Saving Wishes (The Wishes Series) (23 page)

A smile ghosted across his face and he turned away, dumping the wood with more might than necessary. “I don’t think you know anything,” he muttered.

“I know all I need to.” My tone lacked certainty for good reason. It was a big fat lie. I’d pieced enough together to know that Adam’s life was nothing like mine but I’d never asked him about it. Perhaps I was afraid to.

Stubborn, idiotic and stupid were all words I mumbled under my breath as I stormed across the yard to the house. Behind me I heard the whack of the axe slamming down on wood again.

It took almost an hour for Alex to give up torturing himself and the woodheap. I said nothing as he moseyed to the fridge and sculled juice from the carton. I sat at the table, sifting through a stack of pictures that I’d been meaning to sort until my new brilliant life got in the way.

Alex pulled out a chair and sat opposite me. I hoped he would speak. Dishing out the silent treatment had never been my forte and I wasn’t sure I could keep it up.

“Charli, I want to ask you something,” he said seriously.

“I’m not sleeping with him.”

It was a kneejerk response that made Alex duck his head as if I’d just thrown something at him.

“I wasn’t going to ask that.”

“Oh. Good.” I wondered if my cheeks looked as flushed as his. I tried my best to look casual while ignoring the growing pit in my stomach.

“I just want to know how you can be so certain about all of this. Tell me why Adam is so important.”

The mere fact that he was willing to continue this conversation was a huge step forward. He was throwing me a lifeline, giving me a chance to explain my shady reasoning. I swallowed hard, praying I could articulate a half-decent response.

“He sees the good in me, Alex. And for a long time I didn’t think there was any. You give me one good reason why I shouldn’t be making plans with a boy like that.”

He nodded. I couldn’t place the emotion in his eyes but I was hopeful that he’d go easy on me for being so cliché and seventeen.

“You’ll be a long way from home if it ends badly,” he said, finally.

“But not so far from Marseille. That’s where you’ll be, right?”

He avoided my question. “Do you remember the arguments we used to have when you were little?”

Of course I remembered. I started most of them. They were usually trivial, like me wanting to wear pyjamas to school or eat cereal for dinner.

“You used to climb that big tree in the front yard and I’d have to spend an hour coaxing you down,” he said, smiling at the memory. “The conversation was always the same. I’d tell you to jump and you’d ask me if I’d catch you. Do you remember what I used to tell you?”

“Word for word.”

“Tell me.”

“Every single time you jump, Charli, I will catch you,” I recited. His eyes drifted down again, pretending to look at the pile of photos, but he was smiling.

“I meant it. I’m always going to be there to catch you.”

“I know that.”

“Even if I’m in France.”

The effort it took to appear calm was colossal. “So you’re going?”

“I love her. I have to go, right?”

“You absolutely do,” I said. It was impossible to hide my delight. “You know why you’ve never spent much time jumping out of trees, Alex?”

“Tell me, oh-wise-one,” he urged, leaning back in his chair.

“It’s because no one’s ever been at the bottom to catch you.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes it’s better to just stay in the tree.”

“Why?”

“Because the view is much clearer. Some of us need a clear view.”

If my life had been a book, Alex had read from the very beginning – including the preface. True to form, I had only flicked through the pages, paying very little attention to the plot.

If his life had been a book, I was the unnecessary postscript at the end – the annoying add-on that should never have been included. I never understood why my mother chose to have me so many years after Alex. Maybe I wasn’t planned – that would explain my father’s quick departure after I was born. He obviously suffered with flee-itis too. If things had worked out the way they were supposed to, my brother and I would probably be strangers. He would have grown and left town, my mother would have raised me, and our paths might have crossed once a year at Christmas. That should have been the plot of the Alex Blake novel. There wasn’t supposed to be an irritating postscript. I said nothing as he walked away. For once, he deserved to get the last word.

18. The Parisienne

Pipers Cove quickly descended to crazy town. News of Gabrielle and Alex’s not-so-secret love affair spread like wildfire, and our little café did more trade in the next three days than it had done in a month.

Alex never coped well with crazy. I steered clear of the café – and so did he, closing early each day to go surfing.

Mademoiselle Décarie’s life seemed even more difficult, but she took it in her elegant stride. The Beautifuls and their associates filled in the many blanks with details of their own. Lily and Lisa didn’t miss a day of school, overcoming the problem of iridescent hands by wearing gloves – teamed with matching newsboy hats as if Winter Barbie was the look they’d been aiming for. Jasmine hadn’t surfaced since the incident in the shop, calling in sick with a terrible case of the flu. Nicole saw no need to enlighten Carol. Collateral, she called it.

The only good part about Gabi and Alex becoming the victims of the ruthless local gossips was that Adam and I were left in peace. It was like a get-out-of-jail-free card. It no longer felt like all eyes were on us. Mercifully, we’d become yesterday’s news.

It didn’t stop us hiding, though. The boat was nearing completion and most of our afternoons were spent in the shed. I didn’t mind watching him work but had long since given up offering to help. Adam humoured me for a while, giving me menial jobs like sanding already raw wood, but it never lasted long. There was something lacking in my technique. He’d watch me for a few minutes with a look so pained, anyone would have thought I was sanding the flesh off his bones. It always ended the same. I’d stop what I was doing just to put him out of his misery. Instead, I busied myself doing what I did best, taking pictures. I photographed Adam a million times, never once finding a flaw.

“You’re going to wear that thing out,” he teased.

I snapped a quick picture, trapping the brilliant smile he flashed me. “A small price to pay,” I replied, looking at him through the viewfinder.

“For what, Coccinelle?” he asked.

I grinned up at him, high above me on the deck of the boat.

“A moment in time that I’m never going to get back.”

He ruffled his fingers through his hair, creating a cloud of sawdust.

“That sounds so sad,” he said finally.

“It’s not sad,” I insisted. “It doesn’t matter that I’m never going to get it back. I was there at the time.”

The distance between us dulled none of the shine in his sapphire eyes. “I love hanging out in La La land,” he declared.

Behaving at home was the least I could do. I made sure I was home on time every night and did my best not to rattle Alex’s cage too often, which was difficult considering he was teetering on the edge of a meltdown.

I was in the kitchen, trying to scrape something half decent for dinner together when I heard his keys hitting the hallstand just before he rounded the doorway.

“What are you up to?” he asked accusingly.

“Nothing. I’m just trying to sort something out for dinner,” I said, staring vacantly into the fridge.

“Charli, no more,” he said wearily. No more what? I’d been an angel all week. “I can’t work out if you’re up to something or if you’re just being good. Up to something I can deal with. Being good…well that’s just creepy.”

“Whatever do you mean?” I shut the fridge door much harder than necessary.

Alex sat, looking a lot like someone with the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Madame Décarie reported that you passed your French assignment. That troubles me.”

“Would it help my case if I told you Adam did it for me?” Hopefully, I wouldn’t regret telling the truth.

“Yes,” he said wearily. “Yes, it would.”

“See.” I tapped my forehead. “Always thinking.”

“Gabrielle thinks your French has improved because you’re spending so much time with him.”

I smiled. We both knew that wasn’t true.

Dinner conversation was trivial, and that was okay. We made a start on doing the dishes when he floored me with a most unexpected offer.

“I’m going to give you a chance to misbehave,” he said, reaching for a tea towel.

I grinned craftily. “I’m always up for a challenge.”

“I think we’re going to head up to Stanley for the weekend, if Gabi still wants to go.”

I turned the tap off, shaking suds off my hands while I gathered my thoughts and worked out how to play it cool.

“Really?” My voice seemed to be an octave higher.

“Really,” he confirmed, wiping plates with vigour. “But I haven’t asked Gabrielle yet. She might have changed her mind.”

That was never going to happen. After the week they were having, escaping the Cove for a few days would be a godsend.

I grabbed the phone and thrust it at him. “Call. Now.”

Alex took the phone and retreated into the lounge. I didn’t bother trying to eavesdrop. There was no more room in my brain for any more information. He returned a while later, expertly timing the end of his phone call to coincide with the last of the dishes being put away.

“Well?”

“Done deal. We’re going to leave Friday afternoon. If Nicole’s happy to work Saturday and Sunday, I’m free until Monday.”

I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Everything was falling into place. “Great,” I enthused, concentrating hard on not sounding too happy.

“It is great. So, there’s only one thing left to do,” he said, handing me the phone. I took it from him as if it was scorching hot. “You need to call Carol and make sure it’s okay if you stay with Nicole this weekend.”

“What?” I gasped.

Slowly, he repeated his sentence.

I nodded in defeat, edging towards the door with the phone in my hand.

“Call her, Charli.” Alex’s instructions were clear and precise, just the way he planned.

“I will,” I promised, walking away.

Alex left the house early the next morning, determined to get an hour in the water before opening the café. As soon as he was gone, I left too.

Sleep hadn’t come easy the night before, but not because I was plotting a way of taking Alex up on his offer of misbehaving. I laid awake trying to figure out a way of doing the right thing. I came up with only one solution, and it all hinged on the Parisienne.

Walking up to Gabrielle’s door felt exactly the same as walking into detention – I didn’t want to be there but I didn’t have a choice. She came to the door before I had a chance to knock, startling me enough to make me jump back a step.

“Charli,” Her eyes widened, possibly in shock. “Adam is not home. I think he went for a run along the beach.” She pushed the screen door open and gestured me inside. “I was just making some tea.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, feeling out of place without Adam there.

We sat at the small oval table and Gabrielle poured tea from a mint green teapot into two matching cups. Of course they matched – everything in the entire house matched.

“I’m glad we have a bit of time alone actually. I wanted to show you something,” she said, sliding a cup towards me. Her eyes darted in every direction but mine, making me think that something horrible was on its way. She rummaged through her tote bag, pulling out a collection of notebooks. She hesitated slightly before sliding the book across the table towards me.

I opened the black canvas-covered book. The handmade pages were a dirty white with red flecks of cotton melded through. Thumbing through, I saw page after page of my postcards. The tailored presentation was impressive, but the details that took my breath away were the handwritten notes and sketches that decorated every spare space on the pages. The cursive handwriting was so perfect it looked like a computer font.

“Is this a diary?” I asked quietly.

She smiled. “Of sorts.”

I closed the cover and slid it back towards her. “I shouldn’t be reading this, it looks private.”

She pushed it back to me. “Relax, Charli. It’s in French. Unless you’ve suddenly become bilingual, I’m not concerned that you’ll learn any secrets.”

I opened the book and carefully thumbed through the pages.

“These are truly beautiful.”

“So are your photographs. My interest is genuine, Charli. I’ve been working with them for months.”

“I see that.”

I couldn’t deny it. Much work had gone into that journal. I had accused her in the past of feigning interest in my photography. It seemed impossible to me that someone with so much talent of her own could find my work beautiful.

Embarrassed by her praise, I laid the journal back on the table, swapping it for another book that caught my eye. It was brighter, a mix of heavily layered marbled pastel paints. I ran my hand over the roughly textured cover.