style="font-size:15px;"> The southern end of the bay was enclosed by old-fashioned rock sea walls to form a small, safe harbour. It seemed much the same, with a mix of pleasure boats and fishing vessels bobbing on the water. The typically Australian old pub, with its iron lace balconies was the same too.
But gone was the beaten-up old jetty. It had been replaced by a sleek new pier and a marina, a fishing charter business, and a whale-and dolphin-watching centre topped with a large fibreglass dolphin with an inane painted grin that, in spite of her shock, made her smile. Adjoining was a row of upmarket shops and galleries. The fish and chip shop, where she’d squabbled with her sister over the last chip eaten straight from the vinegar-soaked paper, had been pulled down to make way for a trendy café. The dusty general store was now a fashionable boutique.
And, even though it was February and the school holidays were over, there were people strolling, browsing, licking on ice cream cones—more people than she could remember ever seeing in Dolphin Bay.
For a moment disappointment almost won. But she laughed out loud when she noticed the rubbish bins that sat out on the footpath. Each was in the shape of a dolphin with its mouth wide open.
They were absolute kitsch, but she fell in love with them all over again. Surreptitiously, she patted one on its fibreglass snout. ‘Delighted you’re still here,’ she whispered.
Then, when she looked more closely around her, she noticed that in spite of the new sophistication every business still sported a dolphin motif in some form or another, from a discreet sticker to a carved wooden awning.
And she’d bet Morgan’s Guesthouse at the northern end of the bay wouldn’t have changed. The rambling weatherboard building, dating from the 1920s, would certainly have some sort of a heritage preservation order on it. It was part of the history of the town.
In her mind’s eye she could see the guesthouse the way it had been that magic summer. The shuttered windows, the banks of blue and purple hydrangeas her mother had loved, the old sand tennis court where she’d played hit-and-giggle games with Ben. She hoped it hadn’t changed too much.
As she approached the tourist information kiosk to ask for directions on how to get there she hesitated. Why did she need the guesthouse to be the same?
Did it have something to do with those rapidly returning memories of Ben Morgan? Ben, nineteen to her eighteen, the surfer hunk all the girls had had wild crushes on.
Around from the bay, accessed via a boardwalk, was a magnificent surf beach. When Ben had ridden his board, harnessing the power of the waves like some suntanned young god, there had always been a giggling gaggle of admiring girls on the sand.
She’d never been one of them. No, she’d stood on the sidelines, never daring to dream he’d see her as anything but a guest staying for two weeks with her family at his parents’ guesthouse.
But, to her amazement and joy, he’d chosen her. And then the sun had really started to shine that long-ago summer.
‘Morgan’s Guesthouse?’ said the woman manning the information kiosk. ‘Sorry, love, I’ve never heard of it.’
‘The old wooden building at the northern end of the bay,’ Sandy prompted.
‘There’s only the Hotel Harbourside there,’ the woman said. ‘It’s a modern place—been there as long as I’ve been in town.’
Sandy thanked her and walked away, a little confused.
But she gasped when she saw the stark, modern structure of the luxury hotel that had replaced the charming old weatherboard guesthouse. Its roofline paid some kind of homage to the old-fashioned peaked roof that had stood there the last time she had visited Dolphin Bay, but the concrete and steel of its construction did not. The hotel took up the footprint of the original building and gardens, and rose several floors higher.
Hotel Harbourside? She’d call it Hotel Hideous.
She took a deep, calming breath. Then forced herself to think positive. The new hotel might lack the appeal of the old guesthouse but she’d bet it would be air conditioned and would almost certainly have a decent restaurant. Just the place for a solo thirtieth birthday lunch.
And as she stood on the steps that led from the beach to the hotel and closed her eyes, breathed in the salty air, felt the heat shimmering from the sand, listened to the sound of the water lapping at the edge of the breakwater, she could almost imagine everything was the same as it had been.
Almost.
The interior of the restaurant was all glass, steel and smart design. What a difference from the old guesthouse dining room, with its mismatched wooden chairs, well-worn old table and stacks of board games for ruthlessly played after-dinner tournaments. But the windows that looked out over the bay framed a view that was much the same as it had always been—although now a fleet of dolphin-watching boats plied its tourist trade across the horizon.
She found a table in the corner furthest from the bar and sat down. She took off her hat and squashed it in her bag but kept her sunglasses on. Behind them she felt safer. Protected. Less vulnerable, she had to admit to herself.
She refused to allow even a smidgeon of self-pity to intrude as she celebrated her thirtieth birthday all by herself whilst at the same time her ex Jason was preparing to walk down the aisle.
Casting her eye over the menu, Sandy was startled by a burst of masculine laughter over the chatter from the bar. As that sound soared back into her memory her heart gave an excited leap of recognition. No other man’s laughter could sound like that.
Rich. Warm. Unforgettable.
Ben.
He hadn’t been at the bar when she’d walked in. She’d swear to it. Unless he’d changed beyond all recognition.
She was afraid to look up. Afraid of being disappointed. Afraid of what she might say, do, to the first man to have broken her heart.
Would she go up and say hello? Or put her hat back on and try to slink out without him seeing her?
Despite her fears, she took off her sunglasses with fingers that weren’t quite steady and slowly raised her head.
Her breath caught in her throat and she felt the blood drain from her face. He stood with his profile towards her, but it was definitely Ben Morgan: broad-shouldered, towering above the other men in the bar, talking animatedly with a group of people.
From what she could see from this distance he was as handsome as the day they’d said goodbye. His hair was shorter. He wore tailored shorts and a polo-style shirt instead of the Hawaiian print board shorts and singlet he’d favoured when he was nineteen. He was more muscular. Definitely more grown up.
But he was still Ben.
He said something to the guy standing near him, laughed again at his response. Now, as then, he held the attention of everyone around him.
Did he feel her gaze fixed on him?
Something must have made him turn. As their eyes connected, he froze mid-laugh. Nothing about his expression indicated that he recognised her.
For a long, long moment it seemed as if everyone and everything else in the room fell away. The sound of plates clattering,
