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That wasn’t possible on a Sunday morning.
What was possible was to put herself on a train to the Gold Coast—Helensvale would be the nearest station—and take a bus to the Sovereign Islands, or a taxi if there were no buses. But what if he wasn’t there either? And what if Mrs Mills or Stan, or both, were having Sunday off? Of course she had had the number of the Tuscan villa, but she’d also learnt from her stay there that all incoming calls were screened.
Ignore the ‘what if?'s, Alex, she instructed herself, otherwise you’ll end up doing nothing.
The train journey from Central to Helensvale took over an hour and then there were no buses. So she took a taxi to Paradise Point and decided to walk over the bridge from there. She and Nicky had done it a few times; it was a pleasant walk. But she stopped and bought herself lunch first and ate it in the park, feeding the seagulls the scraps of her fish and chips.
She stopped again at the top of the bridge and looked down at the waters swirling below.
Because it was a fine Sunday there were plenty of water craft about from jet skis to houseboats. There were fishermen on the beach and picnickers in the park. Looking south towards Surfers Paradise, and west towards the hinterland, though, there were dark clouds building, giving warning that this magic day could also bring storms.
Looking north, she had a view very similar to the one she’d had from her guest bedroom, a view of water and mangroves and casuarinas.
She stirred and took a deep breath. Sweat was trickling down between her shoulder blades beneath the white blouse she wore with khaki shorts and yellow sandals. She started to walk.
Half an hour later she was walking back over the bridge. There had been no sign of life at the house and no one had answered the doorbell.
She couldn’t say exactly what her uppermost feeling was. There was a mixture of tearful and frustrated, foolish and downhearted, and—something new—apprehensive as she walked westward into the arms of what looked to be a ferocious thunderstorm.
The clouds were boiling and black, she could see lightning and the storm seemed to be racing towards her.
She quickened her footsteps. The little shopping centre at Paradise Point would afford her cover, but would she reach it in time?
So intent was she on the storm, she didn’t really notice what make of car flashed past her across the bridge as the first raindrop fell, until she heard a squeal of tyres and turned to see it reversing towards her.
It was a navy-blue Bentley; it was Max Goodwin wearing light trousers and a black shirt and leaning across to open the door for her.
Her heart leapt into her mouth and, despite the hours she’d had to think things through, she was suddenly quite unprepared for this encounter. She even seemed to be planted to the pavement as the rain grew heavier.
‘Alex, get in,’ he commanded. ‘It’s about to hail if I’m not mistaken.’
That brought her to life. ‘Oh, your car!’ she breathed and got in hastily.
‘Damn the car—what are you doing out in this?’ He put the motor in gear and drove off.
‘I—well, I—oh!’ she said as the heavens opened and he growled something indecipherable because, for a moment, he couldn’t see a thing. Then the windscreen wipers adjusted themselves and shortly afterwards they turned into the driveway and he activated the garage doors with a remote control from the car.
They drove into the garage just as the hail began. The noise was almost deafening as he led the way into the kitchen, and they stood side by side at the kitchen window and watched golf-ball-size hailstones bounce around on the exposed parts of the garden, the jetty and the Broadwater beyond.
Then, after about five minutes, as precipitously as the hail had come, it was gone, although the rain still fell steadily. Some parts of the lawn were covered in white.
He turned to her. ‘You were lucky not to get caught in that.’ He walked over and switched on the kitchen lights. Its black and cream interior was spotless and shining, but softened by Mrs Mills’ favourite herbs on the window sill and a bunch of daisies on the kitchen table.
‘Yes,’ she agreed fervently. ‘Thanks for stopping.’
He eyed her, her slightly damp presence, her hair that was curling riotously, her pretty yellow sandals. ‘What else would you have expected me to do?’
Alex clasped her fingers together. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Why are you here, Alex?’ he asked quietly.
For one mad moment, probably because it was impossible to persuade herself he was pleased to see her, she was tempted to tell him it was pure coincidence that she happened to be walking over the Sovereign Islands bridge, but of course there was no way she could support that.
She stared at him for a long moment and that indefinable difference in him was there again. But perhaps, it struck her, it wasn’t a health issue. Could it be a mental burden? Could it be that while he might not be able to live with Cathy Spencer—or she couldn’t live with him—he could never stop loving her?
Did that make any difference to her resolve, though? It had always been a possibility.
She swallowed. ‘I was worried about you.’
