The Beach Book Bundle: 3 Novels for Summer Reading: Breathing Lessons, The Alphabet Sisters, Firefly Summer (56 page)

There’d been only one communication between them in the three years, when Lola told her about Ellen being attacked. Bett had been shocked by the news. That same night she sent Anna a card, brief, to the point, telling her how sad she was to hear about Ellen. She heard nothing back. After that, there hadn’t been another opportunity. Not until the excuse of the eightieth birthday party had arrived.

Images of Anna and Carrie came to mind now. Things weren’t as she’d expected with them. Anna wasn’t as snooty or as aloof as the imaginary Anna she had been carrying in her mind all these years. And Carrie wasn’t as smug or self-satisfied as she’d expected either. In fact, they both seemed … what? Bett wondered. Normal? Familiar? Even a little troubled?

The phone rang, making her jump. She ran out to the reception desk. “Valley View Motel. Can I help you?”

“What are you doing, darling?” It was Lola.

“Looking over the songs,” Bett improvised. “Where are you?”

“In my room. I could see you staring out the function room window, and I wondered if you needed any help.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m finished for today, I think. I know enough for the auditions tomorrow anyway.”

“Good girl. Come and talk to me, would you? And would you bring the outfit you’re going to wear to work tomorrow and let me have a look at it?”

Bett laughed. “Lola, that’s very sweet of you but it’s a part-time job, not my first day at school.”

“I know. But first impressions can count. You want to be feeling good when you go in there, meeting people you haven’t seen for a few years.”

“I saw Rebecca last week.”

“Indulge me, darling.”

Ten minutes later she was in Lola’s room, carrying what she’d chosen to wear to the newspaper office in the morning. It was a vintage skirt, dark-red silk, which she planned to wear with a simple white shirt. Her shoes were good. Italian leather, stylish but still very comfortable.

Lola put her head to one side and looked for a moment like a bright-eyed bird. “Just about exactly right, I think. You have learned something while you’ve been away. Earrings?”

Bett held up the pair she planned to wear. They were also dark red, made from old glass beads. She’d found them at a Dublin market stall.

“Very nice. More to the point, how do you feel in the whole outfit?”

“Good, I think.”

“That’s more important. And remember you are Bett who is thirty-two, who has been living in Dublin and London, who has eaten an oyster and gone to the theater on her own, among many other brave things. Remember all that tomorrow.”

Bett smiled. “Why? Is someone planning on springing
This Is Your Life
on me?”

“I just want you to feel good about yourself, no matter what happens, no matter who you meet.”

Bett softened. Lola knew there would be people at the office from three years ago when the whole business with Carrie and Matthew had blown up. “Why do you do it, Lola?”

“Do what?”

“Put up with us. All of us. How can you be bothered?”

“Because I love you. And because I love making you do as I tell you. So you’ll keep the chin up tomorrow, no matter what? Promise me?”

“I promise you.”

Lola gave a contented sigh and lay back on her bed. “I never thought I’d say it but one of the bonuses of being an elderly decrepit old bag of bones like I am is that no one pays any attention to the way you look. You’re just some old woman, not some thin woman or fat woman or ugly woman or beautiful woman. You’re just old.”

“And does that bother you?” Bett asked as she returned her skirt to the hanger. “Do you miss things about being young?”

“Of course, but I can’t change it. I am old. On my last legs, probably, the clock ticking away as we speak.”

“Stop that, you old ghoul.” Bett sat down beside Lola on the bed. It was always a treat to have her to herself. “Do you ever think about it, though, Lola? Are you scared of dying?”

“Why? Are you about to try to kill me?”

“No, not tonight. I like you tonight. But do you think about it?”

“Of course I do. Most people do. That’s why you have to try to fill up each day as much as you can, in case it’s your last day.”

“But if you truly lived life like that, you’d never go to work, would you? Or wash dishes. Or sweep floors. Because you wouldn’t want to spend your last day on earth doing boring things like that.”

“Exactly. Which is why I don’t let a day go past without having a gin and tonic. No point rationing it out, in case the day I choose not to have one is the day I die. And think how much work I’ll save the embalmer, from all the gin I’ve consumed over the years. I’m sure I’m half embalmed as it is.”

“You are getting more appalling every year.”

Lola gave a happy smile. “Yes, I know.”

Bett picked up Lola’s left hand and started moving her wedding ring around, the way she had done since she was a little girl and she and Lola were talking like this. She knew every twist of gold. “Do you still miss Edward, Lola?”

“He’s been gone sixty years, Bett. You get used to anything after that length of time.”

“What was he like? What were the two of you like together?”

“Why are you interested so suddenly?”

Bett put down Lola’s hand and smoothed the bedcover, idly noting a tiny cigarette burn on one corner. Guests always did ignore the sign about no smoking in bed. “I was thinking about it last night. That we have been coming to you for years with every detail about every little aspect of our lives, moaning and groaning, and maybe it’s your turn to talk, and ours to listen. I was thinking about your slide show, those photos you had of Ireland and the early days. I want you to know that if you feel like reminiscing about those days, about Edward, what it was like when you and Dad started running the guesthouses and all of that, or if there is anything else you want to talk about, I’m here, okay?”

Lola burst out laughing. She reached up to touch the curly head beside her. “Darling, thank you very much. If anything comes up I’ll be sure to call you.”

“I mean it, Lola.”

“And I do, too.”

I
n the kitchen of her house, Carrie glanced up at the clock. Nearly ten o’clock. He should be here any moment. She checked her appearance again, smoothed down her dress, straightened the knives and forks on the table. She was nervous, she realized. Of her own husband.

Of her estranged husband, to be accurate.

She went out onto the veranda. The paddocks all around the house were dark for as far as she could see. In the daytime she liked the peace and quiet. In the nighttime, without Matthew, it gave her the creeps. She jumped at the sound of a bird in the gum trees behind the house, then jumped again at a rustle in the agapanthus lining the driveway. It was a hot evening, but she still shivered.

She longed for a return of the days when the very sight of the house would give her a lift. She and Matthew had spent months searching for their ideal home. They had agreed on everything—they wanted an old-style, stone house, with a full return veranda, preferably with open fireplaces for those cold Clare winter nights. They wanted just a small block of land, perhaps an acre or two. Ideally, they would find a house that already had the major renovations done—all the plumbing and rewiring. And they wanted at least three bedrooms.

“Four,” she’d said.

“You want three children?” he’d laughed.

“At least,” she’d said airily. “And as soon as possible.”

“Not too soon.”

She should have picked up the hints then, shouldn’t she? But no, she’d chosen to ignore him, to go on making plans, picking out nursery colors, before they even had a nursery, let alone a baby.… 

They’d found this house by accident. One weekend Matthew had collected her from the motel after work, and for a change they’d gone for a drive rather than heading back to the small unit they were renting. They’d taken one of the dirt roads just to the south of the town, winding up between the vineyards. And there it had been. A hand-painted
FOR SALE
sign at the end of a track leading up to an old stone house. They’d driven straight up and found the owners inside—a pair of middle-aged hippies, there was no other way to describe them. They’d been living in the Valley for the past two years but had decided to head north to the tropical heat and rainforests of Queensland. They hadn’t listed the house with any real estate agents, preferring to let the buyer find them, they’d earnestly explained. Matthew and Carrie had been squeezing each other’s hands underneath the table. The house had almost everything they had been looking for—the original stone work, the veranda, the slate floors. It had been rewired, and the plumbing was in reasonable condition. The main problem had been the colors the walls had been painted, tangerine and purple, swirls of this and that. “I think they studied at the Marijuana School of Interior Decoration,” Matthew had whispered as they toured around. But it hadn’t put them off. They’d made an offer the next day. Two months later they’d moved in.

Carrie forced herself to stay outside now, leaning against the veranda post she’d painted herself, waiting for the sound of his car. He’d been surprised at her call that afternoon, she knew that. No wonder, considering what she had shouted at him last time they had spoken, several weeks ago now. “It’s over, Matthew. We’re finished. Can’t you see that?”

He’d sounded wary on the phone. Exhausted. But he’d agreed to make the long drive from the station he was working at, to hear what it was she had to say. That counted for something, surely.

The problem was she didn’t really know what she wanted to say to him. She jumped as a flicker of light was reflected against the pale bark of the gum trees. Car headlights. Matthew? Her heart started beating faster as the car came closer.… 

T
hree hours later the peace of the farmhouse was broken by the sound of a long, shuddering snore from the other side of the double bed.

“Shut up, Matthew,” Carrie said crossly into the darkness. She gave him a sharp pinch, which caused a moment’s break in his loud snoring, before he settled back into it again. She sat up looking at him. Well, that had gone really well. It had been after midnight by the time he’d finally arrived. She’d worn a track in the veranda from her pacing, had nearly leaped out of her skin each time car headlights appeared down the road. By the time he had rung to say he’d had serious engine trouble and been stuck on the side of the road trying to fix it for the past two hours, she’d been beside herself with worry. She’d also been a little drunk from the red wine she’d been sipping out of nervousness. When he’d finally arrived, she’d wanted to fly at him in anger and frustration, but the thought of Anna and Bett laughing at her and her broken marriage had kept her voice low and sweet. She greeted him, offered him a beer.

She had led the way into their living room, smiling as he took a chair—not his usual chair, she noticed—offering him a sandwich, some cheese. It was too late for the dinner she’d prepared. He’d shaken his head, watching her closely, as nervous of her as she was of him, she realized.

“So how was work today?” she asked cheerily, even though the sight of him—dirty, exhausted, his clothes covered in dust—supplied her with the answer.

He ran his fingers through his hair. She knew the gesture well. It meant he was tired, and it also meant he was feeling impatient. “Can we cut to the chase here, Carrie? What did you want to talk about?”

He was angry, too. And she supposed he had every right to be. She’d kicked him out of the house after all. Hung up on him each time he’d called. Returned his letters unopened and unanswered. She felt a dart of shame that, yes, perhaps he had some right to be cross with her. So what did she want to talk to him about? She didn’t know anymore. “Us, I suppose.”

“What else have you got to say? I thought you’d made yourself pretty clear.”

She took some heart from the fact he had at least come tonight, long drive, long day and all. She decided to tell him the truth. “It’s about Bett.”

He ran his fingers through his hair again.

“She’s staying on in the Valley. She’s taken a job at the local paper again.” She debated whether to tell him about Lola’s musical, then decided against it. This was about Bett, not Lola.

“Has she? Good for her.”

“So how does it make you feel?”

“About her job? Carrie, it’s got nothing to do with me. It’s up to Bett where she wants to work.”

“I don’t mean about her job. I mean how do you feel about Bett being close by again.”

She saw a flash of something—temper?—canceling out the exhaustion in his eyes. “Carrie, I feel what I felt when you asked me about Bett three weeks ago. Six months ago. A year ago. I can’t keep telling you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He raised his voice at her then. “Because you don’t want to believe me. And I can’t do anything about that. Jesus, Carrie, it’s like banging my head against a brick wall, and I’m sick of it—” He stopped there. “Listen, can I have a shower, have a coffee maybe? Can we talk about it after that?”

She turned her back, shrugged. She saw in the reflection in the window that he stood and looked at her for a few moments, before he went to the bathroom. She took her drink out onto the veranda, waited for him to join her, calming herself, preparing the words again, hoping to make herself understood this time. Twenty minutes later she was still waiting.

She had walked into their bedroom and found him asleep on top of the bed, half undressed. He’d been so exhausted it seemed he hadn’t even gotten to the shower, simply lain down on their bed and fallen asleep. And he was still asleep. No amount of clanging saucepans or poking had stirred him. She had felt a ripple of guilt looking down at him, at the boyish face asleep on the pillow, the light brown hair tousled, dirty.

Staring at him in the bed beside her now, she was reminded of earlier days, in the first year of their marriage, when he’d arrive home from similar busy, dirty days working out on farms and stations. She’d greet him at the door with a kiss, putting her finger on his mouth to stop him talking, leading him into the bathroom where she’d slowly undress him, and then herself, moving him into the shower, still silent, now kissing him on the lips, on the shoulder, on the brown skin of his arms, on his flat brown belly, lower down until he would be groaning against the side of the shower. And after that it would be into the bedroom, where he would return the favor, no longer tired, stroking and caressing her, until she could hardly bear it and would pull him down into her. The memory stirred her now, and she moved in closer to him.