The Stationmaster's Cottage Read online

Irritated at the intrusion, he stopped. Before he could leave, Martha turned around and flashed a stunning smile his way. “How gorgeous is this view?”

  For a while, they sat in silence and then began talking as if they were old friends. A month later, they kissed at the same place and became inseparable.

  This jetty was where he proposed. On one knee, trying not to let the ring fall into the sea and having to contend with Martha bursting into laughter until she realised he was serious. Her expression turned to pure love and she had thrown her arms around him, nearly overbalancing them both. His heart overflowed from so much love and the beauty Martha brought into his life.

  Thomas knew he had to remind Martha of their past and let her see into his heart.

  ...so you see, sweetheart, we are meant to be together. Our love is not ordinary. It defies time and will live forever. Let me come and bring you home where you belong, in my arms, where I can protect and cherish you for a lifetime.

  I love you,

  Thomas

  Christie lowered the letter, blinking tears away. This was touching, so real and poignant. She could imagine the young lovers on the jetty, happy and planning toward their future together. What could have torn these two apart?

  Had they reconciled? Surely, they must. Thomas seemed ready to go straight to Gran’s home and whisk his beloved Martha away. No doubt, Gran and her mother put up a fight and perhaps that was the reason for the two sisters parting ways.

  Christie poured some more wine, wondering how long it had taken for Thomas and Martha to get back together. She reached for another letter.

  Dear Martha,

  I sold a painting! The one from our special place on the mountain, overlooking River’s End and out across the sea. George said it was a lady from the city, an art collector. Perhaps she will come back and buy another? Once you are home, we will take a picnic up to the lookout there and celebrate the sale with champagne.

  You always believed in my art, even when I did not believe in it myself. Remember the first time you saw my paintings? You told me I should move to France and become a famous artist. I laughed at the notion, but you were serious, my darling. You said my eye for detail would be appreciated by the art set in Paris and my charm would sell the paintings.

  I do not feel much charm now. Just sadness and loneliness without you by my side. We belong together. It is time to come home, Martha. Please come home now.

  Love,

  Thomas.

  An artist? Perhaps the seascape was his. This would explain the bench upstairs with its paint-splattered surface.

  She yawned. The wine was making her sleepy, probably along with the effects of such a long and difficult day. One more letter.

  Dear Martha,

  Another week has passed and not one word from you.

  Today, I waited in the rain. All day, from dawn to nightfall and I am frozen to the bone. Today of all days, I could not risk being absent from the jetty should you have returned. It is a full year since you accepted my marriage proposal and I had hoped, with every fibre, you would come home today. It seemed fitting, yet I am still alone.

  Why, Martha, why not return and let us work this out? I know you love me with every ounce of my being. You are too strong to allow Dorothy and Lilian to stop you, so where are you?

  My heart is breaking. There. I have said it. My heart is breaking for you.

  Thomas.

  The letter slipped from Christie’s fingers. Asleep, her face wet with tears.

  SUNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH the uncurtained window, stirring Christie from a deep sleep. She took her time opening her eyes and stretched, loving the warmth of the sun. Her night had been free of any dreams she could remember and she had to think for a moment of where she was.

  Sitting up, Christie glanced at the near-empty wine bottle. She was dehydrated but not hung over. Her watch told her she had slept close on twelve hours. The remnants of jet lag had disappeared at last.

  As she swung her feet over the side of the bed, Christie noticed the last letter was on the floor, so scooped it up and returned it to its envelope.

  Poor Thomas. Whatever did you do? The last thing she expected from these letters was the eloquent outpouring of love and loss an apparently young man in the sixties penned. How the pieces fitted together was beyond her.

  The shower was refreshing but too short, as the hot water ran out after only a couple of moments. As she dried herself, Christie decided she needed more information about the cottage if she was to make an educated decision about its future. Starting with Daphne and John Jones.

  RIVER’S END HAD TWO real estate agents, but only one with brightly flowering pot plants along its front. For some reason, Christie knew Daphne was responsible for this. Pushing the door open, she was right, with Daphne having a loud and happy conversation on the phone behind a dated laminate counter.

  “Of course! Yes, Beth, I know exactly what you mean!” Daphne laughed then spotted Christie.

  “Now, Beth... yes, yes, I agree, but Beth, I need to go now. Sorry darl, I’ve got an important client here so I’ll phone you back. Okie dokie!”

  Daphne replaced the receiver with a sigh. “Oh that one, she can talk! How lovely to see you! I thought you were leaving yesterday, lovely?”

  “It seemed a pity not to stay for a little while.” Christie leaned her arms on the counter. “It’s a rather... enchanting little property under the dust and neglect.”

  “Indeed! And will be worth quite a bit if you were to sell. Would you like John to do an appraisal?”

  “Oh, not at this point, but thanks. Could you refer me to someone who knows how to fix houses? I mean, it needs some electrical work and carpentry and painting. And gardening. Maybe a new fence?”

  Daphne sniffed in disappointment as she reached for a notepad and pen. “Well, let us know when you’re ready and John will be most happy to give you some ideas. River’s End is about to boom so it will certainly be a seller’s market, mark my words.”

  “I promise I’ll talk to John first, should I decide to sell.” Christie hid a smile.

  “Now, this is the number for Barry who is a local builder. Have a bit of a chat to him and see what he can do.”

  Daphne tore a page from the notepad and handed it to Christie. She stared at Christie’s engagement ring. “What a beauty! So, is your young man going to join you here?”

  Christie did not know whether to be amused or annoyed by Daphne’s forwardness. She shrugged. “He’s away, so we’ll see once he’s back. Daphne, at the funeral you mentioned you knew my Gran? Did you happen to know her sister?”

  Daphne’s eyes flew wide open. “Oh, no, I’m afraid Martha hasn’t been seen in these parts for many a year. Of course, there’s always been stories about her.”

  “You mean idle gossip.” John walked out from an office behind the counter. “Hello again, Ms Ryan.” he nodded.

  “Please, call me Christie.”

  “But John,” Daphne pouted, “even if it’s gossip, there’s always truth in talk.”

  “Not after all these years.” John dropped some paperwork on the desk beside Daphne. She sighed audibly, but winked at Christie as John went back to his office. The whole town might be a haven of secrets still living in the last century.

  “The other thing is I have a painting that needs some attention. It has a small tear and is old and I know it’s a long shot, but is there a local gallery or the like?”

  “Ah!” Daphne held her hand out for the piece of paper she gave Christie. When Christie handed it back, Daphne drew a map.

  “That’s easy, lovely. Amongst other things, young Martin is a framer. You take your painting to him to fix.”

  “Martin? The man at the graveyard?”

  “Oh, you saw him at a bad time. He’ll do the right thing for you.”

  Christie was far from reassured. Something about that man had shaken her emotions and sent warning signals to her brain.

  “Thanks, Daphne, you’ve been such a h
elp.” she said with a smile. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “No, my pleasure, lovely. You drop in anytime and come and have a coffee one day.”

  She leaned forward and whispered. “There’s always truth in talk!”

  Christie nodded at Daphne, but had no idea what she meant. Daphne was a pleasant woman if something of a gossip and hoped she might be able to talk to her away from John sometime. Even if it was gossip, anything at all about Martha was more than she had.

  DRIVING BACK UP THE hill a few moments later, Christie glanced across at the graveyard. It was empty and Christie would have continued past, except a glint on top of a headstone caught her eye. Almost unconsciously, she found herself parking the car and wandering over to where the glint came from.

  Something was on top of the headstone of the grave Martin had tended. It was a pendant, its fine gold chain draped over the top of the rounded headstone. Holding her breath, Christie picked it up, almost dropping it again when she saw the two letters entwined. T and M.

  It must be pure coincidence the initials matched those of Thomas and Martha! Someone must have found it and left it on a random headstone for the owner to find. Almost holding her breath, Christie walked around the headstone to read the inscription.

  Thomas Blake

  Christie gasped and put her hand to her mouth. Thomas Blake, the man whose letters she had read, was dead. Buried here, overlooking the jetty where he had waited for his girl to come home.

  Taking a long, shuddering breath, Christie knew she had to stay until she found some answers. Somehow, in a day, the secrets of the cottage had captured her imagination and drawn her into its world.

  Seven

  CHRISTIE FOLLOWED DAPHNE’S map over the bridge to a narrow road that by-passed the township, zigzagging close to the beach. Soon, the road wound upwards around a cliff. It forked and Christie took the left, noticing an elegant old guesthouse tucked around the corner of the other road.

  The road stopped at the top of the cliff. Christie pulled over and checked the map. Yes, this matched the map, yet there was only one house up here, right in the middle of a meadow behind a gate. There was no driveway or path, nor any sign of life.

  After leaving the graveyard, Christie collected the painting. Her resolution to find out about Martha and Thomas forced her to ignore her instincts that this man, Martin, was trouble better avoided. Daphne liked him. Not that she knew Daphne enough to trust her judgement, but she had to start somewhere.

  Christie checked herself in the rear vision mirror. She reapplied lipstick and fiddled nervously with her hair. “Stop being silly,” she scolded her reflection, grabbed her handbag and the cylinder and climbed out of the car.

  The view from up here was incredible. At the distant reaches of the ocean was an endless, hazy horizon. On the cliff to the left was the graveyard and further on, the turn-off to the cottage. The beach was nestled between both cliffs, white and enticing. Inland, the town was like a toy village and beyond it, thick bush led to a mountain. It was magical, like something from a storybook.

  Looped around the heavy timber gate was a padlocked chain. Christie giggled as she climbed the gate in case she was shot as a trespasser. The grass was long and soft and would be lovely to walk through bare-footed, but Christie kept her shoes on and pushed herself forward.

  The front door was as unwelcoming as the locked gate, cobwebs covering the handle and hinges. A dead pot plant reinforced the message that visitors were not welcome and Christie gulped, her resolve weakening. There were no windows on this side of the house and Christie turned away before knocking. It was a bad idea.

  From around the corner, a golden retriever bounded toward her, tail wagging madly and its soft, brown eyes warm and friendly. Christie’s face lit up and she let the dog sniff her.

  “Hello there. You’re a beauty!” she scratched behind his ears.

  Just as fast as he appeared, the dog ran off again, back in the same direction. After a moment’s hesitation, Christie followed. If Martin owned this dog, he could not be all bad. Dogs knew.

  This side of the house was different. Facing out to sea, a long timber deck ran along its length, its railings dripping with jasmine. Heavy wind chimes murmured from one end. There were a couple of deck chairs and a small table, along with a covered barbeque. Two railed steps led up to the deck, another to a sliding glass door, which was wide open.

  The dog must have gone inside and Christie followed as far as the door. She knocked on the glass with no response. “Hello?”

  No answer. This was a bad idea. Her senses were on high alert and it was time to go. She turned to leave and stopped dead.

  Martin Blake stood at the bottom of the steps with a hand on either handrail, forming a human barrier to her escape, which she wanted very, very much.

  A white T-shirt hugged his chest and broad shoulders, whilst board shorts left his muscular legs and bare feet exposed. Strong, sun-bronzed arms and three-day growth made Christie imagine him on a surfboard, controlling the waves. An unwanted surge of attraction rushed through her. She forced it into the background, annoyed. It occurred to her she was staring at him.

  Christie swallowed. “Um, hi. Daphne - at the real estate agents - gave me your address.”

  Martin watched Christie without changing his expression, which was neither hostile nor welcoming. His eyes moved briefly to the cylinder, then straight back to her face.

  “Daphne didn’t give me a phone number, so I’m sorry I couldn’t call ahead.”

  No response, just a silence that hung between them.

  “Daphne said you might be able to help me, with my painting.”

  “Daphne talks too much.” Martin took both steps in one movement and brushed past Christie to go into the house. “You have five minutes.”

  Christie glanced longingly at the stairs, but her feet followed him. She stopped a few steps inside the door. The room was a large, open plan living area, with floor to ceiling windows on two sides and furnished with natural timber and neutral fabrics. Behind a long, timber breakfast bar was a roomy kitchen.

  Martin stood on the far side of the room, arms crossed, openly inspecting her. Heat rose to her face, colouring it. Flustered, she introduced herself.

  “I’m Christie Ry—.”

  “I know who you are,” Martin interrupted. “Do you always follow dogs to their home?”

  “Only the ones that like me.”

  “He’s a terrible judge of character.” Martin watched as the insult sunk in and her eyes flashed in response.

  “He must be!” As soon as the words left her lips, Christie regretted them. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply...” Her voice trailed off.

  “Sure you did.” Martin uncrossed his arms, showing no sign of being offended. He stalked across the room, like a panther to its prey. Wide-eyed, Christie gazed at him as he approached. Her heart pounded, and when he stopped close enough for her to feel the heat from his body, she stopped breathing altogether.

  Very deliberately, he brought his mouth close to her ear. “Never apologise,” he slipped the cylinder from her hands, “it weakens your position.”

  With that, he took the cylinder to the kitchen counter. Martin eased the painting out and flattened it. With a hand on either side, he studied the canvas as if memorising each brush stroke. Christie joined him, curious at his concentration. Not moving his hands, he turned a piercing gaze on her.

  “You got this from your grandmother?”

  “Yes. Did you know her?”

  “Where did she get it?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “You have no idea? None?”

  Christie shook her head. “None. Just a theory.”

  Martin allowed the canvas to roll back up. “Which is?”

  “I think maybe it was painted by... a local. Perhaps it was a gift to Gran.”

  “Have you ever been to River’s End before, Miss Ryan?” Martin captured Christie’s left hand with his, and held i
t up to inspect her engagement ring. “Expensive. Like your car. Not once have you visited your hometown, so why now? That cottage is worthless, unless you’re a developer?”

  Christie pulled her hand away. “Me? No, of course not. But the cottage does have value and secrets that need discovering.”

  “What secrets?”

  “Let me ask a question,” Christie began, “that grave you were tending?”

  “What are the secrets of the cottage?” His face was hard.

  Christie reached for the painting but Martin stepped between her and the counter. “The damage will worsen if it isn’t framed. The tear needs repairing.”

  He picked up the canvas and the cylinder as if it was agreed upon. “Write your phone number down – there’s pen and paper beside you. I’ll phone when it’s done.”

  Without another word, Martin stalked out of the house. Christie stared after him, unconsciously rubbing her left hand. Now he had her painting. Insufferable and not at all helpful, he nevertheless seemed to know a lot more about her and her family than she knew about him. Which was almost nothing.

  AWAY FROM MARTIN’S house, past a shed housing surfboards and an old motorbike, a smaller, newer building faced the sea.

  Inside, it was part workspace and part gallery. There was a long, solid timber bench with a variety of lengths and styles of timber held in rows on hooks above it. Wood turning tools were neatly stored underneath.

  As with the house, the windows were floor to ceiling on two sides and the roof was dotted with skylights to allow volumes of light in. Below the skylights were half a dozen easels, each with a finished painting. All were abstract, in bold and vibrant colours.

  In front of the window facing the sea was a long, deep cushioned sofa. There was a small, beautifully crafted bar in the corner and a dog basket enjoyed the full sun of the late morning.

  Martin strode straight to the bench. With great care he rolled out the canvas, using four glass weights to hold the corners. He searched the bottom right corner, and there, in the curl of a wave, found what he wanted. The initials T.B.