Lighthouse Bay (12 page)

Libby couldn’t imagine enjoying morning coffee in the damp heat with the sandflies everywhere, but when it arrived it was superb. Exactly the right strength, served in a large white cup with creamy milk, with mango-flavored shortbread on the side. Every now and again a stiff breeze rose off the ocean, cooling her skin and lifting her hair. It was vastly different from coffee with Mark in Paris, but it was pleasant in its difference.

Graeme had put on a blue cotton checked shirt. He slapped a plastic folder on the table and sat with her.

“So, you’re new to town?”

“Not really. I grew up at Lighthouse Bay. So I’ve heard of the Winterbourne treasure. But I was never much interested in the shipwreck when I lived here.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I worked with the Winterbourne company for a number of years.” A twinge. Why couldn’t she just say it out loud?
Mark Winterbourne and I were in love.
Still a secret. Always a secret.

Graeme nodded, looking suitably impressed. “Right, then, the wreck of the
Aurora
. It was April 1901. There was no township here then. Miles of empty coastland, a few Aborigines and plenty of wildlife.
Aurora
was a three-masted iron barque . . .” Here he flipped to the first plastic sleeve in the folder, which held a blurry photograph of a magnificent sailing ship. “. . . a cargo ship built in Glasgow but privately owned by Captain Francis Whiteaway of Bristol. He was never off the water; back and forth between here and England, making a killing. Brought tiles and curtains and fancy nonsense from England to all the rich people living here, took back wool for all the cold people living there. He was forty-three at the time of the wreck.” He stopped to slurp his coffee noisily, then resumed.

“This time he had precious cargo aboard. Queen Victoria had commissioned a parliamentary mace as a gift for the Australian government for federation.” He turned to another picture, this time a watercolor, perhaps a copy of the mace designer’s sketch. “The mace was made of gold, and set with four emeralds, eight rubies, four sapphires and a single diamond at its tip. Arthur Winterbourne, eldest son of the Winterbourne jeweling family, designed it and oversaw its production. Then he wanted to take it to Australia himself. Winterbourne and Whiteaway had gone to school together, so Whiteaway was happy to have him on board.” Another slurp of coffee, another plastic sleeve, this time with a meteorological photograph of a cyclone.

His voice grew dark; he was no doubt used to milking the drama out of the story for his clients. “They were due to leave
cargo in Brisbane before sailing to Sydney, but they hit cyclonic conditions as they approached the southeast coast. Cape Franklin lighthouse reported seeing them on the evening of April the seventh, but Lighthouse Bay lighthouse, the next one along the coast, never saw them. God only knows what they were trying to do coming into the beach here: maybe they were taking on water and thought they could beach the ship. In any case, they struck a submerged reef.” He gestured directly out to sea. “The conditions were horrific, it was late at night, the ship was broken to pieces. Nobody survived. When the ship didn’t reach Brisbane, the local police sent out a search party. Debris washed up just here on the beach alerted them to the ship nearby. Over the next few weeks they recovered a lot of the cargo and a few bodies. The younger brother, Percy Winterbourne, came to see it with his own eyes. Wandered around between here and other places on the east coast, sure somebody would know something. He searched, but never found anything. Died suddenly in a hotel room in Tewantin one evening.”

Percy was Mark’s great-grandfather. “Died suddenly? Suspiciously?”

Graeme shook his head. “Not according to local knowledge. Just dropped dead.”

Libby thought about Mark’s aneurysm.

Graeme was still talking. “Upshot is, nobody’s ever found the mace. So, people still like to look for it. Which is why I have a business.” He flipped to another photograph in his book: a half a ship, lying on its side underwater, encrusted with barnacles.

“Do you think the mace is still out there?” Libby asked.

“Don’t know. It’s a mystery. That wreck has been combed over by many hands, and nobody’s ever turned it up. People still like to dive it—who can resist a treasure hunt?—but I think most of
them realize they’re not going to find anything. You should come out one time, have a look for yourself.”

“I don’t know that diving is something I’d be terribly good at,” Libby said. The thought of being so far underwater made her nervous.

“If you can swim, you can dive. It’s easy.”

Mark would do it. He would tell Libby to do it.

“I’ll give you a mate’s rate,” Graeme continued, seeing her wavering. “You really should take a look.”

She shook her head. “Sorry. Why don’t you show me some more pictures?”

He flicked the pages of his folder, showing more images of recovered cargo, talking about the centenary celebrations of the wreck and offering titbits of local knowledge. But he didn’t mention the Winterbourne family again, and Libby found herself sipping coffee and gazing at the horizon, wishing Mark were here to take her hand and lead her under the water, and bring her back safely.

L
ibby turned on the fan over her bed when she got home and lay down to rest, only to wake hours later disorientated with a pounding headache, her cotton dress damp with perspiration. It was late afternoon and her stomach growled with hunger. She microwaved some fried rice and went to her art room. The photograph Graeme had shown her of the
Aurora
had intrigued her. She was an artist who loved depth and detail, and those old ships were crisscrossed with ropes and rigging. She flicked through her Turner book and found one of his ship paintings, then sat with a sketchbook on her lap copying a detail of the rigging. Hours passed, dusk came.

She put aside the drawing and decided to go to the library
the next day and borrow some books about ships. Eventually, she wanted to paint the
Aurora
, as a way of remembering Mark. But she’d have to work carefully first, relearning the skills she’d left behind at art college.

She pulled on her flip-flops and let herself out of the house, then took the path down to the beach, where she realized the night had fallen quickly. One sand crab running over her toes was enough. She headed back up the path.

That’s when she saw the figure of a man, near the door to the lighthouse. He had fair hair and broad shoulders, but she couldn’t make out any other features. She shrank back around the side of the cottage. He was fiddling with the lock, then he opened the door. He looked around furtively, then went in and closed the door behind him.

So, somebody was at the lighthouse, and he knew he shouldn’t be there. Libby went inside her cottage and locked the door carefully. She felt a long way from civilization.

L
ibby woke some time in the night, from under deep layers, and lay for a moment wondering why she was awake.

A sound.

Her senses were suddenly on high alert, her ears prickling.

Heat flashed across her heart. Somebody was lurking around outside her window.

She couldn’t move, she was so afraid. She wanted to be asleep and oblivious again. Then she heard footsteps, moving off, around the side of the cottage. Libby thought of the man she’d seen at the lighthouse. She pulled back the covers slowly and slunk out of bed, half-crouched, and hurried through to the kitchen to find her phone.

She had put it down somewhere—she fumbled across the benchtops—but it was small and it eluded her. Should she turn the light on to find it? Would that scare the intruder off, or encourage them to burst in and . . . what? What did they intend?

Libby stifled a groan of fear. She was so far from town, tucked up here at the end of the road. Her hand hit a teaspoon she had left out after making coffee, and it clattered to the floor. She froze, holding her breath. She heard nothing outside but the wind and the sea.

She decided to brazen it out, and switched on the kitchen light.

She heard the footsteps speed into a run. A car engine burst into life, and she realized that there was a car parked in her driveway. She went to the front door and threw it open in time to see bright headlights flash on, blinding her. A dark figure—too big and square to be a woman—got into the passenger’s seat, and the car roared away, leaving Libby with the ghost of the headlights in her eyes. The car backfired once in the distance.

She stepped back inside and locked the door, then called the local police station.

“Sergeant Scott Lacey.” He sounded sleepy.

Libby breathlessly told him where she was and what had happened.

“And they’ve gone now?” Sergeant Lacey said.

“Appear to be.”

“I don’t think you should be too worried. Living at the beach . . . People are always down there at odd times.”

“He wasn’t visiting the beach. He was lurking around my house.”

“That place has been vacant a long time. He probably thought it was empty . . . but I’ll come by in a car to check in a little while, and if you like I’ll make sure we include you on our beat most nights this week.”

Libby’s ribs unclenched. “Would you? I’d really appreciate that.”

“Sure. You didn’t tell me your name.”

“Libby Slater.”

“Libby? Juliet’s sister? You don’t remember me? I was in your math class.”

Libby scoured her memory. Scott Lacey. Wild surfie curls and a firecracker in every pocket. “Ah, yes. Scott.” She wasn’t reassured that he was in charge of the police station.

“It’s good to have you back in town. Juliet’s an old friend.”

Libby realized that if Scott was an old friend of Juliet’s, he would also know about Libby’s past, and she felt a sudden flush of shame.

“Don’t worry, Libby, we’ll keep an eye on you.”

His words were meant to comfort her, but all she could feel was the distance between her and the safety she craved. Sometimes, when Mark stayed at her Paris flat, she would fall asleep with her head on his chest, breathing in the warm, male scent of him. On those occasions she felt safe; more than safe. She felt as though there was an impenetrable bubble around her. Inside was love and light. The idea that she would never feel that again made her feet tremble. She pushed them hard onto the floorboards. “Thanks,” she managed to say to Scott Lacey. “Good night.”

Libby went back to bed. After half an hour she heard the police car come and go, but she didn’t sleep until dawn came and nothing could hide in shadows.

L
ibby kept telling herself she didn’t care that Juliet hadn’t called, but she did. Libby had taken the first step; surely it was Juliet’s turn to take the second. It was Saturday afternoon before
she realized that she hadn’t left a phone number and Juliet might not be comfortable just dropping by.

Damn, why was she so
bad
at this family stuff?

So, with a heart that fluttered slightly, she phoned the tea room. Juliet answered on the third ring.

Libby became very aware of the words she chose. “It’s Libby,” she said. “Is this a bad time?”

“I’m just locking up.”

“I’d like to see you.” Did that sound too bossy? Too soppy? Libby remembered the last time they’d met. The messy tables. Juliet’s harassed air. “I can help you clean up if you like.”

If anything, this offer made Juliet cooler. What had she said wrong? “No, no, I can manage by myself. I always have. Why don’t you come by around seven? I’ll make us some dinner.”

“That sounds great.”

“I’ll leave the side gate open for you. We have a lot to discuss.”

Libby’s heart ticked away like a bird’s as she showered and dressed.
We have a lot to discuss.
What did Juliet mean by that? Why did she sound so somber when she said it? Or was Libby’s guilty conscience getting the better of her? Libby knew she’d been a rotten sister. She knew she’d missed twenty years’ worth of birthdays and Christmases; she’d even missed their father’s funeral. She’d missed everything. She’d become a stranger to her closest living relative. Accidentally? Deliberately? But there was more to it than that; there were wounds so deep they may not have healed. Perhaps they could never heal.

She pulled up outside the tea room at seven, and rounded the steps to the apartment she, Juliet, and their father had lived in twenty years ago. There was a smell of approaching rain on the night air. Juliet called to her down the stairwell.

“Over here,” she said. “I converted our old place into B&B rooms.”

And then they were standing, face to face, at the door to Juliet’s apartment, while the evening sea breeze rattled the fronds of the palms that lined the street. Libby didn’t know whether she should hug her sister. What was the protocol after half her life? Her arms seemed heavy and awkward all of a sudden.

“Come in,” Juliet said, turning her shoulder away.

“You’re living on the side overlooking the street?”

“There’s not much traffic at night. I can still hear the ocean.” Juliet sounded a little defensive.

“It looks lovely.” This was an easy, truthful statement to make about the apartment. Juliet had decorated in shades of sea blue and pale yellow, the couch was covered in lots of checkered cushions, and the space was lit softly by lamps. It was inviting. Homey. Libby felt the corner of a feeling: of the comfort and acceptance and warmth that only comes from family.

“Sit down,” Juliet said, sounding a little distant and tired. “I’ve made a risotto. It’s almost ready.”

“Thanks so much. I know you’re busy.”

“You’ve no idea,” Juliet called from the kitchen.

While Juliet served their meals, Libby glanced around the room: a computer nook with a desk piled high with paperwork, a bookshelf with a lot of battered paperbacks and . . . Libby’s heart sped. A picture of Andy. Juliet still kept a picture of Andy. She looked away quickly, studied her nails, the piping on the cushions, then stood up and said, “Can I help with anything?”

“Nothing to do,” Juliet said, emerging from the kitchen. “Let’s eat on the couch, it’s more comfortable.”