She felt her cheeks stretch minutely as she tried to muster a smile. ‘Hello.’
In contrast, his wide, full mouth curved upwards into a friendly grin, sending dimples swirling into his dark stubble-covered cheeks. ‘Everything okay?’
Not even close. But she wasn’t going there. She’d spent days contacting everyone from the internet service provider to the bank, requesting that Richard’s name be removed from the account. There were still organisations that needed to be told but she wanted a whole day off from saying, My husband died. She was worn out with having to deal with the sympathy of the person on the other end of the line or, in one situation, counselling the call-centre woman who was also recently bereaved.
‘There’s something hypnotic about the waves,’ she said. ‘I lose hours, watching them.’
He nodded as if he understood and ran his hand across his forehead, preventing a trickle of sweat from running into his chestnut-brown eyes. ‘You could do it from the windfree comfort of your home.’
A spike of unease washed through her. How did he know where she lived?
‘We’re neighbours,’ he said quickly, as if realising he needed to reassure her that he hadn’t been stalking her. ‘I’m Raf Camilleri.’
‘Oh,’ she said, her sluggish brain trying to make connections. ‘Is the street named after you?’
‘No. It’s named after my nonno, who paid for the road to be sealed. He was very proud that it was the first sealed road on the island.’ His smile became wry. ‘I think he took it as a tangible sign that he’d made good in his adopted country after the war.’
She extended her arm out behind her to encompass the row of houses further along the beach. ‘So the Camilleris own a lot of this land?’
‘Once, but not any more. Over the years it’s been sold or gifted to family. Today it’s prime real estate and my cousins are busy selling lots to holidaymakers so they can build their dream holiday homes.’
She remembered exactly when she and Richard had driven past number six Camilleri Drive and had recognised it as their dream home. Sadly, Richard had barely used it.
Raf’s kind eyes continued to gaze at her and she realised she hadn’t introduced herself. ‘I’m Meredith Dennison.’
‘Good to meet you, Meredith.’
His eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled at her again. She braced herself for the obvious and inevitable questions the Shearwater Island locals always asked her—when was the baby due and when was her husband joining her or how long did she plan to visit.
‘If you ever need anything, Meredith, don’t hesitate to call out over the fence.’
Before she could reply he’d pushed the ear buds into his ears, waved, turned and run off along the beach.
Meredith stood watching him run—his athleticism obvious as his long, strong legs strode out, quickly eating up the distance. Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she fished it out, checking the caller ID. She sighed before pressing accept call. ‘Hi, Linda.’
‘Meredith, thank goodness.’ Her mother-in-law’s voice combined worry with reproof. ‘I’ve left three messages.’ She’d received each message but she’d been waiting until she could cope with talking to her utterly bereft mother-in-law. It often took more strength than she had. ‘Sometimes the reception’s a little dodgy down at the beach.’
‘When are you coming back, dear?’
I don’t know. ‘I’m just taking it one day at a time.’
Linda’s sigh sounded ominous, like the squalling wind that was chopping at the waves. ‘Derek and I don’t think you should be down there alone, especially not in the off season. Remember last year when they arrested that horrible man who’d been stealing underwear from clotheslines? And what if you went into labour and there’s no one around to help. We thought we’d drive down on the weekend.’
Oh, God, please, no. After the emotional maelstrom of the funeral and the following days when a parade of well-meaning friends and Richard’s grieving family had refused to let her be on her own, she’d almost gone crazy. She’d appreciated their concern but at the same time it had been suffocating her. Coming to the island was all about gaining some much-needed time so she could hear her own thoughts.
She saw a little dog suddenly shoot out of the dunes and race towards Raf, dancing around his running feet. Raf dodged and weaved and eventually bent down, scooping the dog up with one hand and tucking it under one very solid arm. She smiled. A man who tolerated little yappy dogs was probably not a stalker. Or a horrible man.
If you ever need anything, Meredith, don’t hesitate to call out over the fence.
‘That’s very kind, Linda, but I’m not alone,’ she said, her voice more firm and resolved than it had sounded in days. ‘I have a neighbour and I can call over the fence if I need anything so I’ll be fine. I’ll ring you in a couple of days, promise.’
She cut the call, turned off her phone and returned it to the pocket of her coat, suddenly reminded of the many times she’d been the one to telephone Linda.
Can you call Mum for me?
Richard, she wants to hear from you, not me.
Please, Merry. I’ve got back-to-back surgeries.
‘Richard,’ she screamed into the wind. ‘You bloody went and left me with your mother.’
The baby kicked and she pressed her hand against the busy foot. ‘I know. She cares for us in her own way but right now, if I’m going to survive this, I have to do it my way.’
She wished she had a map to guide her.
RAF SURVEYED THE GARDEN, which was strewn with debris courtesy of last night’s storm. The wind had raged, rattling the windows, snapping limbs off trees and redistributing the garden furniture all around the yard.
Mario stood at the front door, his expression glum as he gazed at a tree that had been sheared in half. ‘Your mother planted that bottlebrush. The lorikeets love it.’
Raf had always hated how sad his father got whenever he talked about his mother. Hated that after all these years his memory of his wife was still clouded in throat-choking grief as if he was the only person to have suffered when she’d died.
‘It’s survived this long in the salt and the wind, I’m sure it’s still got a lot of life left.’
Mario grunted. ‘Get the chainsaw and cut it down,’ he said authoritatively, as if Raf was still fifteen and under his instructions. Orders issued, he turned and shuffled back inside.
‘Yeah, so not doing that,’ Raf muttered, as he made his way down the drive and into the workshop.
Lifting the bush saw
