The Sea Sisters (18 page)

Now she realized that she didn’t want to let him go again.

She stopped walking.

He turned to face her and she felt her heart beginning to race. ‘That night in Maui,’ she began. ‘I felt like … there was a connection between us, or something.’

He lowered his gaze. ‘Mia—’

A cool feeling crept over her skin, as if he was about to say something she didn’t want to hear. Before he had a chance, she stepped forward and kissed him.

‘No,’ he whispered against her lips. ‘You don’t want this.’

But as her fingertips met his skin, every cell in her body was telling her that she did.

E
d drove with his elbow resting on the sill, his forearm turning a reddish brown in the afternoon sun. Katie watched the vineyards of Margaret River flashing by in rich strips of green, an earthy breeze filling the car and stirring her hair.

‘There is a winery,’ he was saying, reaching for a booklet by the gearstick, ‘that runs a vine-to-bottle tour. It’s in here somewhere.’ He handed her the booklet. ‘Seeing as we drink so much of the stuff, it might be interesting to understand how it’s produced. What do you think? There’s wine tasting at the end,’ he added hopefully. ‘Shall I book?’

What Katie thought was that a winery tour was not the purpose of visiting Margaret River: Mia was. But what Katie said was, ‘Yes, do.’ Only three days of Ed’s visit remained and she was determined that they’d enjoy them.

‘I’ve been thinking about the wines for the wedding. The sommelier from Highdown Manor suggested a Pinot Grigio for the white. Californian, I think. I ordered a bottle while you were away and, I have to say, it was better than I expected. No hangover either.’

‘Perfect,’ she said, glancing at the roadside where a dead kangaroo was slumped with an engorged stomach; a swarm of flies buzzed around its lifeless black eyes.

‘I meant to tell you, Jess said the bridesmaid’s dress arrived. No alterations needed. She offered to look for shoes if you think you’ll run out of time.’

‘She was meant to be one of two bridesmaids.’

Ed glanced at her. She hadn’t realized she’d made the remark aloud.

‘You do still want to go ahead with the wedding?’

Her thoughts were stalled by the sudden shift in conversational gear. ‘Of course.’

‘But?’

She rolled the wine booklet into a tube and then smoothed it flat again. ‘It’s just hard imagining Mia not there.’ She had pictured them getting ready together, Mia teasing her for the meticulous schedule with allocated time slots for breakfast, manicures, hairstyling and make-up. Old tensions would have been put aside for the day and they’d have drunk champagne in glass flutes, raising a toast to their mother. Mia would have helped her step into her wedding dress and told her it was beautiful, and then cursed the thirty ivory buttons she had to do up by hand.

‘I know it is, darling. I’ve given a great deal of thought as to whether we should postpone the wedding. If we did postpone it – say for a year – what difference does it make? Mia still wouldn’t be there. I came to the conclusion that we should go ahead as planned because it gives us both something positive to focus on. Life has to move on, doesn’t it? Our wedding can be the first stage of that.’

That was the whole problem: she wasn’t ready for her life to move on. Not without Mia in it.

Ed swung the car into a petrol station. ‘I’ll fill up.’ He cut the engine, then leant over and kissed her on the cheek, the conversation closed.

Without the air conditioning, heat engulfed the car. She tugged down her dress; the lining was clinging uncomfortably around her middle. She was eager to reach their hotel and drench herself beneath a cold, powerful shower. Car journeys always left her restless and sticky, something about leather seats against the backs of her thighs or the sugar-rich car snacks that coated her teeth. She wound down the windows and breathed in the deep petrol fumes.

A rusted pickup pulled in on the other side of the pump, music blaring from rolled-down windows. Surfboards were slung in the back and in the passenger seat a girl of about Mia’s age sat with her feet propped on the dash. Her toenails were painted electric blue. A man stepped out in scuffed flip-flops, his heels cracked and dirty. He flicked open the fuel cap and clunked the nozzle in. As she watched, she wondered if he was anything like Noah, the enigma in Mia’s journal who her entries were weaved around.

Katie felt intrusive reading some of the intimate descriptions of their romance, yet was also glued to the pages as she discovered her sister’s growing feelings. She’d read that the day after Mia had been reunited with Noah, she had climbed into the passenger seat of his van, which smelt of neoprene and warmed surf wax, and they’d bounced along unsealed roads, dust flying in their wake, till they reached an empty beach. They swam out to a tiny island where they stripped off their swimsuits and lay drying on the sun-baked rocks. Noah talked to her about spear fishing and a shoal of Spanish mackerel that had coiled above his head like a silver whirlwind, far too beautiful to spear. She talked about travelling and the ocean, and of books by Hemingway that had given her a thirst for both.

Mia wrote pages and pages about him, decorating the entries with swirling doodles that blossomed from the margins. She detailed every interaction and transcribed verbatim a conversation about music. Other entries were overshadowed by doubt as she questioned why Noah preferred to sleep alone each night, or interpreted his quietness as a cooling off. Finn featured only as a passing comment, and Katie found that she missed the descriptions of him.

Ed bent his head to the window. ‘Would you like anything?’

‘No, thanks.’

She watched him walk into the kiosk, swinging the car keys around a finger. She turned in her seat and reached for Mia’s journal. Pulling it onto her lap, she opened it at the latest entry. The date caught her eye: ‘
Christmas Day
’.

She remembered that they had spoken that day. The phone had rung just as she was leaving the flat, and she’d run across the hall with her handbag bouncing against her hip. She was thrilled to hear Mia’s voice, but what should have been a festive chat turned sour. The journal entry would contain Mia’s frank opinion on the conversation and the thought of reading it filled Katie with dread. She bit down on her lip, knowing that this phone call was only a prelude to their final devastating argument weeks later.

When Ed returned, he placed a handful of mints between them. ‘The chap said we’re only a couple of kilometres from the hotel.’

She nodded.

He started the engine and then glanced at the open journal. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, closing it and putting it away.

‘Katie?’

She swallowed. ‘I think Mia’s next entry is going to be about an argument we had. I remember her phoning me from Margaret River.’

He pulled out of the garage, accelerating sharply to slip between two cars in the fast-moving traffic. When he was back in his lane, he said, ‘And you think it’ll be difficult reading about it?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘What was the argument about?’

She hesitated. ‘Sister stuff.’

‘When was this?’

‘Christmas.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘Just after I proposed.’

‘Was it?’ she said, hoping to keep her tone light.

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

Ed stopped the car alongside a tall manor house with a regal green front door and brass knocker. There would be no dorm beds or guitar playing here. ‘I’ll check in and take the bags up. Why don’t you stroll into town to clear your head?’

‘I think I’ll just take a shower. Cool off.’

‘A walk might do you good. You could have a look at the restaurants, too. See where you fancy going for dinner.’

‘Okay,’ she agreed, unclipping her seat belt.

‘If it will help, why don’t we read that entry together when you’re back?’

Katie smiled, but she had no intention of reading the journal with Ed. How could she when the argument had been about him?

*

Katie wandered through the small town of Margaret River, glancing into shop windows. Heat radiated from the sun-baked pavements and the metallic bodies of parked cars, and she felt the prickle of perspiration at the backs of her knees.

She passed an art gallery with a smart navy frontage and framed paintings of white sailboats in the window. She paused, admiring the soft curves of their sails, full and proud with wind, and the skill with which the artist had captured the shimmer of evening light reflecting off the water.

A bell announced her entrance into the gallery, causing a redheaded man to look up from his book. He smiled, said, ‘Afternoon,’ and then returned to reading.

Paintings filled the crisp white walls and she chose to look at one positioned beneath an air-conditioning vent, grateful for the chilled air against the nape of her neck. The painting was an abstract of a woman’s hand. From the fine lines running over her knuckles and the ridges in her short nails, Katie guessed it belonged to a woman in her fifties or sixties. The hand clasped a cheap biro, the plastic end chewed and splintered, incongruous against the refined poise in which it held the pen above quality writing paper. The painter had obscured most of the words so that the eye was drawn to only one phrase: ‘
When we were young
.’

Mia used to be a great letter writer; Katie had forgotten that. When Katie was away at university she had been the recipient of many of them. While they fought face to face, and phone calls proved disastrous, in letters they shared an easy dialogue. Mia’s style was conversational, darting from one thought to the next, her digressions amusing Katie who would read them greedily. Katie would write back, sharing secrets of men she was in love with or nightclubs she’d visited, painting a colourful picture of university that she hoped Mia would admire. Yet when they saw each other, even if the visit fell on the heels of a warm and intimate letter, they somehow reverted to form and would find themselves bickering within hours.

Katie moved on, gliding from picture to picture, enjoying the range of paintings displayed in the small gallery. At the back of the room three shelves were filled with art supplies and she found herself picking up a tube of acrylic paint. She had the sudden urge to dab a new brush deep into the paint and slide it across a clean canvas. At school she’d shown a flare for art, able to be bold on the page in a way that seemed out of reach in person. She loved the quiet of the art room with its square desks and the sharp smell of white spirit. Mia was furious when Katie gave it up, deciding that it wouldn’t be as well received by the university admissions system as A-level History. She’d rolled her talent away, along with her paintings, and hadn’t thought about it since.

She picked up a set of twelve acrylic paints housed in a silver tin, along with a pad and two brushes, and went to the till. The man placed his book face down and ran the items through the till. She returned to the hotel with the supplies tucked underarm like a secret.

At the reception desk she was handed her room key. ‘Your husband has already gone up, madam.’

She blinked, taken aback.

‘Sorry,’ the receptionist said. ‘Have I made a mistake?’

‘No, no. It’s fine,’ Katie replied, touching her collarbone. ‘Thank you.’

A thick oak door opened into their room. It was airy and bright and a wrought-iron bed stood proudly in the centre. Her backpack was propped against it, the buckles open and a peach blouse hanging out. She wondered why Ed had started unpacking it. He stood with his back to her, his shoulders hunched as if he were grasping something.

She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her.

‘Katie!’ he said, spinning round.

Now that he was angled towards her she could see he was trying to conceal whatever was in his hands. She glimpsed a flash of something sea-blue and immediately she knew: Mia’s journal.

The scene came into focus; he clasped the journal in one hand, and a fistful of cream pages in the other.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

A loud rap at the door startled her. She snatched it open as if the two events were connected, and found a maid holding two plump white pillows.

‘Extra pillows for you, madam.’

Katie didn’t move to take them, nor step aside from the doorway to allow the maid in.

After a moment she heard Ed’s voice. ‘Yes, thank you. Could you leave them outside?’

The maid looked affronted by the request and Katie heard the soft flop of the pillows on the landing before the door clicked shut.

She turned to Ed. His hands were now behind his back, like a playground thief. ‘I asked you a question.’

His mouth opened and closed, but he said nothing.

She put down the paper bag of art supplies, then crossed the room. She stood in front of him and held out her hand.

He shook his head. ‘I won’t give it to you.’

‘Won’t?’

‘Sorry. I know that sounds—’

‘Give me the fucking journal, Ed.’

He swallowed. ‘Do you trust me, Katie?’