door—is it for sale?’
‘Not yet,’ the agent said with a noncommittal smile. ‘Have a seat, Dr Richardson, and we’ll go through the small print.’
‘But is it coming onto the market?’ Ben persisted.
‘Perhaps. Though, really, it has none of the specifications you outlined. That house needs a lot of work, it still has the original kitchen and the garden’s a jungle…’ Only Ben wasn’t listening and the real-estate agent suddenly had that horrible sinking feeling that he was losing his grip on his certain sale. ‘The apartment complex is maintained, regularly serviced, there’s the gym and lap pool for tenants,’ he pointed out, pushing what he assumed were the benefits of living here for this tall, rugged-looking bear of a single guy, with the title of doctor. He had been so sure that low maintenance was the key to this sale.
He was wrong.
Ben was fast realising that high maintenance would be fantastic!
This was a garden and a house he could lose himself in, what with house repairs and oiling decking. And how about a boat…? How much better to fill up his limited spare time renovating a house or out on a boat on the bay than to be confined to modern, sleek lines of the apartment or burning off his endless energy in a lap pool? For the first time in a very long time, Ben found himself interested in something that wasn’t work, and, staring at the house, he could almost glimpse a future, a real future…So, instead of closing the deal and moving into the plush apartment complex, to the agent’s obvious annoyance, Ben took a gamble, put his furniture into storage and rented one of the cheap furnished units at the other end of the street, prepared to sit it out till the house came on the market.
It was win-win really, Ben thought this morning as he walked along the beach access path to the front of the house. In that short space of time, the bottom had fallen out of the housing market and the developers were having trouble selling the luxury apartments. Already the price had gone down a few thousand, so, if nothing happened with the house…
For Sale by Auction
He saw the board and gave a smile as he read that the auction wasn’t far off, just a few weeks away, in fact. And there was an ‘open for inspection’ scheduled at the weekend. Walking back toward the beach, this time he noticed the glorious skies and the stillness of the morning, seagulls sitting like ducks on the calm water, a dog running in and chasing them away. And then he saw her, standing in the glassy ocean, the water to her knees, legs apart and stretching, her hands reaching for the sky. She stood still and held the position and then slowly lowered her arms.
And then did it all over again.
God! Ben rolled his eyes. He had a great physique and made a very half-hearted attempt to keep it, relying mainly on walking a thousand miles a day in Emergency then burning it off with a swim, but this new-age, welcome-the-day-type stuff, or whatever she was doing…
Please!
Still, Ben conceded there was something rather spectacular about her lack of inhibition, something about her that made Ben smile as he walked.
And then she turned and his smile vanished as she bent over…doubled over, actually. Ben saw her swollen stomach and realised she was pregnant and visibly in pain. Picking up speed, he walked a touch more quickly along the sandy pathway and onto the beach—not wanting to overreact as maybe it was part of her exercise routine. But, no, she was walking uncomfortably out of the shallows now, still bent at an awkward angle, and Ben broke into a light jog, meeting her at the foreshore. He stared down at a mop of dark curls on the top of her head as, still bent over double, she held onto her knees.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked in concern.
‘Fine,’ she moaned, and then looked up. She had amber eyes and big silver earrings and was gritting her very white teeth. ‘Stupid yoga!’
‘Are you having a contraction?’ He was assessing her. Not wanting to just dive in and place his hand on her stomach, he thought he ought to introduce himself first. ‘I’m Ben, I’m a doctor…’
‘And I’m Celeste.’ She blew out a breath and then slowly unfolded. ‘And I’m not having a contraction, it’s a stitch.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Quite sure!’ She stretched and winced and then rubbed the last of her stitch away. ‘Stupid new-age stuff!’ He couldn’t help but smile and then so did she. ‘According to my obstetrician, it’s supposed to relax both me and the baby. It will kill us both, more like!’
He tensed, standing on the beach on a glorious warm morning, and was slammed back there again—just as he was almost every day, every night. Not all the time now but surely, given it was nearly four years on, too many times.
‘So long as you’re okay,’ he clipped, and went to go, but she was holding her swollen stomach now with both hands and blowing out a long, slow breath. ‘That,’ Ben said firmly, ‘is not a stitch.’
‘No.’ Her eyes screwed up just a touch and this time he did place his hand on her stomach, felt the weak tightening flowing around her uterus, and held his hand there till it passed, satisfied that it was nothing more than a Braxton-Hicks’ contraction.
‘It’s just the baby practising for its big day.’ She smiled. ‘Honestly, I’m fine.’
‘You’re positive?’ he pressed.
‘Absolutely.’
‘If they get stronger, or start coming—’
‘More regularly, I know, I know.’ She gave him a very wide smile. The sun was up now and he could see her tan and her freckly face. She really did have an incredible smile…‘Well, thanks anyway,’ she said.
‘No problem.’
She turned to walk along the beach, in the direction he was going, and as he started to walk behind her, he half watched her to make sure she didn’t stop again, but she seemed fine now. Dressed in white shorts and a white tight-fitting top, she was curves everywhere, and Ben felt a touch awkward when her head turned around.
‘I’m not following you—I live up there,’ he explained.
‘Good!’ She slowed her pace down. ‘Where?’
‘In the units at the end.’
‘Since when?’ she asked.
‘Since the weekend.’
‘We’re neighbours, then.’ She smiled. ‘I’m Celeste Mitchell, I live in Unit 3.’
‘Ben, Ben Richardson—I’m at number 22.”
‘You’re at the quiet end, then.’ Celeste rolled her eyes.
‘Are you sure about that?’ Ben said, raising an eyebrow. ‘It certainly hasn’t been quiet the last two nights. Fights, parties…’
‘That’s nothing compared to my neighbours,’ she retorted.
They were there now, at the row of one-bedroom units that were a bit of an eyesore in such lovely
