The Widowmaker Read online

  Her single status was one of her father's disappointments. Her brothers had long since perpetuated the Douglas line, their wives producing grandchildren at a prodigious rate, and there were indications great-grandchildren would arrive soon, so it was more a concern for what he saw as her happiness. This was their problem. He saw everything in his own terms, discarding anything she might want as irrelevant.

  "Lexie. Lexie Douglas!” A golfer on a tee adjacent to the maintenance track gave up trying to attract her attention by sound alone and ran in front of her, waving his arms.

  She stopped and pulled the earphones down around her neck. “Hello, Mr. East.” It was her High School English teacher. The man who'd recommended sending her to the prestigious private school in Melbourne.

  He'd taught there for many years before marrying into an Island family and moving to Cowes. His recommendation had earned her entry and his friends, still teaching there, had cushioned the shock of the change. Her decision to go into teaching was her recognition of his influence.

  "I heard you were back,” he said, turning to wave his playing group on. “Kieran was boasting your success at the RSL.” Mr. East, a gentle man, had served with distinction in Vietnam as a National Service Officer.

  "He has far too much to say about everything.” Lexie's voice carried a tinge of bitterness and brought a frown to her ex-teacher's face.

  "He finds you just as difficult.” Mr. East made her smile. He always did. “He's never quite accepted he could be responsible for something so beautiful. He'd protect you from the world if he could."

  Lexie could accept the idea intellectually, but not its reality. “I'm grown up now and can protect myself."

  "Undoubtedly. His pleasure at having you home makes him forget.” Mr. East changed the subject. “You haven't gone back to teaching?"

  Lexie shook her head. “Not yet."

  "You'll be a much better teacher for having done other things.” He nodded his approval. “I found it so."

  Lexie remembered the awe even the wildest boys felt for the English teacher's military exploits and his sure touch in creating self-discipline in those the system had abandoned. “I'm sure you did,” she said. “No one challenged you."

  "Not true.” He smiled. “I remember one girl. Brilliant mind, utterly fearless, natural leader, she could turn any class into chaos ... and frequently did!” They both knew who he was referring to and their smiles were mutual.

  Lexie's watch buzzed, reminding her it was time to head home. “I'd best be going,” she said. “You'd better get back to your golf."

  "You heard Margaret died.” He seemed unwilling to end their conversation.

  "Yes, I did. I was so sorry I couldn't get back. You must miss her."

  "Life goes on,” he said. “It's a lesson we all have to learn."

  Lexie had a feeling he'd introduced the subject deliberately to give her some advice. Mr. East never probed, but little happened he wasn't aware of and understood.

  "I'm sure you do it better than the rest of us,” she said. “I'll try to learn from your example."

  He nodded, satisfied she'd proved his assessment accurate. He'd taught that way as well. “I'll catch up with the others."

  "Goodbye, Mr. East. Thank you, as always."

  She watched him walk away, a tall man with horrendous facial scars no Islander noticed.

  The run home took longer than she'd anticipated and she reached the table late, having hurried her shower. He mother said nothing, rising from her seat to serve Lexie's meal.

  "Don't bother, Mum. I'll get it.” Lexie forestalled the move by taking a plate from the warming rack and serving herself. It was the routine for latecomers to the Douglas table and there'd been many of them over the years. Hospitality was the closest thing her parents had to a religion. Even the wildest of Lexie's friends were welcomed, no matter how outrageous their latest escapades had been.

  "I saw Mr. East on the golf course. He stopped to talk.” It was part apology, part explanation for her lateness.

  Her father nodded. “He misses Margaret. We do what we can, but it's not much."

  "He spoke of her. Said we all have to learn to move on.” Lexie couldn't add her suspicion the English teacher had been advising her as well.

  "He's lonely,” Sandra said. “I saw him watching Pam Doherty's two boys play on the swings and he looked so sad."

  "They should've had children. He'd be a marvelous father.” Lexie hadn't thought about it before. Mr. East had always seemed complete, just as he was.

  "They couldn't. The scar on his face wasn't his only wound.” Kieran rejoined the conversation. “I had to sign their application to adopt. The authorities decided they were too old."

  "What nonsense!” Lexie's voice was sharp. “Some bloody-minded bureaucrat thinking with his regulations rather than his brain!"

  "I didn't agree either. Offered to fund an overseas orphan, but East refused. Said the authorities were right.” Her father shrugged, the action infuriating Lexie.

  "And you let it drop?” She made no attempt to hide her scorn. “That's unusual. You know what's right for everyone!"

  She was in the wrong and she knew it, but anger had taken over. Her target wasn't just her father. It was the nameless bureaucrat, the terrible injustice of Mr. East losing his wife to cancer, her own cowardice in withdrawing from life ... everything!

  "Look to your own life before you judge me.” Her father's anger was the greater for controlling his tone. “I don't have to apologize to you ... or anyone like you.” He rose from the table. “I'll be in my office. My appetite's gone."

  "Don't go storming off. Eat your bloody tea. I'm going instead.” Lexie beat him to the door and slammed it in his face; her last sight of the kitchen was the resignation in her mother's eyes.

  She locked her door and threw herself on the bed, covering her ears with the pillow so she wouldn't hear the gentle tapping an hour later. Her mother persisted for ten minutes, then left.

  At midnight, Lexie rose from the bed, undressed and slipped between the covers, lying there, staring at the ceiling as she contemplated her latest disaster.

  It was all right for others to give advice ... her mother, Mr. East and the rest. Her father made her feel like a failure. He'd never made wrong choices. He'd been born to the role of family head, successful businessman, and Islander. There'd never been a hint he'd wanted anything beyond what he had. His sons, her brothers, were the same. Content with what they had, as Lexie would never be.

  There were no reminders away from the Island. She lived well in London, was valued by the agency, and enjoyed her work. It wasn't her fault there'd been a drought of presentable men—unbidden came the memory of the man with the magic voice. She shrugged the idea of him away. He'd seen only the garish uniform and wig and had his opinion set in stone. A fool!

  She turned on her side, determined to sleep. Another five days and she'd escape. Her flight to London was already booked and paid. She closed her eyes, resigned to a sleepless night.

  * * * *

  Bright daylight leaking between her eyelashes proved she'd slept!

  Lexie rose and switched on the clock radio already set to the local station.

  "There's good surf at Woolamai according to the boys at Island Surfboards,” the announcer said and chortled. “The tide's rising and the sets are rolling in nicely. Get down there now and you'll have the whole morning and some of the afternoon."

  Lexie glanced at the red figures of the digital time display. After ten; she'd slept late. If she skipped breakfast, she'd have two hours good surfing and would avoid any post mortem of last night's argument as well. She wasn't ready to admit she'd failed her mother again, so she dressed quickly.

  The timber yard 4WD was on the apron outside the garage. It was hers to use for surfing, the keys left in the ignition, the open tray big enough for her board.

  "I'm off to catch a few waves,” she called from the front door. “I'll have lunch when I get back.” The d
istance to the kitchen muffled her mother's reply and she could pretend not to hear.

  Light traffic made the mid-morning drive from Cowes a pleasant fifteen minutes, stirring vague regrets over her eight-year absence. By the time she reached the surf club car park, the waves were good from the Anzacs all the way east to the Magiclands and she was sorry she'd stayed away so long.

  Her board, kept perfect by her brothers in her absence, looked good, but the new wetsuit hadn't stretched into comfort and she paused with it midway on to watch one rider work the eastern end of the Woolamai break. No novice, his narrow-tailed board and hard rails made the wave look better than it was. Intrigued, Lexie watched him cut across the break and then back over the lip well clear of the other riders, putting him in perfect position to paddle back to the takeoff area. It showed local knowledge as well as good judgment.

  A final convulsive heave and she was in the wetsuit. She tied her hair into a ponytail before snugging home the back zipper and coating her lips and cheeks with white zinc cream. Board under her arm, leg rope draped across her shoulder, she went down to the beach to follow his lead. He could be a friend, a commodity in short supply at this moment.

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  Chapter 2

  The water felt great, once the initial shock passed and the wet suit did its job. She missed this in London. The first wave rolled over the board and slapped delightfully against her face and she laughed aloud, dug her arms in and followed the wake of the other rider. He was almost out to the takeoff area, ready for the next wave.

  He caught one just before she reached him, cutting away from her as he came to his feet, passing two board lengths to her right so she saw him clearly. Older than her by five years at least, ruggedly good-looking in a masculine way, thick brown hair with an unruly curl, a friendly grin revealed teeth surprisingly white against a tanned face—the man with the magic voice.

  She gaped ... forgot the approaching wave and had her board torn from her grasp, the leg rope tightening to drag her under again just as she surfaced. Lexie came up spluttering and retrieved her board, aware he'd lagged up the face of his wave to check her situation, ready to turn back if needed. She raised her arm, thumb up, to signal she was all right and he turned away to enjoy his ride.

  At the take-off area, Lexie straddled her board and let the last two waves of the set pass, knowing the back flow of his wave would close out the break, cutting short their carry. He'd waited for the best. She'd do the same. It gave her time to decide how to handle this unexpected encounter.

  He returned just as the next set reached them, the best wave to the fore, Lexie already committed and was rising to her feet. Spinning the board to meet the wave, his take-off was rushed, bringing them close before he cut clear of her line. She acknowledged his courtesy with a nod and kept with him all the way to the second bar, even slipping back over the crest at the same moment. It allowed her to note he glanced seaward as he came off the back of the wave.

  "Take your time.” His voice still did odd things to her spine. “The next set is too close to catch.” There was interest, but no recognition, in his eyes.

  She nodded and they paddled side by side, slipping under the broken water of the crests in unison. Beyond the break, they straddled their boards and waited, close enough for conversation.

  His failure to recognize her wasn't surprising, the circumstances couldn't be more different, but her sense of mischief prompted her. “It's a pity the motorcycle crowd starts arriving tomorrow,” she said, her tone artless. “The surf should be good for another two days."

  He turned to study her face. “You live locally?"

  "My parents live in Cowes. I'm here for a visit."

  "A perfect arrangement.” He paused long enough to give his next words emphasis and then grinned. “Were it not for the Grand Prix."

  "And you?” It was her turn. “Are you visiting someone?"

  "Just passing through,” he said. “I arrived Monday."

  She nodded, knowing it was true.

  For another two hours, they rode the surf as a loose team, chatting between sets, competing without rancor to produce the best rides, but then the waves grew lumpy and disorganized as the tide dropped.

  "This'll do me,” he said. “I'll ride the next one all the way."

  "You're right.” She checked the time. “We've had the best of it. Time for lunch anyway."

  They milked the wave almost to the beach and waded ashore together, Lexie searching for some gambit to extend the moment.

  "You didn't give me your name,” she said. “I won't know what to call you the next time we meet."

  "I was thinking the same,” he said. “It's Glenn, Glenn Smallwood."

  "Lexie, short for Alexandra, Douglas.” The imitation was unconscious.

  "Would you care to join me for lunch?” He'd reached the path to the car park. “The picnic basket they packed would feed a small army."

  "My mother's expecting me.” Lexie allowed her disappointment to show for she was suddenly ravenous and eating with him would create an excuse not to go home. “She worries when I surf."

  "My cell phone's in the car. You could reassure her."

  Lexie brightened. “I'll take you up on that. Mine's home.” She didn't explain home meant London.

  His car was a luxury station wagon, but a discreet sticker on the rear window identified it as a hire car. She recognized the picnic basket as well, one of those supplied on demand by a boutique bakery in Cowes, costing tourists an arm and a leg, but superbly presented.

  He put his phone in her hand. “Call your Mum."

  Lexie made the call, cutting short her mother's demands for more information with a curt “I'll talk to you when I get home."

  Glenn, who'd given her privacy by opening the back of the station wagon and laying out the contents of the basket, accepted the phone without comment, tossing it onto the neatly folded pile of clothing behind the back seat.

  They rolled their wetsuits down to the waist and sat on the station wagon's tailgate, the contents of the picnic basket between them. Glenn played a gracious host, a far cry from their last meeting.

  There was nothing of that now. He quizzed her gently, followed her leads, and marshaled his knowledge to extend them, the polished performance of a seasoned traveler in new company. A chance reference to her private secondary college allowed her to imply she was still there as an English teacher and this trapped her into over-painting the picture of academic life. His opinion of grid girls had been obvious.

  "You have the perfect life,” he said. “A job you love, a holiday home maintained by others and the freedom to enjoy both. A lot of people would envy you."

  "I suppose you're right,” she said, not contradicting his words. “What about yours?"

  "Apart from the constant traveling, pretty humdrum—” His cell phone interrupted with the nine-note trumpet cadenza opening the battle in the 1812 Overture. She'd heard it often enough in TV ads for the Army Reserve.

  Glenn seemed disinclined to answer the summons, allowing it to repeat itself several times before he apologized for the interruption and reached for the phone.

  "Yes,” he said, and listened for some time. Lexie could hear the tinny sound of a voice speaking excitedly, but Glenn's expression remained closed.

  "Let them finish their sightseeing,” he said. “I'll do it later."

  The caller needed more convincing.

  "There's time. We need to be careful."

  Lexie could no longer hear anything, so this promise calmed the caller. Glenn confirmed it with a final “Later,” before he broke the connection.

  "Sorry about the interruption,” he said. “Raul's panicking."

  "You sounded quite military.” She offered him a convenient lie, curious to see how far he'd go to conceal reality.

  "I suppose I did,” he agreed. “Have you tried the seafood?” He opened a cooler pack and withdrew a chilled platter. “I've been looking forward to this for months.
"

  The business of sampling the well-presented mixture of shellfish, crustaceans and raw fish took time, especially when washed down by a chilled sparkling pinot/chardonnay from the Garret Family Winery. Then he discovered English literature was her favorite subject and she found herself struggling to keep up with a mind reading electively rather than in any genre or philosophy.

  "Call it the Airport Syndrome.” His wry grin turned it into a half-apology. “Facing a long flight, you buy whatever looks interesting on the stand."

  It explained the breadth of his reading, but not its depth, as he confounded her with insights on familiar classics, whetted her appetite with thumbnail sketches of books she'd not read and sought her views on the direction taken in recent years by Booker Prize.

  "They seem to be culling them from the fringes, encouraging experimentation rather than literary skill or philosophical insight,” he said ... and paused whilst she thought about it.

  The trumpet cadenza of his cell phone interrupted once more. This time he picked it up, looked at the calling number display and switched off the phone.

  "They'll keep calling, if I don't,” he said. “There's nothing useful to be done today."

  "How will your boss take you switching off the phone?” she asked. “Won't they call head office?"

  It earned her a considering look, as if her perception surprised him.

  "You sound like someone who's been there and done that."

  "Staff room politics,” she lied. “We all have to fight for our slice of the cake."

  "Here I was, thinking you lived in some ivory academic tower.” His smile was an apology.

  "The teaching's one thing, the administration another,” she said. “I love the first, but can't do it effectively unless I master the second."

  "Too true,” he agreed. “Talent must always be supplemented by hard work."

  He raised his glass and emptied it before taking the bottle from the cooler sack. “There's just enough for another,” he said, holding it high so she could see the level.

  "It's too good to waste,” she agreed and followed his example in draining her glass.