Chapter Thirty-Eight
CHAPTER
38
‘Grandpa has a point.’ I turn to Keith, sitting in the well of the passenger side of my four-wheel drive. ‘I won’t stop worrying about Kit until I see him. If he doesn’t want me to stay, I’ll come home again. It’s a risk, I get that, but a calculated one.’
Wagging his tail supportively if reluctantly, Keith trots behind me as we walk up the path to Shelley’s house. She opens the door and looks me up and down.
‘Not bad.’
I’m wearing my best blue jeans, a white shirt and a sage-green jumper. My hair is loose down my back.
‘Sorry to get you up early on a Saturday. Thanks for taking Keith Urban.’
She ruffles Keith’s fur before encouraging him inside. ‘Rory enjoyed himself last night. He’s totally inspired by Jimmy.’
‘If Jimmy had brought his apprenticeship paperwork, he would’ve signed Rory up on the spot.’
She laughs. ‘In the meantime, he’s working on his design and technology project.’
‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘All that way for just one night?’ She whistles silently. ‘I hope it’s a memorable one.’
‘Shelley, please don’t—’
‘Did you call him?’
‘If I did, he’d feel pressure to see me even if he’s tied up with other things. This way …’ I push aside the doubts that’ve kept me up since two this morning, ‘I’ll get to see he’s okay and then I’ll come home.’
‘I take that as a no.’
‘Grandpa has got it into his head that since I was with Kit when he got hurt, I have a responsibility to see he’s healing as well as he says he is.’
‘I hope Kit appreciates it.’
Keith Urban is still in the hallway, pushing his nose through the partially opened doorway. If I snapped my fingers he’d fly through the gap and I could take him home. Phoenix and I could go for a gallop and then I’d catch up with my paperwork. But …
I mightn’t have saved Kit’s life, but I feel responsible for him.
I also have to work out whether what he said was true and if it is, what he means by it.
We can’t go back. I want to be with you.
***
A group of surfers in wetsuits swim past the break at Caves Beach and, gathering like currawongs, wait for the waves that’ll bring them back to shore. After blowing on my hands to warm them, I leave the surfers behind to retrace the path to the resort. When a text comes through, I take my phone from my pocket. James.
How’s my virgin saddler girl? I’ve got news to share—give me a call. J x
It’s four o’clock. When will Kit get back? Yesterday morning, when Astrid replied to my text asking what plans she, Erik and Kit had for the next few days, she told me they’d have meetings all day Saturday, but nothing, as yet, had been scheduled for Sunday. Accommodation at the resort—rooms at a central hotel and separate villas with outdoor spas—is expensive, so I booked a room at a pub on the outskirts of Newcastle. Do I call Kit from here or the pub?
‘I might as well get it over—’
When my phone rings, I swipe. ‘Kit?’ My voice squeaks.
‘Why didn’t you call back?’
‘I was driving.’
‘Since yesterday? Are you at home?’
‘No.’ Another squeak.
‘Where are you?’
When I walk around the lilly pilly hedge to the carpark, the first thing I see is a long white hire car. Astrid and Erik, deep in conversation and wearing their customary black pants and shirts, are standing near the bonnet when Astrid spots me and does a double-take. Kit, screened by shrubs and with his back to me, is ten metres away. Head down as if listening intently, he’s wearing navy pants and a matching jacket. My hand is so unsteady I can barely keep my phone to my ear—I hold it in front of me and stare at the screen. Heart thumping, I touch the red button.
Disconnect.
Kit takes the phone from his ear and holds it out like I am. His arm is stiff; I imagine him cursing. I say his name, but all that comes out is a croak. He must sense a gaze because slowly yet deliberately he turns. His shirt is white, he’s wearing a tie. I’m too far away to see his frown.
How many strides? Ten? Eleven? Standing in front of me, he lifts a hand and drops it. ‘What the fuck?’
His right eye isn’t swollen any more and the narrow bands of tape have gone. I’d like to touch his face, trace the slender line.
‘Will it scar?’
‘I don’t care.’
A small bloodshot circle mars the white of his right eye. ‘Does your other eye hurt?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Kit …’
‘Mackenzie.’
‘You’re angry.’
‘Jeg er sint.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m angry.’
‘I shouldn’t have—’
‘Why are you here?’
‘Grandpa said I should come and see you’re okay.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Kit!’ Erik calls out. ‘The vice-chancellor is on his way.’
Kit shouts over his shoulder. ‘Cancel him.’
Erik laughs disbelievingly as he and Astrid walk towards us. ‘We’ve waited two weeks for this meeting.’
‘Sorry to interrupt.’
Astrid grimaces, Erik kisses my cheeks. ‘It is always a pleasure to see you.’
‘Kit.’ Astrid jabs a finger in Kit’s direction. ‘We have an appointment.’
‘Reschedule it.’
‘As an alternative, we could ask the vice-chancellor to meet us before our dinner with the financiers,’ Erik says.
‘No.’
‘Kit!’ I jab a finger like Astrid did. ‘Go to your meeting and dinner. I’m staying at the pub. We can meet for breakfast tomorrow morning.’
Ignoring what I’ve said, Kit addresses Erik. ‘I don’t have to be there.’
‘The vice-chancellor will want to meet you, to be photographed.’
‘I’ll see him tomorrow afternoon. The financiers Monday.’
Astrid grumbles and even Erik looks displeased as Kit turns his back and gestures I precede him to the path. The sky is pink and yellow and the temperature has dropped. As we walk towards the ocean, Kit, now by my side, keeps his distance. A breeze, fresh and salty like Grandpa predicted, comes off the ocean and flattens the grasses on the dunes. I follow Kit’s lead as we perch, a metre between us, on a bench and take off our shoes—sneakers for me and leather lace-ups for him. My fingers are shaky, his movements are jerky.
‘What are you looking at?’
My eyes jump to his. I search for words. ‘Your shoes. The dye is unusual.’
For the first time today, his expression softens. ‘Brown.’
‘Yes, but …’ When I look away, doubling over to pull off my socks and roll up my jeans, he takes my shoes and ties their laces with his. It’s not unlike him to take over, to find efficient ways of doing things, but there’s something about the way our laces are joined that’s intimate. Intimacy. We might not have liked each other at first, but we’ve been tangled up since the start.
‘Is your sight really okay?’ I stand and face him. ‘You’re going to the doctor again on Monday, aren’t you?’
‘The production company needs a medical sign-off. I can’t leave here without it.’
‘You were rude to Astrid and Erik.’
‘Why did you come?’
It’s a perfectly reasonable question. I even have an answer. I have a very strong suspicion I’m in love with you. But all I can manage is, ‘Grandpa and I were worried about you, and …’
He searches my face. Frowns. ‘The truth.’
I step closer, touch the scar above his eye, stroke the line. ‘I didn’t know what to say on the phone.’
‘Now?’
‘I don’t want to be a complication.’
‘Ignore Astrid.’
‘I have other things to worry about too.’
He takes my hand and threads our fingers. ‘Don’t worry about us.’
Us. It’ll take more than the touch of his hand to sort us out, but the press of his palm is not only warm but comforting. The silver-gold sand squeaks beneath our feet. When we reach the hard sand where the frothy and frivolous whitewash breaks on the shore, he swaps hands and walks between me and the ocean.
‘I can swim, you know.’
‘I’m taller.’
‘You’re also wearing a suit.’
He growls as he unfastens the middle button of his jacket. ‘I didn’t expect you.’
‘I have to tell you something about Dad.’ Gulls screech, waves crash. Smashed ornaments. Hazardous waste. Secrets. My tongue is tied in knots. Kit leans into me, bumps his shoulder against mine.
‘Mackenzie?’
‘It’s difficult to know where to start.’
He thinks about that. Then, ‘Should I go first?’
Swallowing hard, I nod. ‘Please.’
‘My parents are different to yours. They care about each other. It’s easy.’
‘They’ve always been like that, haven’t they?’
‘Mamma was already well known when she met my father. He’s a scientist, a private person, but their marriage, their children, were in the public eye. After the accident, public life found her again. She’s passionate about what she believes in. My father respects and supports her.’
‘He loves her.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it hard for you being exposed like that?’
‘I had my parents and brothers.’ ‘Sometimes I had Dad. I had Grandpa.’
‘Summerfield was safe. That’s why you hid there.’
Safe.
In hiding.
When I stop, our hands are between us. His nails are neat and clean, mine are short and uneven. My cuticles are stained and I have an ugly raised scar on my thumb. I pull my hand free.
‘Do you think I hide there now?’
He hesitates. ‘Yes.’
‘You’re wrong.’
‘I don’t—’
‘We’re different.’ I wave my hand around. ‘You stay at resorts. The camera loves you. Everybody knows you. You have a lot of girlfriends.’
He steps back, rubs around the back of his neck. ‘Not any more.’
When I walk away, he charges around me and blocks my path. His jaw is working overtime.
‘Stop running away. Give me a chance.’
‘I’m not a little girl lost.’
‘You need to trust me.’
A wave crashes behind us; the whitewash plays at our feet. He’s protective. Principled. When he holds out his hands and circles my wrists, my vision blurs. His grip is gentle yet firm.
‘Let me in, Mackenzie. I want to get close.’
I see the tightness in his jaw. The tick in the pulse on his neck. I blink, search again. The expression on his face is …
Uncertain.
Frightened?
Is the redness in his eye worse than it was? ‘Kit?’
When he turns me around, wraps an arm around my middle and puts his chin on my shoulder, I sink into his warmth. Two young surfers, teenage girls, catch the same wave to the shore. They high five, put their boards under their arms and splash through the shallows to the beach.
He breathes deeply, evenly. ‘Let’s go to the villa.’