The Stationmaster's Cottage: Unforgettable dual timeline romantic mystery

Book 1: River's End

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

Genres: Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction; 20th Century Romance; Romantic Suspense; starting over; dual timeline; mystery romance; seasoned romance; dog; golden retriever; love letters; old painting

Synopsis

The jetty is old and rickety. Here, love had blossomed and love had shattered into pieces. A heartbroken man kept his promise to wait. All for nothing.

And now, fifty years on, a young woman seeks a new beginning...

The funeral of her last family member brings Christie to the seaside town of River's End, far from her city life. Inheriting a rundown cottage is yet another problem to deal with until the discovery of a shoebox of memories draws her into an old family mystery.

Reclusive artist, Martin has no interest in helping the beautiful stranger when she comes to him with questions. The past is too painful to revisit and Christie's theories about unopened love letters is too close to the truth. As much as he's drawn to her, she doesn't belong here.

Some secrets refuse to stay hidden but solving the mystery will tear apart everything Christie knows about herself. The jetty holds one final key to the past...if she can only get there in time.

The Stationmaster's Cottage will sweep you to the past and back with a love story to fill your heart and a mystery to thrill your mind.


Audiobooks now available.


Recommended reading order:

The Stationmaster's Cottage
Jasmine Sea
The Secrets of Palmerston House
The Christmas Key

In addition there are two short companion stories which can be read before or after The Stationmaster's Cottage:

Taming the Wind (how Thomas and Martha met)
Martha (the missing years)

 

The Charlotte Dean Mysteries is a spin-off series. Charlotte appears in Jasmine Sea and eventually has her own stories. 

Release date: February 14, 2017

Publisher: Phillipa Nefri Clark

Print pages: 306

Sample

A PROMISE MADE. A LIFETIME LOST

One final time, Dorothy Ryan prepared to play the game. The game from her teenage years when she’d squeeze her eyes shut and hope with all her might that when they opened, she would be on a stage on Broadway.

Solo in a dazzling spotlight, she’d sing her heart out to an enraptured audience. Music would fill the theatre as her voice soared to one high note and then, another. Thunderous applause followed, and her eyes flew open as she bowed with a flourish.

The disappointment was always the same. The stage was her bedroom. No audience, only dolls in a row on her bed. The music was her little sister singing to herself in the next room.

Her dreams vanished under the practical guidance of a mother who wanted her children properly educated. Dorothy left the game behind when she departed River’s End at the age of twenty.

Now seventy-nine, Dorothy was back in her hometown after five decades, clinging to a final hope. She closed her eyes and wished—wished she was in her old bedroom in Palmerston House.

If only she was a daydreaming teenager again before this lifetime passed like the blink of an eye. Before she lost what mattered. Before her own choices shattered the life of the person she cared most for in the world, choices that destroyed true love.

Dorothy opened her eyes. She was still here, seated at a small table in a dingy motel room with a lumpy bed and peeling wallpaper. Her wrinkled hands were spotted from age, and her failing heart still pounded uncomfortably in her chest. So much for games.

She smoothed out an ivory page of delicate writing paper. Few people mattered to Dorothy. Her only grandchild, Christie, was one of them and this letter would say goodbye.

Her hand hovered over the paper, the expensive pen not making contact. There’d been another letter, one written and sent more than a month ago. Had Martha even read it and understood the urgency of her older sister’s request? Dorothy sighed and put down the pen.

So little time left and so much to say. To explain herself and be forgiven. Surely Martha would accept Dorothy’s actions all those years ago came from a place of love and concern?

I need you to understand.

None of this would have happened, none of it, had Martha ever cared about anything their mother, Lilian said, instead of following the rather bad example of their carefree father, Patrick. Martha was somehow the perfect combination of both parents, wild and stubborn, generous and passionate like Patrick, as well as proud and selfish, sensitive and protective like Lilian.

Ah, the beautiful one, the smart and funny child everybody loved. Especially me.

Her tea was cold in the thick white mug. It would have tasted better in her bone china and properly made by Angus, the only man she had not scared away over the years, no doubt due to the generous salary she paid him to run her house. She’d rather be there, or even at Palmerston House, than in this horrid room.

Dorothy shook her head with a frown. She needed to write her farewells to Christie. As she picked up the pen, a memory intruded, and her hand trembled. It was 1967. The year that changed everything.

Patrick Ryan stood by Dorothy’s lounge room window, contemplating the hustle and bustle of Melbourne city several floors below. The outlook was straight down the main street filled with mid-afternoon shoppers, cars and workers. Patrick helped himself to a glass of whiskey from the small bar Dorothy kept, mostly for his visits. 

“Father, you’ve got a long drive ahead!” Dorothy scolded.

Patrick tapped the window. “Do ye see the Clydies now?”

“The streets are getting too busy for the horses, Father, and besides, we don’t have milk delivered to the apartment.” 

Patrick turned around. “All this progress—does it not make ye want to come home?” A third generation Australian, Patrick nevertheless spoke with the soft Irish accent of his father and grandfather. It was somehow out of place in Dorothy’s modern apartment.

Her life had been in Melbourne since boarding school days, punctuated by long summer school holidays in River’s End she tolerated for her mother’s sake. The reality was she loved the progress, loved her job as a trainee manager at a department store, and rather loved the young man she was seeing. Going “home” would stifle her.

“Before I know it, Martha will be all married and gone as well. Both my girls disappearing in the blink of an eye.” Patrick sighed.

“What do you mean, married? Martha won’t marry Thomas Blake!”  

“Have ye not spoken to yer sister in so long? She might not always like it, but Thomas has our girl all worked out. Them being wed will change her ways.” Patrick chuckled and drained his glass. “Ye be coming to the engagement party when they have it?”

“Engagement? I think I must.”

“I shall tell yer sister to hurry up and arrange the party so both my girls will be together again.”

If Martha was engaged to this boy, Dorothy needed to speak with her. It may not be too late to change her mind, and if anyone could talk sense into Martha, it was her big sister.

In the dull motel room, Dorothy’s heart overflowed with anguish.

Please, please let my letter have found you.

With both hands on the table to support her weight, Dorothy stood. Every bone hurt and her heart thumped oddly. She shuffled to an armchair in the corner of the room. The memories of that night in 1967 were crystal clear and she leaned back, closing her eyes.

Limestone cliffs towered above the perfectly curved, white sands of River’s End beach. Midway along its one kilometre shore, a shallow river cut through the sand, forming a lagoon near the tideline. Close by, an old jetty resisted years of exposure to the open ocean to stand firm against the assault of the high tide.

Although after midnight, the air was hot and sultry with a bare whisper of a breeze to offer relief. Out over the Great Southern Ocean, a storm brewed.

Cut into the face of one cliff was a steep staircase of narrow limestone steps. Dorothy ran down them as fast as she dared. The beach was the last place she’d expected to be.  

Where are you?

She reached the sand, almost tripping over shoes at the bottom of the steps. Martha’s. She jumped as lightning flashed. But now she knew where Martha was.

Almost at the lagoon, long emerald-green dress hitched up to let her run, Martha disappeared into the dark. Not far behind, and closing fast, Thomas still wore his shoes. He must be desperate to reach her if he hadn’t taken a few seconds to remove them. Dorothy pulled her sensible lace up leather shoes off, but kept hold of them as she took off after Martha.

Dorothy veered higher to the soft, dry sand. Surely Martha would run inland in a moment to follow the river back through the cliff to town. She aimed for the highest part of the lagoon, expecting to intercept her sister. Not finding her there, she ploughed through the sand toward the sea.

The sky lit up. Martha stood midway along the jetty as huge waves thrashed against its end. Dorothy opened her mouth to call out. But Thomas was there. On the sand, taking off one shoe, then the other, as though he had all the time in the world. What was he waiting for? He crossed his arms.

“Go away!” Martha’s voice carried to Dorothy, and she came to a halt, unsure if she should show herself. “Don’t follow me. You have no right!”

“Either you come off the jetty right now, or I’ll come and get you. Martha, I mean it, I’ll carry you back to the cottage if I must and I’ll—” Thunder, directly overhead, cut off his words.

Horror paralysed Dorothy as a wave crashed over the boards where Martha stood. With a scream, she slipped into the swirling water and disappeared.

Even as Dorothy managed a few shaky steps, Thomas was on the jetty, tearing off his shirt. Then he dived.

Dorothy’s eyes flew open. She sat upright on the armchair, disoriented. It was November 2016. Not 1967. The memories of that night almost fifty years ago were raw.

Martha had to learn the truth before it went to Dorothy’s grave with her. As she stood, a wave of dizziness darkened the room for a moment. Somehow, she reached the table and dropped onto the chair. She scrawled a few words on the blank paper, pursing her lips as pain caught at her chest. The pen slipped from her hand.

Angus will know what to do.

Dorothy straightened her back as she shuffled to the bed, removed her shoes and placed them neatly on the floor. From an open cardboard box on the bedside table, she extracted a small photo album. Her breath ragged, she lay on her back, closed her eyes and willed her heart to steady. If only she’d done things differently that night so long ago.

Dorothy ran toward the jetty. Thomas surfaced amongst the angry waves for a second, only to dive under again. With a deafening crash, lightning struck the top of the cliff on the far end of the beach, and Dorothy screamed.

The seconds dragged like minutes, and still, there was no sign of them.

I cannot bear this!

As she tentatively stepped onto the jetty, there was a disturbance in the water, and Thomas burst up, Martha in his arms.

She was breathing. Martha was alive. Yet, Dorothy retreated. Back to the darkness near the lagoon as Thomas dragged himself from the shallows, Martha held against his chest. He staggered away from the water’s edge, closer to Dorothy, who ducked down.

How he had found Martha was a miracle. He must love her so much to put his own life at risk. Perhaps she’d been wrong about him.

Thomas knelt, his arms tight around Martha. “Damn it, woman. You could have died, throwing yourself in the ocean!”

Martha pushed herself out of his arms, falling unceremoniously onto the sand. She glared at Thomas as she got to her feet, ignoring his outstretched hand. Her dress was torn. Sea water dripped from her long dark brown hair.

Why was she still angry when he’d save her life? Dorothy pushed herself a bit further away, still watching them.

“It’s not what you think,” Thomas said. “You don’t understand.”

“Understand? Oh my God, Thomas. I saw you! It’ll be all over town tomorrow. She’ll tell everyone. How could she? How could you?”

“Let me explain.” Thomas stood.

“I don’t want an explanation, Thomas. I saw what happened and I cannot endure this!”

The sky opened and hard rain pelted down. Dorothy was soaked in seconds, but couldn’t take her eyes off the couple who were so close, yet unaware of her presence.

Martha twisted her solitaire engagement ring, then took it off. 

“Put it back on before you drop it and stop being so damned melodramatic,” Thomas said.

“Oh, how can you say that?” Martha cried. “Don’t you get it? I’m leaving! It’s over!” She threw the ring onto the sand, turned and stalked off. 

Thomas scooped up the ring and pocketed it, before striding after Martha. “Where are you going?”

Dorothy followed, heart racing. Was this it? Was Martha about to end the engagement?

“Just wait for one god-damned minute!” Thomas bellowed.

Martha spun around, her eyes flashing with a fury Dorothy recognised. Martha always wanted her way. But when she grabbed at the pendant around her neck as if to tear it away, Thomas covered the ground between them and captured her hands in his. He leaned down and whispered to Martha.

Martha’s expression had completely changed. Whatever he’d said, mattered. Now, she looked sad.

Thomas pulled Martha closer and traced the contours of her face with his fingertips.  

The rain stopped. 

The waves were the only sound. 

The tenderness in Thomas’ face as he wrapped his arms around Martha and held her against his bare chest tore a hole in Dorothy’s heart.

For a long moment, it was as though even the elements held their breath.

“It’s over between us.” Martha stepped back. 

Thomas held her wrist in his hand. “It will never be over with us.”

“You see, I can’t stay now. Not to face all those people and their laughter behind my back. After our engagement party of all times. And—”

Thomas cut her off. “That’s what you care about? Your pride? Always your pride and your temper that gets between us! Well, go! Run away and think about what your pride is doing to us. No doubt your sister and your mother will be thrilled but know this, Martha Ryan, I will wait for you!”

“Well, you’ll be waiting forever, because I’m not coming back!”

“I’ll wait for you. There,” Thomas pointed to the sea, “at the end of the jetty, I will wait. Every day I will be there to meet the dawn, as we have done so many times. Promise you’ll come back.”

Dorothy covered her mouth with both of her hands.

“Promise me!” Thomas insisted.

“Alright!” Martha cried out. 

“No, Martha. A proper promise or it’s not real. Say it.” 

“I promise! I promise I’ll return, Tom! Now let me go!”

Thomas released Martha, and she sprinted back along the beach. Thunder boomed, and a flood of rain began.

“I love you, Martha Ryan!”

His voice must have reached Martha through the rain, for she glanced back. Then, she was gone.

Dorothy turned her eyes back to Thomas. He’d dropped to his hands and knees on the sand. As lightning hit the waves near the jetty, Thomas raised his face to the skies and cried out. “I will wait, Martha.”

Now, on the lumpy bed in the dingy old motel room, Dorothy’s eyes fluttered open. Against her chest, she clasped the photo album with both hands open on a photograph of Martha and Thomas, taken on the beach at River’s End, holding hands and laughing.

A single tear escaped. “I’m sorry.” Dorothy’s final breath was like a whisper.

 

 

A CHANCE TO RECONNECT

Christie Ryan gazed out of the window of the Qantas A380, recognising the landscape below with a sigh of relief. Only minutes now and she would be home in Melbourne. She had not slept during the fourteen-hour flight from Los Angeles, worrying, instead, about the last conversation with Derek Hobbs, her fiancé.

He had been abundantly clear about his expectations in a short, tense phone call two days ago. “You need to think about your priorities, Chris. Use your time on the flight home wisely, because we’ll be talking once you’re back. I’m over the separations.” He hung up before she could respond.

The veiled threat still made her stomach churn. Derek knew from the beginning that her career as a specialist make-up artist took her away for weeks on end to film sets around the world. Their first glimpse of each other was during one of her shoots in London, where he had been doing business as a property developer. Since then, he had always been so proud of how sought after she was and often bragged to his friends about what he jokingly called her “brush with the stars”.

She’d sensed a change in him over the past few contracts. He wasn’t available as much to talk on Skype, and when they did, he’d dominate the conversation with his latest acquisition or recent success at the casino. The next few weeks were at home and Christie had every intention of spending some real time with Derek.

The plane banked over Brimbank Park, interrupting Christie’s thoughts. She wanted to kick her shoes off, have a shower, and enjoy a cup of coffee from her own machine. She tightened her seat belt for landing.

Home was a tenth floor apartment close to Melbourne CBD. Christie dropped her bags inside the front door and went straight to the window of the living room to drink in the colour and movement that was Docklands. She never tired of the waterfront with its bright cafes, yacht-filled marina, and the myriad of visitors and residents who made it such a unique part of Melbourne. Across the narrow strip of water stood Etihad Stadium, the massive all weather sports and concert arena.

Christie draped her jacket across the back of a chair. She tossed her handbag onto the sofa, half of its contents spilling out. Only the view mattered. Taking her shoes off, she curled her toes into the carpet.

The soft tones of an acoustic guitar drifted in from next door and Christie grinned. She’d missed Ray and Ashley, her long time neighbours.

The front door clicked and she swung around. Derek was putting his briefcase onto the side table. She saw him glance at her jacket—which had slipped off the chair—and shoes on the floor, frowning at the spilled handbag on the sofa.

Christie smoothed her hair. “Hey there.”

Derek half-smiled in return. “When did you get in?” His eyes darted back to the mess. Christie picked up her jacket and put it back on the chair before hurrying to him and sliding her arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her waist and brushed her lips.

“You look tired. Rundown.” Derek said.

She regarded him with a smile. His face was developing lines that matched his greying red hair, but it suited him. He always dressed well and carried himself with the air of someone who knew he was not only handsome but successful.

“I need a shower.” She slipped out of his embrace. “I’ll only be a few minutes.” After collecting her jacket and shoes, she sighed with happiness at the sight of their king size bed.

Soon. Sleep soon.

As she towelled her hair a few moments later, she saw Derek’s reflection in the mirror. He’d carried her bags in. Suitcases on the bed, and professional make-up case at the end. He was still frowning.

“I’ll unpack soon.” Christie wished he would stop fussing. She had rented this apartment for three years before Derek moved in, not knowing until months later he purchased it soon after they met. He had been her landlord while they dated. He laughed it off when she questioned the secrecy. Business, he said. No big secret. Since moving in, he insisted the place be immaculate as if it was a show-home, rather than a real home. Christie tried, but her level of tidiness was not the same as his.

“Any chance of a coffee, honey? It was all I could think about on the flight.”

He came to the doorway. “I hope you thought about more than coffee?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And I would love a cup of your coffee…and a talk.” Christie peeked out from the towel. 

***

Derek sat on the sofa, turning his phone around and around in his fingers, eyes drawn to the Melbourne skyline. Steam rose from two cups on a glass coffee table.

“Sorry I took so long.” Christie joined him on the sofa. “Oh, yum, thank you.” She picked up her coffee and savoured the first sip. “I’ve missed your blend.”

“And I’ve missed you.”  

Christie dropped a hand onto his leg. “I didn’t expect it to drag out for so long. Lots of reshoots.”

Derek put his hand over hers. “But it’s always that way, baby.” It was a statement, delivered sadly. “Six weeks becomes ten. I might see you once in that time.”

Christie dropped her head. “I know, and I’m—”

Derek cut her off. “No. Let me talk.”

Christie put her coffee cup on the table and gave Derek her full attention. He was going to break off their engagement. Or tell her to change jobs. Her stomach tensed.

“I need to apologise,” he started. “I’ve expected too much and not given enough.”

Christie opened her mouth to reply, but Derek shook his head. “Still my turn to talk. Listen, when I told you to think about your priorities the other day, I was selfish. You work every bit as hard as I do, so here’s the plan. When you have time off, I’ll try to have time off. Like now.” Derek jumped to his feet. “I’ve got a surprise.”

He hurried to his briefcase and rummaged around, then returned with an envelope.  He sat again and held it out. “Now, before you open it, I do know you’ve only just got home, but I really need this. I mean, we need this.”

Curious, Christie drew out two airline tickets. Business class to Cairns, with connecting flights to Lizard Island.

“Six days there, baby. Just you and me at one of the world’s most luxurious resorts. Okay?” His phone rang. He rejected the call. “So, we leave in the morning and get up there late afternoon. Just in time for cocktails. Yes?” His expression was like a little boy waiting to open a birthday present.

Another plane. Another hotel.

Christie took his hand. “This is wonderful, honey, thank you.”

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “We can talk about a wedding date up there. It’s time, don’t you agree?” He did not wait around for an answer, getting to his feet and checking his phone as he walked into the kitchen.

Christie wandered back to the bedroom, where she stood for a while, contemplating the value of unpacking.

***

Derek had already packed a bag for Christie by the time she woke up the next morning. He brought her coffee and half-jokingly told her she only had an hour until they left. Jet-lagged, Christie longed to go back to sleep, but instead, she dragged herself into the shower.

She took extra care with her make-up, masking the lines of tiredness. Christie deliberately chose clothing for the flight she knew Derek liked. A light apricot silk blouse and darker designer pants showed off her figure, finished with flat suede shoes to keep her that fraction smaller in height than him, and the ruby pendant he had given her last Christmas.

The doorbell rang, and Derek called out from the living room, “That’s our driver. Need to go.”

It only took a moment for Christie to throw a small cosmetics bag into her handbag before she hurried along the hallway.

Derek was at the open front door with a tweed-coated man in his sixties. “Well, if you’re not our driver, how can I help you?”

Christie squealed in delight and rushed to throw her arms around the visitor. “How wonderful to see you…oh, sorry.” Christie said. “You haven’t met. Derek, this is Angus McGregor, and Angus, this is my fiancé, Derek Hobbs.”

She closed the door as Angus reached a hand out to Derek.  

“Fiancé? Well, congratulations, Miss Christie.” Angus nodded.

“Thank you. Derek, Angus works for Gran. He cares for the house and grounds, and drives her and…” Christie tapered off. Angus’ face was drawn. Sad. “Gran?” Christie whispered. “Oh, Angus?”

“I’m so sorry, Miss Christie. It was a peaceful passing if that helps.”

Christie covered her mouth with her hand. Derek put an arm around her shoulder. “Sorry, baby.”

“Miss Dorothy left instructions. Her funeral is tomorrow, and she specifically wanted you to attend.”

Derek released Christie. “Not possible, I’m afraid. We’re about to get on a plane. But we’ll send some beautiful flowers and make a donation to her favourite charity—”

“Where is the funeral being held?”

“Chris, no! It’s not like you were close to her, I mean you hadn’t spoken for years!” Derek stalked away to pick up his house keys and phone. “We have to go, or we’ll miss the plane.”

Angus was paler and thinner than she remembered. His thirty loyal years of service to Dorothy Ryan outlasted two husbands, and now, his world must have turned on its head with her death.

“Do you want to sit down?”

Angus shook his head. “The funeral is at 10 am tomorrow in River’s End.” 

The name meant nothing to Christie.

“A town along the coast. Just off the Great Ocean Road. The original home of your family.”

The doorbell rang, and Derek flung it open, startling the uniformed driver on the other side. Derek pointed to two suitcases inside the door, and the driver almost tripped over himself in his rush to pick them up and leave. 

“Chris, I’m sorry about your grandmother, but we must go now.” Derek collected Christie’s phone from the coffee table and held it out.

“I have to go. It is the right thing to do. Come with me, Derek. Please?”

Angus shuffled away to stand near the window, his back turned to offer some privacy.

“Come with you where? To the funeral of a woman who didn’t even care for you? I’m sorry to sound harsh but you know that’s the truth. We have a chance to get away and reconnect. Don’t you want that?” He took Christie’s hands in his.

“Of course I do. I’m only asking for a day…to say goodbye. We can fly out tomorrow afternoon instead. Can’t we?”

Why can’t you see I need your support? Oh, Gran.

Christie pulled her hands away.

Derek scowled and turned to leave. One hand on the door handle, he paused. “I’m going. I’ll change your flight to a later one tomorrow. Be on that flight.” He closed the door behind himself.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed your plans, Miss Christie.”

Christie hurried over to give him a hug. “Derek’s disappointed. I’m sorry for the way he spoke.”

Angus squeezed Christie’s arm. “I’m quite immune. We both know your grandmother had her moments.” He smiled at the understatement. 

Gran had given Christie everything she needed. Everything, except her love and acceptance, the lack of which had driven her granddaughter away. Along with everyone else. Except for Angus. 

Sorrow burrowed into Christie. For all her flaws, Gran had provided a home and a safe place to grow up. She certainly deserved to have two mourners at her funeral who cared about her. For now, Christie pushed aside the hurt Derek’s departure caused.

“Tell me about River’s End, and please, tell me why Gran is being buried there.”

 

 

A LONELY COTTAGE

The white Lotus Elite S hugged the narrow, winding road as Christie, deep in thought, drove it a little too fast. The top was down, the speed whipping her hair back as the spring sun made occasional appearances through incoming rain clouds across the ocean to her left. The road was high above the water, with a flat expanse of saltbush-covered land to the right and not another car or sign of civilisation in sight.

After Angus had left, Christie packed an overnight bag and a black dress. Then, standing at the living room window, thoughts rushed through her head and emotions spun in turmoil. Derek…she needed him right now. Needed him to hold her hand and come to this unknown little town. She longed for his reassurance they would stand together. Instead, he had gone in the other direction, without her. Once again, she was facing a funeral alone. But this one was Gran’s.

“Her heart had been playing up for a while. Not that she would admit it. I knew though because the doctor gave her pills and I made sure she took them.” Angus had explained. “In the evenings, she’d sit for a while and talk of her childhood. Of growing up in River’s End and of her family. Her sister.”

Wide-eyed, Christie turned to Angus. “A sister?”

He nodded. “Martha is a few years younger.” 

“Does Martha live in River’s End?”

Angus shrugged. “I don’t know where she lives. Or if she is even still alive, although your grandmother believed her to be. Many years ago, your family owned much of this town. That is where Miss Dorothy and her sister grew up, and the family home was quite grand for the region. Now, one property remains in the family, and Miss Dorothy was determined to see it again.”

The road had been climbing steadily, and now, as Christie rounded a curve a town came into view, at the bottom of the hill on the far side of a river. 

Christie slowed as a road sign approached. River’s End. Pop 900.

After pulling the car onto the shoulder to check Angus’ instructions, Christie filled her lungs with sea air. From up here, the township was small, two shopping streets and houses scattered around. The lazy river made its way to the sea, pooling into a lagoon near a jetty on a kilometre-long beach. She nosed the Lotus back onto the road.

Fifty metres away was the turn-off. The road headed inland for a hundred metres or so before coming across an abandoned railway station. A single track ran beside it, overgrown with weeds and grass. The road on the other side was dirt, filled with potholes, and Christie grimaced as she navigated her low-bodied car around them.

Angus’ sedan was parked in front of an old, neglected cottage that stood out from a mass of unkempt trees and bushes. Pickets hung onto the front fence under the weight of long-neglected rose bushes. The front gate lay rusting in the water-filled, shallow grass ditch.

Christie eased into the narrow driveway and turned the motor off. Behind the cottage, the driveway ended with a single garage, in no better repair than the rest of the property.

A drop of rain touched Christie’s face, so she put the roof up. She stretched and glanced around, seeing only years of abandonment.

Angus appeared from the back of the cottage, raising a hand in welcome. Christie crunched her way along the rutted driveway as a shower began in earnest, joining him on a small porch. Rain tapped on the metal roof, and the temperature dropped. Christie shivered.

“Welcome, Miss Christie, to the Stationmaster’s Cottage.”

Inside, the neglect continued in the old-fashioned kitchen. A large window over the sink did little to reduce the dullness of the room. Against one wall, a heavy timber table might have not moved in a century. On the table was a cardboard box, sealed with packing tape. Christie peered down a long, dark hallway.

“Here are the keys.” Angus dropped a key ring with three keys beside the box. “I’ve requested the power be reconnected.”

“Probably not much point though. I’ll be leaving straight after the funeral. I imagine Gran’s estate will want to sell this?”

“I thought you understood. The cottage belongs to you now. Well, it will once the legalities are finalised. So, whether you sell it or keep it, no doubt some refurbishment is in order and that will take electricity.”

“Mine? Oh, but no. Why would she leave it to me?”

“Why not leave it to you? Your Gran never did anything without reason.”

That was true. Gran made decisions only after considering all the pros and cons. It might not always be clear why a decision went one way or the other to Christie, but Gran knew. So, why leave a rundown cottage to her jet-setting, estranged grandchild?

Angus checked his watch. “I have to meet with the funeral home in a few moments. There’s a motel in town on the second street. I’ve arranged rooms there for us tonight, so unless you wish to accompany me now, I’ll head off.”

“Do you need me to?”

Angus shook his head. “Stay here for a while, wander through. We’ll meet there for dinner?”

Christie hugged Angus, hoping he understood how much his presence meant. He patted her back before leaving with a small wave. In his wake, the fresh and vibrant smell of the wet garden wafted in.

Alone again, the tapping of rain on the roof interrupted Christie’s thoughts, and she stood still to listen. She closed her eyes to concentrate on the soothing sound and the garden scent; transported for a moment to a rainy day in her grandmother’s conservatory where the heady smells of roses, gardenia and jasmine filled the air. The memory faded as the old-house mustiness overwhelmed the kitchen again. Christie opened her eyes and wrinkled her nose.

She wandered along the hallway. On the left was a lounge room with an ornate ceiling rose. Old, heavy curtains sagged miserably, and a worn sofa slumped opposite the fireplace.

Across the hallway was a dining room, empty except for a couple of straight-backed dining chairs against a wall.

Next to the dining room was a small bathroom with grimy old fittings. In the bath was a torn shower curtain and large flakes of paint from the ceiling. 

Does Gran want me to become an interior decorator or renovator?

Across from the bathroom was a tiny laundry with no washing machine, some cupboards and a sink. A small window beside an external door revealed a narrow concrete path winding to a broken clothesline. 

At the end of the hallway, two bedrooms faced each other. In between was a built in cupboard. Inside it, Christie found several blankets, a broom, dustpan and brush, and a long-handled tool with a hook. Above her head was a trapdoor with a loop on it. Curious, she nudged it with the tool, bringing down a cloud of dust and debris. She tossed the tool back into the cupboard, closed the door and stood back, coughing. 

After a quick check of each bedroom, which were both small but functional with double beds and wardrobes, she went back to the hallway to stare at the trapdoor. 

What was up there?

More dust and debris, or hidden treasures? Shaking her head, Christie returned to the relative brightness of the kitchen.

The cardboard box had her name handwritten on it, so Christie used a key to slice through the packing tape. Inside were two items: a photo album and a cardboard cylinder about sixty centimetres in length. Christie opened the photo album to an old image of Dorothy. Aged around twenty, Dorothy stared gravely at the camera. The backdrop was a lush garden around an impressive limestone house.

Christie whispered. “So stern!” The grief that nagged all day started to rise, and she closed the album.

The cylinder was open-ended, and after a bit of fiddling, Christie eased out a canvas. Stiff with age and being confined, the canvas resisted Christie’s first attempt to open it. She tried again, and with a bit of pressure, the canvas unrolled. Christie placed it on the table, a hand on either side to keep it flat.

It was a nocturnal seascape in oils. Angry waves pounded a timber jetty under the onslaught of a violent storm. Vibrant dark colours perfectly captured the fantastic terror of the moment. A savage streak of lightning hit the sea close to the jetty, illuminating the water around it. So incredible was the detail and clarity, even the droplets of sea spray reflected the lightning. Christie could almost smell the saltiness in the air.

Her phone beeped, and Christie reluctantly released the canvas, which rolled back up on its own. A text flashed on her phone.

Have emailed you a new ticket. Departs Tullamarine 3pm tomorrow. Don’t miss the flight. D.

Christie frowned as she tapped a response. Thanks. Love you.

The rain stopped. Christie opened the back door and let the wet garden smell into the kitchen. She stared outside at the overgrown greenery, wondering how long it was since somebody loved it. Who had lived here? Not Gran, who Angus said grew up in a grand house. Where was Martha and why had Gran never mentioned her? Her sister should be the one to inherit the cottage. One question led to another and Christie told herself to stop. It was time to find the motel.

The box with its painting and photo album under her arm, Christie locked the door and made her way back to the car. The long grass was soaking wet of course, saturating her shoes in seconds. She hated wet feet with a vengeance, and her only other shoes were the black heels for the funeral. She put the box on the passenger seat, loathing the squishy sensation as her feet touched the pedals.

Christie backed out of the driveway and turned onto the road, the potholes now water filled. The late afternoon was misty from the rain and the deciduous trees, their leaves emerging, were like shadows lining the street. Behind them were paddocks dotted with cows. At the end of the road, Christie turned right and drove down the hill.

Not far along was a small graveyard, perched on the edge of a cliff and bordered by a gravel carpark. A digging machine piled soil to one side of a rectangular hole. A new grave.

Oh…it’s for Gran.

Christie bit her bottom lip as her vision blurred. The car shuddered to a stop on the side of the road and she dropped her head into her hands with a soft moan.

Don’t cry, Christie. Not here.

This wasn’t the time or the place. She raised her head. Tasting salt on her lips, she swallowed to force the pain down.

Just before the township, a bridge crossed the broad, slow river which flowed through a gap in the cliffs.

Christie turned into the second street. The motel was old and rundown and proclaimed itself as “River’s End Motel” with a vacant sign flashing. Angus’ sedan was in front of one of six rooms in a row, so Christie parked beside it.

Angus was at the doorway before Christie turned the motor off. The deep lines on his face were more pronounced than usual, but he smiled as he came to greet her. 

“I’ve checked you in, so all you need to do is go inside and relax for a bit.” He took her overnight bag from the car and followed Christie inside.

“I’m sorry for the surroundings,” he began, “not a lot of choice in such a small place.”

“It’ll be fine, Angus. Just for tonight, it’s fine.” Even to Christie, her voice sounded strained. “My feet are wet,” she said and burst into tears.

***

Angus insisted Christie have a long, hot shower to warm up again. She emerged to find he’d laid out a pair of his own socks on the bed.

When she padded into the kitchen, she saw her wet shoes on top of the oil-filled heater, and mouthed “thank you” at Angus, who was flicking through menus. 

“Ah, now how about a cup of tea?” Angus said.

“Stay there, I’ll make us one.” She switched the kettle on, put tea bags and sugar into two heavy white mugs, and found a small carton of milk in the bar fridge. “Oh, it’s still two sugars?”

Angus nodded. “Not much about me has changed, Miss Christie. Just older.”

Christie finished making the tea and brought the mugs to the table. She nodded at her shoes. “Thanks for that. And the socks. And putting up with my silliness.” 

“Unless you were in a swimming pool, you never liked having wet feet, even as a young child.” Angus chuckled.

“The grass needs cutting. And the garden is overgrown. The bathroom is falling apart, and the windows don’t open.” Christie sipped her tea.

“So, you like it?” 

 “It’s rundown and neglected and old. Why did Gran own it? Who lived there and where are they now? And what should I do with it?”

 Angus shook his head. “So many questions I can’t answer. What I do know is your great-grandparents owned it, back when they provided timber to many regional towns. The railway was extended here because of the timber trade. They built the cottage more than one hundred years ago for the stationmaster to live in.”

“So the cottage is all that remains?”

Angus nodded and passed the menus to Christie. “There’s not a lot to select from, unfortunately.”

“You choose.” Christie finished her tea and stood up. “If it’s okay with you, I’d rather order takeaway.”

***

After an early, small dinner of pizza, Angus said goodnight and went to his room.

Longing to hear Derek’s voice, Christie dialled his number and sat, cross-legged on the bed, fiddling with her hair.

After a few rings, Derek answered with his customary “Derek here.”

“Hi, honey. How was the trip?”

There was a pause before Derek answered “Lonely.”

I’m lonely too.

“What’s our room like?” Christie kept her voice light. “I’m in a dingy old motel room, so would rather hear about ours.”

Derek audibly sighed on the other end. “It’s a villa, and it’s stunning. It overlooks the sea, which is like liquid gold. The bed is huge. But empty.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow night.”

After another long silence, Christie began to rush her words. “There’s a cottage here, near an old railway station. Gran left it to me for some reason, so I’ll sell it of course. It’s rundown and—”

Derek cut her off. “So your wealthy grandmother left you some crappy dump in the middle of nowhere. Sorry baby, but that sucks. That’s why you should have come with me. I’m the one who loves you.”

“I love you too. But, Gran did care about me.”

There were voices in the background at Derek’s end, laughter. “I have to go, baby. There’s a couple here I’ve met before, and they want to do cocktails. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” His voice was calm again.

“I can’t wait. Sleep well.” Christie said. 

Derek cut the connection, and Christie was unsure if he even heard her. She had been reluctant to go to Lizard Island and now, because of Gran, they were apart. Christie curled into a ball and stared into the darkness.