was this kid to feel sorry for her? To reassure her? She flinched and pulled away. “I know it’s okay,” she snapped, and then immediately felt embarrassed. She stood and walked to look out the window. She could feel him in the room behind her, waiting patiently. It seemed he hadn’t taken offense at her hot words. “Can we not talk about this?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“So, our lovesick lighthouse keeper . . .”

“Yes, I’m missing some papers from 1901. His journal cuts off just when he’s getting interesting and . . . Er . . . Lovesick. Then there’s nothing more from him. The next journal I have is by the incoming lighthouse keeper.”

Libby turned to face him, her back against the kitchen sink.
He was still pinned to the sofa by Bossy. “Where would those papers be?”

“I think I know. Somewhere I can’t get them.”

She tilted her head quizzically.

“At my house. With all my other things. My house that I can’t get into right at this moment. When Granddad died, he left loads of boxes full of books and papers. Mum stored about half a dozen in my spare room, intending to go through them some time. I think she’s forgotten about them. But I have a suspicion some of the old lighthouse documents are there, that Matthew Seaward’s journal is there.”

“And why can’t you go and search the boxes? If they’re at your house?”

He grimaced. “Because my ex is there. And she’s furious.”

His predicament began to make sense. “What did you do to her?”

It was his turn to be embarrassed and annoyed. “I didn’t do anything to her.”

“You said she’s furious.”

“Because I stopped loving her,” he blurted. “She’s furious because I stopped loving her.”

Libby returned to the couch, sat next to him and reached over to rub Bossy’s ears. “So, she’s locked you out?”

“And changed all the passwords on our joint accounts. But, you know, she’ll cool off eventually.”

Libby watched his face for a moment. “You’re afraid of her, aren’t you?”

“She has a bad temper. It’s a little intimidating.”

“You can’t let her get away with it. You need your things. You need to move on.”

“I know.”

She smiled. “And
I
need the last part of Seaward’s journal.”

He smiled in return, relaxing. “Maybe I’ll call her again. Maybe she’ll listen to me for once instead of screaming abuse and hanging up.”

Libby couldn’t imagine anybody treating gentle, affable Damien that way, and she felt suddenly protective of him. “Would it help if I called her? Or came with you to see her?”

But he was already shaking his head. “No, no, no. I have to do it alone.” He took a deep breath. “Thanks for the tea. I’m at the B&B if you need me.”

“It’s hard for me to come down there. So don’t be a stranger. Drop by any time.”