Home to Turtle Bay Page 10

  ‘It’s a whole new world,’ Jack said, not without sympathy. ‘Sorry, Dr Kelly, but welcome to our reality. Now we’ll leave you to your nap. Bridge and I have a date with the beach.’

  ‘Dr Kelly might like a swim, too,’ Bridget murmured, and by the sound of her voice this was a brave venture for her.

  I was right. I could see it in the way Jack reacted, with startled delight.

  ‘You think we ought to be asking her?’

  ‘It’s her beach,’ Bridget told him.

  ‘No. On this island you can’t own past the high tide mark. She has to share.’

  ‘But if she doesn’t let us go down her path, the only way in is by steps and it’s too hard for you to carry me.’

  ‘I can carry you.’

  ‘I don’t want you to. I hate being carried.’

  ‘Bridge, you know I don’t mind.’

  I was trying hard to keep up. There were tensions here that I didn’t understand.

  ‘You mean I really do have my own private beach?’

  Jack groaned, but at the same time he grasped my interruption with gratitude. ‘You’ve done it now, Bridge,’ he told his niece. ‘You’ve given the woman trumped up ideas of her own importance. Next thing you know she’ll have a chaise longue set up down there, a maid to serve drinks, a bar and a cabana.’

  ‘What’s a cabana?’ Bridget asked me.

  ‘Beats me,’ I said.

  ‘Whatever it is, I’m betting she’ll want one,’ Jack added. ‘Probably two. Let’s not find out.’

  The pair were ridiculous. I suddenly thought of Isabella and her cabana boys and wished I could send her a picture of Jack’s bare chest. I chuckled and Jack grinned his approval.

  ‘There. I knew it’d sound good if we could just get it out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your laughter. Do you really not know what a cabana is, Dr Kelly?’

  ‘Some sort of cigar?’ My voice still held the edges of laughter. ‘Private beach or not, I don’t want a cabana. I especially don’t want two.’

  ‘Then would you like to join us?’

  They were looking at me; man and girl. They were an ill-matched pair; Jack’s superb physique against Bridget’s wasted and damaged body. But now that Bridget had relaxed again, the similarities between them were even more obvious. Their smiles had the same hint of mischief, and Drifter was right there with them, adoring each in turn.

  But I had no time for Jack McLachlan.

  ‘No,’ I said and Bridget’s face fell. But not Jack’s. His expression was inscrutable. Maybe he’d expected me to refuse.

  There was no way I was getting involved with these two.

  ‘As you wish,’ Jack said and made to turn away.

  ‘But it’s really nice,’ Bridget said wistfully.

  The dog came forward and nudged my hand.

  ‘No,’ I repeated, almost desperately.

  ‘It’s only a swim,’ Jack said. ‘We’re not asking you to scale Everest.’

  ‘It’s not dangerous,’ Bridget said.

  Help.

  Was I being dumb? Yes, and illogical. A social swim with a colleague and a child. What was the harm in that?

  ‘Do you have togs?’ Bridget asked.

  ‘Togs?’

  ‘She’s from Over There,’ Jack said wisely. ‘She speaks American. I’m not sure what the translation of togs is. Bikini maybe?’

  ‘It could be a one-piece,’ Bridget offered.

  ‘Aye, but I’m hoping it’s a bikini.’

  I should throw something at the pair of them and get on with my life.

  ‘Fine,’ I said ungraciously, but I couldn’t help myself. ‘I’ll get my … what did you call it … togs?’

  ‘Bikini or one-piece?’

  ‘Bikini.’

  ‘Ripper,’ Jack said, and then, at my expression, he grinned. ‘That’s my Aussie grandma’s slang. It means neat.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Let’s go swimming.’

  ‘Bridget could swim before the accident, couldn’t you, Bridge?’ Jack said, five minutes later as we made our way to the beach. ‘That was twelve months ago, but she forgot a lot of stuff while she was in hospital and she’s having trouble reminding herself again.’

  We were pushing Bridget’s chair along the beach track—or rather Jack pushed, I followed and Drifter brought up the rear, as if the dog’s permanent role in life was to round up stragglers.

  She came alongside and her wet nose touched my hand. She’d been Henry’s dog. He’d wanted her to be my dog.

  Ridiculous.

  And then I stopped. Apart from my night-time foray looking at Tootsie I’d hardly seen the beach, but close up…

  Wow.

  The surf was gentle here, protected from the prevailing winds by two outcrops, north and south. Low waves, breaking far out, took their time to roll gently in. The water was translucent, flecked with foam at the shore, then turning to sapphire as it deepened far out. A wide stretch of white sand ran straight down to the water’s edge. The faint marks where Tootsie had buried her eggs had already faded to nothing. Flowering gums, crimson and green and filled with squawking multi-coloured parrots, lined the foreshore. Cliffs rose, north and south, making it seem like I was immensely privileged to have access.

  ‘Are you factoring this beach into the price you’re asking for the farm?’ Jack asked, but before I could respond he’d scooped Bridget out of her chair and was striding into the shallows, leaving me to follow.

  I took my time. Back at the house, while Jack and Bridget waited, I’d pulled on my bikini, but I’d put my jeans and shirt back on over the top.

  Jack and Bridget were only paying attention to each other. That gave me time to collect myself, to figure out how to look nonchalant in a bikini the size of a postage stamp in front of a man with the body of a Greek god.

  I made my way slowly down to the water’s edge, then waited until the first wave ran up the sloping sand to reach my feet. It was hard not to squeal.

  I’d only ever swum in swimming pools. I’d never been in the surf.

  But now … What had I been missing? The splash of waves against my legs. Waves that reached higher as I waded further in. The sun on my face. The wet sand whispering around my toes.

  This was almost as good as sex, I decided, and then I thought maybe it was better.

  I stared down at my legs as the waves broke around me, trying to suppress a goofy grin.

  Stay cool.

  And then I thought: Who cares? No one who matters is watching. Go for it.

  I was up to my knees now. I lifted handfuls of seawater and splashed it over my face. It seemed translucent, glistening, and it was salty where it hit my tongue. It tasted of the bright, cold freshness of oysters. The green depths of nori.

  I grinned at myself. I sounded like a rave review from one of the gourmet foodie magazines I kept in my reception room.

  Whatever, this was brilliant.

  ‘It’s not that cold!’

  I looked up and they were watching. Jack was grinning, too, almost like he’d heard what I was thinking.

  ‘It’s easier if you splash under all at once,’ Bridget advised kindly. ‘Pretend you’re from Baywatch and someone is drowning. Then run in so fast you fall over!’

  I answered with what I hoped was a carefree wave. Let them think I do this all the time.

  A wave I hadn’t noticed reared and broke, shoulder height. My feet disappeared and I was caught in the wash, toppling off my feet, rolling over and over on the soft sand sweeping up the shore.

  These weren’t exactly ten foot waves and it was a soft wash, yet I emerged spluttering and spitting out water. It was almost … sweet.

  And Drifter was suddenly right beside me. The dog had lunged into the surf as I’d gone under. She was right there in the shallows, circling me like a mother hen with a wobbly chick.

  The foam was all around me. There was sand in my mouth and I had to take another wash of wa
ter to swish it out. I bobbed down and opened my mouth as another wave washed by.

  It was like being in a gentle washing machine. Gorgeous.

  I grinned at Drifter who did another circle, then headed back to the beach.

  I was losing my mind, I decided, but the feeling was fantastic. I was propelled into a world of sun and surf, and Drifter had somehow made me feel like it was okay that I was here. All I needed to do was feel and taste and smell.

  Grandpa had said it was okay to lose control in the surf. Maybe he was right.

  Muriel had been here. Muriel had surfed. Did she feel like this?

  Who knew? Would she ever tell me? I put away the thought of Muriel and ducked my head under another wave.

  Unbelievable.

  Finally I started thinking of other things than the surf. Bridget and Jack were conducting a swimming lesson just past where the waves were breaking. By the time I’d had my fill of floating and diving and spluttering and decided to swim out to join them, I felt the weight of the world was off my shoulders.

  Yet here was a man who seemed to have taken the weight of the world on his.

  I watched for a while. They didn’t appear to want me—or even notice—and I was content to float in my wonderful salt bath and observe.

  This little girl had suffered major trauma. Her frail body was scarred from the chest down. Lacerations as well as burns. What had happened? Why was she with Jack rather than her parents? Had it been something truly tragic?

  This was hardly the time to ask. Bridget was trying to float but her wasted legs simply sank, causing her body to tilt and wallow.

  ‘It’ll happen,’ Jack told her, holding her up for breath for about the tenth time.

  ‘Why don’t you give floating a miss and go straight to swimming?’ I called.

  Jack turned with Bridget in his arms and they both looked at me.

  ‘You need to learn to float first,’ Bridget said, and there was the catch of tears in her voice.

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I fell into a swimming pool when I was not much more than your age.’ It was the truth. I’d been at yet another of Muriel’s lovers’ mansions. Unattended and bored I’d wandered out to the pool and I’d slipped. ‘The way I figured, I either swam or I drowned,’ I told them. ‘So I swam.’

  ‘It’s a bit harsh,’ Jack said dubiously, with a sideways glance that said he’d figured there was a story behind what I’d said. ‘To start swimming from scratch.’

  ‘That’s where my own patented doggy paddle comes in.’ I grinned, relaxing for what felt like the first time in weeks. Or years. ‘This may not be the best looking stroke,’ I told them. ‘But it works a treat for dogs and it worked for me that day.’ It had, too. I’d survived. Alone. Muriel had never even learned what happened.

  I rolled in the surf and started dog paddling. ‘Watch.’ I paddled in a circle around them, true doggy style. ‘If you paddle really hard, you don’t need your legs. I bet Drifter could teach you better than I can.’

  But Drifter wasn’t demonstrating. She was back on shore, guarding the wheelchair. Which left me paddling. And paddling.

  This was ridiculous. I’d never done anything so undignified. But Bridget was watching intently.

  ‘It could work,’ Jack said doubtfully and, encouraged, I paddled some more.

  ‘Of course it could.’ Dog paddling and talking at the same time involved a certain amount of spluttering, but I managed. ‘Bridge, have your uncle pop you into the water, tummy down, then paddle like crazy with your paws. I mean hands. Jack, if Bridge sinks past her chin, put your hand under her tummy and lift. Bridge, if that happens you have to paddle harder.’

  Jack and Bridget were watching me now as if I were a weird species of sea creature, but there was no going back. I did two more circuits while they thought about it.

  ‘Who dares, wins,’ I told them, and Jack looked like he didn’t know whether to frown or laugh.

  ‘We’d rather be chickens than dead hens,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a proverb. Or something. It’s wise, anyway. Rather be a chicken than a dead hen.’

  ‘So you’re calling me a dead hen?’

  ‘You don’t look like any dead hen I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘You’re too pretty to be a dead hen,’ Bridget said, and Jack gave it solemn consideration.

  ‘Pretty. You think so?’

  ‘I like her red bikini,’ Bridget decided.

  ‘She’s nicely tanned, too.’

  They were discussing me like I was a clockwork sea creature—or a clockwork dead hen!—going round and round in circles. If so, I was a nutcase of a dead hen. I was so far out of my comfort zone I felt I’d grown another head.

  ‘How do you think she got tanned when she comes from the other side of the world?’ Jack asked Bridge as I dog paddled on. ‘It’s winter over there.’

  ‘You can get suntans out of bottles,’ Bridget said wisely. ‘Carrie says. She read it on the internet.’

  ‘Hey…’

  ‘Is your tan out of a bottle?’ Jack asked, intrigued.

  ‘No!’ Out of a spray compressor actually. Did he guess? Probably. Jack’s grin was mischief, but thankfully he decided not to pursue it.

  ‘Whatever,’ he said expansively, and turned back to his niece. ‘We have a golden, spluttering, deadish hen demonstrating for us here, Bridge, so I’m guessing we shouldn’t be asking questions. What do you think? Could you try out the doggy paddle like Dr Kelly?’

  ‘I might,’ Bridget said cautiously.

  ‘You need to paddle really hard.’ I demonstrated.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Yay, Bridge. Go for it!’

  And whether it was the magic of the place, or the enthusiasm of us cheering her on, Bridget settled her little body in the water, waited while Jack steadied her, rested with her tummy on his palms, and then on the count of three she dog paddled.

  She made six wild paddles before she started sinking but Jack caught her on the instant.

  After a rest on Jack’s hands, she managed eight paddles.

  And then ten!

  ‘Houston, we have lift-off!’ Jack’s shout was a war whoop, and there was such pride and pleasure in his voice I could only wonder. What was it with these two? A father couldn’t be more proud of his daughter than Jack seemed to be of Bridget.

  We practised for half an hour and by then Bridge was exhausted. Jack carried her up the beach and towelled her dry while Drifter licked her toes. I came up to join them as Jack set her back in her wheelchair.

  ‘That was fantastic,’ he declared, stroking her pigtailed head. ‘Wasn’t it, Jenny?’

  ‘It was indeed.’ And I meant it. The whole experience had been fantastic. This place. The sensation of teaching Bridget a life skill. The sun on my face.

  Jack.

  ‘Don’t you be staying here too long,’ Jack warned. ‘You’ll be turning as red as a lobster.’

  Sunburn. There was a thought. I stared down at my arms in dismay. There was red underneath the ‘tan’.

  ‘I forgot to tell you. Slip, slop, slap,’ Jack said, his voice teasing. ‘Anthem of all sunburnt countries. Slip on a shirt, slop on sunscreen and slap on a hat. Now if you’ll excuse us…’

  They were leaving and I felt a stab of regret. It was almost enough to make me stop looking at my arms and imagining skin peeling off.

  ‘Can I come with you if you come back for another swimming lesson?’ I blurted it out without thinking. What was I doing? My skin would be peeling any minute, and where was my dignity?

  ‘I don’t get much free time,’ Jack said, draping a towel around Bridget. Was it my imagination or had he withdrawn already? ‘We take the opportunity as it presents itself. But as we go past your house to get to the beach anyway, we might as well call in for you.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’

  I hadn’t meant to be so eager. He probably thought I was
desperate.

  I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter what this island hick doctor thought of me, but it did.

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ he said, his voice formally polite. ‘Our pleasure. And now we’ll bid you good day, Dr Kelly. Thank you for our dog-paddling lesson. We appreciate it immensely, but the world awaits and your nose is starting to glow.’

  And then they were both smiling—two identical smiles that made my stomach clench in a way I couldn’t understand.

  I didn’t have to know Bridget any better than this to realise that such smiles were rare, and the reason Jack was smiling so broadly was that somehow we’d achieved a breakthrough. He might be holding himself back with me—even making judgements that were unfair—but with Bridget there was unreserved affection. Smiles and dog paddling from Bridget made Jack smile.

  And suddenly that was enough for me, too. Hurt faded and I smiled back at both of them. This feels wonderful. A little girl’s smile.

  Oh, great. As well as acting idiotic, now I was getting mushy. For heaven’s sake. Jack had things to do and so did I, things that didn’t involve getting emotionally attached to a kid.

  ‘I’ll see you soon,’ I told them and tried to force my smile back to being formal.

  It didn’t quite happen.

  6

  clucked adj. stunned by the sight of a massive incoming wave.

  I watched them go, Jack jogging up the cliff pushing the wheelchair before him. With Bridget’s chair fitted with wide treads, I thought there’d be few places they couldn’t venture. But there were so many undercurrents …

  What was their story?

  I couldn’t focus—or I didn’t want to focus. Fretting over more problems than my own was dumb. So what was my first concern? My nose was starting to glow. That was urgent. I tugged on my shirt and headed home.

  When I got back to the cottage there was an ancient van parked where Jack’s vehicle had been, and the cows were straggling in.

  Of course. This was a dairy farm. It was four in the afternoon. Milking was inevitable.

  So who was here now? Clive McConachie? Father of brand-new baby?