Treasured Secrets (4 page)

Evangeline
was easy to see. She was the largest yacht in the marina, proudly occupying two berths. Although he'd purchased her eight years ago, he still treasured her as if she'd been delivered yesterday. He chuckled at the memory of buying the extravagant motor yacht. The boat broker took some convincing that he was a legitimate buyer. It wasn't very often a long-haired twenty-five-year-old in shorts and a singlet had millions of dollars to spend.

He'd encountered the same reaction when buying his apartment, but once he'd walked through the doors, he simply had to have it. The penthouse had a flawless view of the marina and he'd been prepared to pay much more for it. Lucky for him, the agent had nearly fallen over at his first offer. The money was the one good thing, the only good thing, to come out of his crappy childhood. Though it had taken him nearly a decade to come to his senses and use it. And even then it didn't feel right spending the inheritance.

But his wealth was no longer important. Losing Rosalina had hit him harder than he'd ever believed possible. The way they broke up, a big fight like that, was not what he'd intended. It didn't matter now though. Nothing mattered, except that breaking up was best for Rosalina. She was young and gorgeous and it wouldn't be long before she found someone else. He told himself over and over again he'd done the right thing, knowing he could never offer her the love she deserved. It didn't help though. Not one bit.

Since the break-up, he'd tried to keep busy by reaching out to new clients and touching base with existing ones. But the loss of Rosalina had been an unexpected blow to his business, too. She was an amazing chef, dedicated, adventurous and fastidious in the yacht's professional kitchen, and he hadn't realised how many clients came back because of her. He'd struggled to hire her replacement, as none of the candidates offered the quality of cooking or the charisma she had. His final choice was made out of desperation. But every moment he spent with the overbearing German woman grated on his nerves, and he missed Rosalina even more.

The glow from the clock was a brutal indicator that there were at least three hours until sunrise. He was tempted to crawl back into the crumpled bed sheets, but knowing it was pointless, he made his way to the kitchen, turned on the coffee machine, and flicked the television to the sports channel.

Archer jumped when the phone rang. His eyes first darted to the clock and then to the marina. A call at two in the morning could only mean disaster and his thoughts went straight to his yacht. But the marina was as tranquil as ever. He snatched up the phone.

‘Archer here.'

‘
Bastardo marcio, hai mentito ancora una volta
.' Torrents of angry Italian words fired at him and yet he found himself smiling. Hearing Rosalina's seductive voice appeased him, despite her obvious outrage.

‘Whoa. Slow down, honey, I don't speak Italian.'

‘I'm not your honey.'

‘Have you been drinking? It's the middle of the night here.'

‘Yeah? Well, I bet you were up. Still having those nightmares?'

Archer winced. She knew him well, even from ten thousand kilometres away. The nightmares had almost become a nightly occurrence since she'd left, and he now found himself preparing for his expected awakening before he even went to bed. The glass of water on the nightstand was a testament to that. ‘You're right. I was up.'

‘Let me guess. Staring out over the marina and playing with that stupid pendant.'

Archer dropped the necklace. ‘Rosa, if you rang to abuse me —'

‘I rang to say I have proof you're a lying, stinking
bastardo
. You told me you'd never been to Italy.'

‘That's the truth.' It was one of the few countries in the world he was certain he'd never been to.

‘Oh yeah? Well, I know where you got your damn pendant from.'

Archer stiffened and reached for the necklace again. His mind instantly cast back to where he'd found it, but he shook the horrific memory free. ‘What're you talking about?'

‘The Church of St Apostoli.'

Archer tried to comprehend what she was saying, but he had nothing. ‘The Church of what?'

‘Saint Apostoli!' She said it as if he should know.

‘What about it?'

‘Your pendant's pictured in the stained-glass window.' She snapped the answer at him.

His mind raced. Was this the clue he'd waited nearly two decades to find? There was no way he'd let this information go untouched, despite knowing it would take him back to his dark past. ‘Where? What does it look like? Tell me everything.'

‘No.' Her voice was drunken defiance.

‘Please.' Archer put on his sweetest voice, hoping to persuade her past the anger.

‘You don't deserve any sympathy from me. I tried to help you, but you cast me aside like a snotty tissue.'

She was right, but hearing those words was like a spear piercing his heart. She was hurt and had every right to be mad. However, with this new lead, he had to see that stained-glass window for himself. It would be easier with her help, though; he didn't speak one word of Italian.

‘Please, Rosa, I never meant to hurt you.' He wondered if she'd ever forgive him.

‘
Sei un bugiardo
! You knew what you were doing.'

Although he couldn't understand everything she was saying, he could tell it wasn't good. ‘I want to make it up to you.'

‘You can
never
replace the years you stole from me. I loved you and would've done anything for you.' Rosalina was sobbing now.

He wanted to put his arms around her, to feel her golden skin against him and kiss the tears from her eyes. But it could never be. He'd destroyed the most important part of his life and was powerless to fix it.

‘I'm sorry —'

‘Don't say it again!'

He heard a click, followed by a few seconds of silence, then the dial tone. As he stared out over the marina a sense of fear, as familiar as it was unwanted, crawled through his body. It was time to return to where the nightmare began.

Archer grabbed a notepad and wrote a list of what needed to be done to get himself to Italy and
Evangeline
looked after. A fresh wave of determination drove him through the rest of the night, and when the sun began to crest the horizon, he threw on his jogging gear and dashed out the front door.

The pounding of his feet on the pavement matched the rhythm of his heartbeat. He blocked out the pain in his left knee and picked up his pace along the path that snaked up the headland. Waves crashed into the rocks below and seagulls squawked above as they fought over breakfast. Leaning into the slope, he accelerated even more and powered his arms as his surroundings faded into visions of Rosalina.

Since she'd left, he'd lost all focus in life. Nothing seemed important any more. But now he'd been thrown a lifeline and he clung to a glimmer of hope that he might be able to salvage himself amongst the ruins. Endorphins kicked in, barely softening the ache in his knee. He drove on towards the top regardless.

The cresting sun gave the peeling white paint on the wooden bench seat at the hilltop an unearthly glow. He arrived at the chair, panting with exhaustion and from the fierce throbbing in his knee. With relief, he sat down. The sun glistened across dark-blue ocean that stretched as far as he could see, and the scene before him opened like a dazzling oasis in a desert of uncertainty. Colourful sailing boats already skipped along the small waves and he spied several couples walking hand in hand along the beach down below. It was a perfect scene — would've been a perfect scene, but without Rosalina it was far from complete.

Was this clue in the stained-glass window the beginning to the end of his nightmares? He'd tried everything — hypnosis, acupuncture, herbal and medicated drugs, and nearly everything else in between. Fast cars. Fast women. Fast drugs that took him to nosebleed highs but always ended in soul-shattering lows. He was miserable in isolation and just as unhappy in crowds. Years of therapy had been nothing but a waste of time and money.

Turning all his angst towards his business proved to be the only positive from his restlessness. No one was more surprised than he that his crazy treasure-hunting business idea survived, let alone thrived. And thrive it did. When a customer suggested that he add a quality culinary angle to his treasure tours, it literally changed his life.

Rosalina had been a breath of fresh air. She'd put new blood in his veins, new purpose into his life and brought new clients by the truckload. She brought out the best in him too. In the first year or so they were together, life had been normal. No, it was better than normal; it was perfect. The nightmares had eased back to just a couple each month, and he'd laughed more in that year than he'd done in a decade.

But just when he'd become comfortable, when he'd genuinely thought his penance was over, the nightmares had come back, more brutal and more persistent than ever. He was a failure and the nightly torture was proof of that.

Something the therapist said all those years ago had always stayed in his mind. ‘You need to find the key, Archer.' Was this clue in the stained-glass window the key? His heartbeat raced at the hint of a resolution.

Once he'd regained his breath, Archer left the seat and maintained a steady jog back to the marina. He only slowed when he reached the marina's main walkway. Halfway along, he turned onto a narrow pontoon and walked to the fourth cabin cruiser secured alongside it. Once aboard the
Cat's Cradle
, he sidestepped towards the wheelhouse doorway. ‘Hey Jimbo, you up yet?' He didn't wait for an answer and opened the door.

Silence greeted him as he ducked under the bulkhead to climb the steps down to the lower deck. ‘Jimmy, I'm coming down. Make yourself decent.' Jimmy was notorious for late nights drinking and late mornings sleeping. But today, Archer needed him awake and sober enough to make some quick decisions. Archer heard snoring and banged on the bedroom door. ‘Wake up, Jim!'

‘What the hell?' Jim's ragged voice rattled through the wood panelling.

‘It's me…Archer. Wake up.'

‘What time is it? Jesus, it's only six o'clock. You got some balls, man.'

Archer pushed open the door. ‘Sorry, mate, but we need to talk.'

Jim was still in bed. His eyelids looked like slabs of chicken meat and his greasy hair scrambled in all directions.

Archer stepped into the room. ‘Can I get you a coffee?'

‘You can get the fuck off my boat and let me sleep.'

‘No can do, buddy.' Archer turned and walked toward the galley, filled the kettle and turned the gas on. ‘Get some clothes on. I'll meet you up top.'

‘Go away.'

Archer heard grumbling and swearing from the bedroom as he rummaged for coffee and sugar amongst the tins of baked beans in the cupboard. Soon the kettle whistled and he filled two mugs with boiling water. ‘Up top, Jim. One minute.'

‘Jesus, who are you…my ex-wife?'

Archer laughed as he carried the mugs to the table bolted to the back deck of the old timber cruiser. Jimmy had been living on this boat since his messy divorce cost him everything he owned eight years ago. Archer and Jim had become solid mates, who spent many evenings sharing a drink or three and some serious games of poker. Jim was a good bloke with solid morals, protective instincts and a great friend — exactly the man Archer needed right now.

Cat's Cradle
had been neglected over the years, and Archer picked at the table's peeling paint as he waited for Jim to appear. His mate finally arrived, wearing nothing but stubby shorts and scratching at his greying chest hairs. Jim was a brute of a man — not in an overweight, lost-control kind of way, but more the don't-mess-with-me warrior type. Other than rum, his love was pressing weights. Archer often saw him working out in the midday sun, unconcerned at the further reddening of his leathery skin.

Archer allowed Jim to drink half a mug of coffee before he spoke. ‘Sorry about this.'

‘What's so damn important?'

‘I need you to skipper
Evangeline
for a while.'

Jim squinted. ‘Where you goin'?'

‘I got business in Italy.'

‘You want an old drunk like me controlling your million-dollar yacht? You lost your marbles?'

‘I know you. I trust you. And I know you'll give up the grog to do it.'

‘Give up the grog? That's gonna cost you. How many weeks we talking? I work, you know.'

Jim's labouring job at the wharf was eternal waves of no work one week, then eighty-plus hours the following. He'd taken the job out of desperation and his body paid for it with erratic meals and a crushing routine.

‘I'll pay for one month up front and then on a weekly basis.'

‘I won't look after them tourists!'

Archer laughed. Jim had no patience for people who didn't speak English. ‘I'll cancel the tourists. It'll just be you. But I need your promise you'll stay dry and do everything by the book.'

Jim sipped his coffee and Archer knew he was crunching numbers. ‘I got a seventy-hour week coming up. That's big bucks I'll be missing.'

Archer held Jim's red-eyed glare. ‘Start the bidding.'

Jim set his poker face and Archer knew he was in for some tough negotiation. But he was prepared to pay more than enough.

A smile curled at Jim's lips. ‘Thirty thou for the first month and five
G
s each week after that.'

Archer allowed Jim a moment of tense waiting while he sipped his coffee. ‘Done.'

Jimmy smacked his mug on the table and nearly choked on his coffee. When he smiled, his gold tooth glimmered in the morning sun. He shook Archer's hand with a solid grip, and brightened his eyes. ‘I would have taken ten.' Jim laughed a hearty cackle.

‘I would have paid fifty.' Archer laughed with him.