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‘Hey, Rankin!’
Will’s smile disappeared as he turned to see the expression on Tony Kable’s face. He and Tony had been at school together, though never close friends. Tony now ran his father’s construction business and chaired the Bellbird Bay Chamber of Commerce, an organisation Will had never felt the desire to belong to, preferring to keep out of local politics – until now.
‘Tony.’ Will waited.
‘You do realise we’ve all been doing it tough these last few years. This proposed development would be a boon to local businesses. What are you thinking, throwing your hat in with the environment lot? You should be on our side, mate.’
Will opened his mouth to give an acerbic reply, but Martin’s warning hand on his arm stopped him just in time. He swallowed the angry words which threatened to erupt, saying instead, ‘It’s not a matter of sides, Tony. It’s a matter of what’s best for everyone.’
To his surprise, Tony moved closer, pushing his face into Will’s – so close Will could smell the cigarettes on his breath. ‘If you keep on with this line, you’d better watch your back,’ he growled, before moving off, followed by a group of friends and supporters.
‘Wow!’ Cleo slipped her arm through Will’s. ‘I can’t believe your speech aroused so much anger – as well as support. I guess it may not be easy to stop it. But you still intend to?’
‘Of course.’ The confrontation with his old schoolmate had only reinforced Will’s determination to save Dolphin Beach from the developers.
‘Why don’t we all go for a drink and plan our next course of action?’ It was Ailsa who spoke, breaking into Will’s thoughts which were going round in circles.
‘Will?’ Martin asked.
‘Sure.’ Will grinned, the euphoria of the meeting resurfacing to replace the anger Tony’s words had triggered.
Fifteen minutes later, the four of them were seated in the surf club, the men with glasses of beer, and the women with wine.
‘So,’ Martin said, ‘What’s next? Now we know who are with us, and who are against us. You mentioned organising a protest.’
‘I’m not sure it’s the right way to go.’ Will took a gulp of beer, then stared down into the amber liquid.
‘I suspect others will,’ Cleo said. ‘I recognised the fervour in the eyes of members of the Environmental Lobby. I knew groups like that when I lived down south. Stan belonged to them. I accompanied him to lots of protests.’ She gave a wry smile.
‘And did they make a difference?’ Will asked.
Cleo seemed to think for a moment, then said, ‘Probably not. But they made us feel as if we were doing something, trying to make a difference. What else is there to do?’
‘I don’t know.’ Will dragged a hang through his hair, messing up the bun he’d fixed so carefully.
‘Well, there’s nothing we can do tonight,’ Ailsa said. ‘So why don’t we just try to enjoy ourselves. We have time. The proposal has still to be voted on by the development sub-committee. Maybe we’ll think of something before that happens.’
‘Maybe pigs will fly,’ Will muttered, but he grinned, deciding to let it go. Ailsa was right. He’d done what he could for now.
But, later that night, as he lay awake by Cleo’s side, listening to her gentle breathing, her body warm against his, Will couldn’t stop thinking about Dolphin Beach. There must be a solution – a way of stopping the construction giants from despoiling one more Queensland landmark.
Twenty-nine
It had been another busy day at the café and Cleo was looking forward to being home in her own house, putting her feet up and pouring herself a glass of wine. She and Will had enjoyed another wonderful weekend together, making her wonder again why she’d spent so long avoiding him, and being grateful to Ailsa for getting them together.
But tonight, all she wanted was to be alone. Hannah had said she might drop round later, and Cleo wondered how she could bring up the subject of Kerri-Ann again without alienating her daughter. Pat hadn’t managed to elicit the woman’s email address or any way of contacting her. It appeared she’d left Santa Barbara and, now her mother had died, there was no one who knew where she might have gone.
Cleo was about to close the kitchen when she was aware of a woman entering the café. The tall figure looked familiar with her thick blonde hair swinging on her shoulders, but she was taller than Hannah and seemed hesitant.
‘Can I help you?’ Cleo walked forward to meet her. ‘The café’s closed.’
‘You’re Hannah Johansen’s mother, aren’t you? I’m Kerri-Ann Randall.’
Cleo’s breath caught in her throat at the sound of her accent. It was so similar to Stan’s.
‘You don’t know me, but I need to talk with you.’
Cleo’s stomach churned and her legs felt weak. ‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘You’d better take a seat.’
