Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Axel
I hold Jade’s hand as we walk into the medical centre, her green eyes flashing my way, her smile wide. I answer it with my own, her joy infectious.
“Hoping you can get out in those waves again?”
“Yes. Although, I’m not missing it as much as I usually would. Not sure why.” Her grin deepens, her fingers tangling with mine.
“I guess you’ve been busy.”
“Hmm, yes. Nimue is a very demanding cat. Always seems to want to be near me.”
“I can’t blame her.” I shrug. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all. In fact, I hope it doesn’t stop.” Her green gaze is ocean deep, and I’m falling into it.
“It won’t.”
We stare at each other a moment longer, and I can’t even really remember why we’re here and not in bed. Then someone calls her name.
She blinks, turning her head, the spell breaking.
“Come this way.” Dr Lestari beckons us through.
A few minutes later we’re back in the bright sunshine. Jade’s been given the all-clear to surf again, her stitches removed, though she needs to keep the wounds covered a little longer.
“So, to the beach, then?” I try to keep my tone light.
She sees right through me.
“I can surf later.”
“Are you sure? I know you have a competition coming up, and—”
“What I have,” she says, stopping me with a soft kiss, “is another beautiful day to spend with you. And that’s what I want to do.
Didn’t you say there was an artisan centre here?
” Her arms come around my waist, her body pressing against mine and, honestly, she could ask me for anything in this moment and I’d give it to her.
“Hop on,” I say, jerking my head towards the nearby scooter. “And let me take you for a ride.”
We speed into the hills, the warm air smelling of cloves and green vegetation, mixed with the tang of the ocean. I love living here, love how unspoiled it is. And I’ll do whatever I can to keep it that way.
I heard back from a couple of banks when I went into the workshop, about the possibility of getting a loan.
It sounds more promising than before, but nothing has been confirmed, and time is running out.
Hopefully they can help us. When I say “us” I mean the community here, but also me and Jade.
She’s asked me more about the shrine and what it means, and I know she’s been thinking about whatever else she can do.
She’s pledged what money she can so, hopefully, having a bigger deposit will make the banks more likely to loan me the rest. I need more than the land is worth, because I know my family will play hardball and they know how much I want it.
But what I really hope is that the council will see reason.
Will see that the last thing this place needs is a giant hotel.
Hell, if it’s about money, I’ll give them what cash I do have, if it means stopping the sale.
But we can’t do anything else until then, until we find out what the decision is going to be.
All we can do is wait.
Jade
The artisan centre is lovely, just like everything else on the island.
A series of interconnected pavilions built in a traditional style, each one home to a different kind of craft.
Pottery, ranging from delicate cups to huge terracotta jugs, is lined up outside one, while another contains beautifully carved wooden furniture, similar to the pieces in Axel’s living room.
“Who buys all this stuff?” I look around. “Is it just for people on the island?”
“No,” Axel says. “A lot of it gets sent across the archipelago, to tourist places like Bali and Lombok, and the other islands. And we get people coming here to learn traditional crafts. It’s quite a thriving business.”
I’m quiet for a moment. “The kind of place that would do well with tourists?” I shoot him a glance.
“Yeah.” He frowns. “Look, I’m not against tourists, you know that. What I’m against is exploitation.”
I did know. We’ve spoken about it, lying face to face in the darkness, our desires sated for the moment.
I asked him why he was so against hotels on the island, when he was basically running one himself.
But I got it, totally, when he explained.
And I agreed. So many of our beautiful places are overrun with people now.
It’s a difficult balancing act between making a living and preserving what makes a place so special in the first place.
And even if they do get permission to build a hotel here, there’s no way I’m letting The Cave of the Waters get turned into some sort of spa.
So I’ve given him what I have. Money-wise, anyway.
Told him I’d pledge my savings against the loan, to hopefully bolster his case.
We need a lot of money, though; the land might only be listed at mid six figures, but Axel’s family have deep pockets and an axe to grind with their son.
We need to be ready to beat any counteroffer they might make.
But here, in this tranquil place, this man at my side, it’s tough to stay worried for long.
I let him lead me through the pavilions to one where craftspeople, mainly women, are working on looms, weaving colourful lengths of cloth.
Others are applying wax designs to white fabric, then placing them in dye baths.
Finished pieces are hanging from racks, drying in the sun.
“These are so beautiful,” I say, pausing at a piece of batik covered in patterns of flowers and insects.
“Each region has its own designs,” Axel says. “These motifs are specific to this island, made in small batches by hand. And the woven fabrics have specific uses and symbolism. Some are meant as blankets, others as shawls, and can denote social status.”
“Myles would love this,” I murmur, running a hand across a tightly woven piece of material, bright with colours.
“Myles Brandon?”
“Yeah.” I turn. “Didn’t you say you knew him?”
“I shaped a board for him, back when I was … well, you know. He seems like a decent guy.”
“He is,” I say. “Really decent. And he loves this kind of stuff.”
“This kind of stuff?”
“He and his wife, Zara, put together a line of homewares, but it’s all small batch stuff, made by hand by local artisans, all of whom are credited and paid a fair price.
He doesn’t charge the earth for it, either.
Zara and I worked together on some design stuff, as well.
Like this shirt.” I motion to my T-shirt, which is organic cotton, sustainably sourced.
“He’s big on preserving local heritage and customs.”
“Is he?” Axel seems unconvinced. “He also runs in the same circles as my parents. At least when he’s in New York.”
“I’m sure he’s not like th—”
“Come and see this.” He takes my hand.
“This” is another small pavilion, nearby. Baskets hold scraps of fabric, offcuts from the batik workshop, I realise. A couple of women are braiding and knotting them into bracelets and necklaces, adding beads and small charms. They’re gorgeous.
One of the women looks up as we walk in. My stomach lurches.
It’s Mish.