The Stranding (13 page)

At the bottom of the hill, the track emerged from the bush onto a grassy area. Callista’s Kombi was parked just off to the right beside the dam, and Lex pulled up beside it, his hands wet on the steering wheel. He was nervous. The bottles of wine smiled at him from the passenger seat. He’d have to be careful not to drink too quickly.

As he walked across the dam wall, a bottle of wine in each hand, he saw Callista wave from the front verandah. She met him on the cut grass that surrounded the house and glanced at the wine.

‘Feeling thirsty?’

‘I wasn’t sure what to bring.’

‘You can never go wrong with wine. Especially if it’s in a bottle. It’s generally only the cardboard variety here. Artist’s budget.’

She reached for the bottles and took them just below his hands, without touching him, thank God. Looking up at the house, Lex absorbed its simple lines and large uncurtained windows. Wind chimes of varying sizes tinkled in the breeze. He glanced down into the gully, felt the hugging warmth of the damp air, the humidity.

‘It’s humble,’ Callista said. ‘But I like it here.’

‘It’s quiet.’

‘You’re used to the sea.’

She smiled, and her eyes were encouraging, warm and brown in her round face. Lex noticed a dimple flickering high up on her left cheek.

‘It’s not quiet when the cicadas get going in summer,’ she said. ‘They make the whole place throb.’ She stepped up onto the deck and waved him towards a battered armchair. ‘Take a seat. It’s comfortable, even though it’s old. Shall we open some wine?’

Lex nodded and lowered himself into the chair, happy to let her lead the conversation. With his heart skipping and the sweat prickling uncomfortably in his armpits, he couldn’t think of anything to say. It was years since he had been this nervous around a woman. He looked along the porch and down to the gully where small birds flitted. Deep in the hummocks of vegetation another bird commenced a steady whoop-whoop-whoop.

Callista came out with two glasses of wine and a broad smile that sent his heart knocking. She handed him a glass and put hers on a small table between the two chairs, then went back inside. He watched her purple skirt flick around her legs and took in the curve of her waist. She had bare feet, of course. With a dry mouth, he reached for the wine, savoured the cool relief of it slipping down his throat.

She brought out a plate with some cheese, crackers and a bowl of hummus, then sat down with him and gazed out at the scrub.

‘You know, I never get tired of looking at this view,’ she said. ‘I love the way the light changes over the trees during the day. The shadows and the dapples and the greens, they’re always different.’

Her laugh was tinkly, like the wind chimes. Lex sat breathless, still trying to think of something to say. He raised his glass and noticed the moisture sweating off the cold wine, licked it without thinking. Then he felt her eyes on him.

‘What do you do for a living?’ she asked him.

‘Nothing right now. I’m taking a bit of a break.’

‘From life?’

‘You could say that.’

Her face was very kind. Lex drank more wine and shucked his eyes out of hers.

‘Are you going to be here for long?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, evading her gaze. A positive answer could be some sort of commitment. She was watching him closely, as if from observing his face she might work him out. ‘Guess I’ll have to find some work soon. If I’m staying. Any suggestions?’

‘There’s never much going around here. You know . . . it’s a rural economy. Look at me and Jordi.’

‘Jordi?’ Lex remembered the shaggy guy at Sam Black’s tackle shop.

‘My brother.’

‘I think we may have met. Down at the servo.’

Callista frowned. ‘Jordi’s a complex guy. He’s a bushie. It’s where he belongs. He hates the servo.’

She refilled his empty glass and topped up her own. They sat in silence for a while, watching the bush shift occasionally in the breeze. Fairy wrens hopped and twittered around a clump of lantana near the edge of the gully. The wind chimes tinkled intermittently.

‘Oh.’ Callista started as if she had almost fallen asleep. Was he that boring? ‘I’d better check the lunch. I hope it hasn’t burned.’

He stood up and followed her through the glass sliding door. It was cool and shadowy inside. The moodiness of the bush penetrated even in here. A small square table crowded the doorway and the kitchen was a makeshift affair with a small sink and rough wooden benches. Beneath the benches, mismatched crockery was stacked on shelves in uneven piles. Lex eased carefully past the table and into the narrow lounge area where two large worn armchairs turned their faded backs on the windows. An old stereo was crammed beneath the stairs. There were several paintings leaning against it.

‘Mind if I have a look?’ he asked.

Callista shrugged. ‘I suppose not.’

He squatted to see the paintings in the dim light. The first was a chaos of trees and bark, blue and brown, a tangled forest. He liked the crazy thrust of the branches and the shards of bark ripped ragged by the wind.

‘This isn’t the local bush, is it?’

‘No,’ Callista said. ‘That’s up in the mountains. It’s dry up there, and wild.’ She came forward from the stove, oven mitt in her left hand. ‘I’ll take you there sometime.’

Lex carefully shifted the canvas aside. The next painting was black and bold, a distorted face, teeth, weeping eyes, all twisted and irregular.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

She quickly removed it. ‘Self-portrait on a bad day.’

She shuffled the other paintings quickly in front of him: a wild frothy beach scene, a cloudy sky cut by an arc of birds, more trees, all different, some madly exciting spatter-grams of vibrant colour, a portrait of Jordi. It was a potent picture.

‘He’s not a happy man, is he?’ Lex commented.

Callista examined the painting for a long moment, and she looked so sad that Lex wished he hadn’t mentioned it.

‘He’s had some hard times,’ she said.

He watched her face twisting with pain in the shadows.

‘It was when he was quite young,’ she continued, half to herself. ‘He was about twenty. Things happened to him that shouldn’t happen to anybody.’

She put the painting away then paused, lost, before she remembered what she was doing. ‘I think I’ll serve up now. The quiche is ready.’

While Callista fiddled in the kitchen, Lex stood awkwardly near the stereo. He saw another painting leaning against the wall under the stairs. Without thinking, he leaned over and lifted it out and sat it across the arms of one of the chairs where a shaft of light was cast through the window.

It was a beach scene—a long view from the sands across still waters to an early evening sky with the light fading from it. The sky was lit in subtle hues of pink, fading to mauve, purple and then night-blue right down on the silvery water. A flat white disc of moon sat off-centre above the quiet sea. It was a peaceful painting. Lex sipped his wine and sank into its tranquillity.

‘You should hang this one,’ he said. ‘Why is it tucked away?’

In the kitchen, Callista’s face crinkled with dismay and then washed over with carefully arranged calm.

‘I didn’t realise you’d found that one,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s okay. Do you mind putting it back? Lunch is ready.’

She took the food outside.

They ate quietly, cutlery clinking on their plates.

‘I had a difficult time just after I finished that painting,’ Callista said eventually, laying down her fork and looking at him. ‘I sell or give away most of my work, but I can’t seem to separate from that one. Silly really. I’d sell it easily. But you see . . . giving it up would be like giving away part of myself, and I’m not quite ready to let it go.’

‘You don’t have to explain.’

‘No, but I want to.’

The wind stirred in the chimes.

Midday stretched to afternoon. They talked a little, sat, drank, contemplated the gully, talked a little more. Lex couldn’t work her out. It seemed they were both watching each other, both unsure, both a little nervous. He remained guarded, swinging between attraction and fear. He held himself a pace behind her, controlling the wine, choosing his words. He had changed. He used to be bold and assertive with women.

The second bottle slid down smoothly, warm and red and with a new touch of intimacy. There was a lull in their conversation, a lengthy silence, and between them the air that had been flowing so pleasantly suddenly charged itself electrically. It came from nowhere and they looked at each other, looked away. Lex’s heart was tumbling again and his legs yelled at him to run, or in a minute he’d be kissing this woman.

‘It’s getting late,’ he said. ‘I’d better go home.’

Callista’s hand was only a short distance away on the arm of her chair. It wouldn’t be so hard to lift his hand and close it over hers. But he’d lose himself again, so ready to tumble. Fear strapped him.

‘Are you okay to drive?’

‘I’m fine.’

Lex knew he had to leave soon. Too quickly he stood, and staggered a little.

‘Are you sure you’re okay to drive? I don’t mind cooking some dinner, and there’s a spare bed here you can use.’

Those brown eyes were looking into him, those full lips. He had to be careful. She could reach inside and snatch him out.

‘No, I’m fine. Thank you.’

He was off the deck and ready to head to the car.

‘Your keys are on the table inside,’ she said, smiling quietly at him. ‘And you have to come upstairs and see the view from the balcony before you go. It’s the highlight of this place.’

She was holding the door open for him, so he had no choice but to follow her inside. He moved up the stairs behind her into the calm late afternoon light flooding the loft. It was a large airy room, with a queen-size bed covered by a white quilt. Two cane chairs were arranged around a low wooden coffee table. The balcony was just past the chairs with a glass sliding door leading onto it.

Callista stepped out there, the light touching copper in her hair as she leaned out on her elbows. From the balcony, the gully and its crowded heaped canopy seemed closer. Lex gripped the railing and tried to focus on the view, but he was achingly aware of the fine brown hairs on Callista’s arm, the fluid curl of her brown hair across her cheek, and of his own catchy breath.

‘What do you think?’ she asked, all smiling brown eyes and smooth cheeks.

‘About the view?’

How obvious was it that he was thinking about her lips and her thighs and the texture of her skin? She looked down, and Lex was aware of the slight lift of her shoulders with each breath. Then she shifted her left hand and closed it gently over his. It was warm and smooth and full of light. His own sweaty hand swivelled to grasp hers as he gave in and tugged her towards him, grazed his lips on hers, sighed.

They grasped each other, crushed into each other, tasted each other. Lex was so tangled with fear, but his body couldn’t get enough of her. His hands stroked over her shape, pulled her to him, slipped and tangled in her long brown hair. She was looking straight into his eyes as she touched him.

They went back into the loft. Holding him with eyes that were now strong and black, she flicked off her top, dropped her skirt on the floor and hooked off her underwear. Now he could see all that smooth brown skin.

He stripped, struggling with the zip of his jeans. His body was shaky, unpractised, tentative. He crouched at her feet, her calves in his hands, head down, trying to slow his breathing. He had to pull out of this. Panic in his chest. He hadn’t touched a woman other than Jilly in years. The need erupting in his chest terrified him.

Callista tugged on his arms, drew him up. She pressed against him, kissed him, flicked her tongue lightly along his eyelashes.

On the bed she was powerful, even on her back, arched up against him, so much in control. Her moan slid through him deliciously, and then the contraction of her orgasm as he caved into her, unable to hold back.

They lay damp with sweat and lovemaking, spooned against each other, angled across the bed where they had fallen. Lex’s cheek was in her hair, his hand soft on her belly, their legs enmeshed. Time slid over them, late and mellow and threaded with the early evening calls of the bush; the slow piping of the eastern yellow robin, the last late whooping of the wonga pigeon, the cackle of a kookaburra.

Lex breathed the sweet apple smell of her hair. His fingers drew tiny circles on her belly. He had forgotten that silken smoothness of a woman’s skin, that particular feel of it against the hairiness of his own body. Losing Jilly, he had blanked out everything, even the memory of this drunken post-coital euphoria.

Then he remembered. The thought passed through him like a shock. Even as he fought against it, his body tensed. In his delirium he hadn’t thought of protection. What if he got this woman pregnant? He didn’t even know her. What was he doing? One afternoon of conversation and here he was, out of control and forgetting all the rules.

Callista must have felt him tense. She lay against him a little longer then moved away, pulling the sheet up around her and hugging her knees to her chest. There were tears in her eyes.

‘It’s okay,’ she said, walling him out. ‘It’s just fine. You don’t have to worry. I can’t get pregnant.’

They looked at each other. Lex felt his nakedness. All that smooth air between them had gone.

‘You’d better go,’ she said, as he pulled on his clothes.

Callista lay curled up in the bed as the dark seeped in. She heard the Volvo start, saw the glow of the headlights in the trees, heard the familiar crackling bush silence resume after the car ground up the steep hill. The sheet was damp from her tears and from their lovemaking. She could smell the sweet-sour muskiness of it.

That black hole was opening up in her again. She had fought so hard to hold it back over the past year. Why did it have to come now, with Lex wrapped warm around her? Was it just because he’d tensed? Was she still so brittle about it all?

It was that painting. She knew she should have put it away.

In the blue of dusk, she rolled off the bed, went downstairs naked and blasted some cask wine into a tumbler. Placing the painting on the chair as Lex had done, she sat down in front of it and drank the wine like water. Even now it was difficult for her to look at this painting, still so hard to go back there. Ah, the vault of memory—it had a habit of cracking open.