Swimming at Night: A Novel (17 page)

Leaving the party in their wake, they moved wordlessly along the beach, listening to the fading bass line of music. Moonlight illuminated the wind-ridged sand and she imagined that if she glanced over her shoulder, their two sets of footprints would be marked out like a pathway.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting your sweater back?” she said with a small smile. She remembered how it had brushed the tops of her thighs as she’d padded back to the Pineapple Hostel at dawn, the scent of smoke and salt lingering in the fibers of the fabric. She had worn it only once since, on a cool night in Geraldton when she couldn’t sleep. She’d slipped from her tent and sat on the ground wrapped in the faded sweater, her thumbs hooked through the small tears in the sleeve.

“Keep it. It looked better on you.”

Ahead on the dunes she noticed the red glow of a cigarette and made out the faint silhouette of a man—a partygoer, perhaps, who’d strayed too far from the herd. Apart from him, the beach was deserted and the emptiness was alluring. “How long will you be staying on the west coast?” she asked.

“A few weeks. A low pressure’s riding in to Margaret River.”

“The wine region?”

“Yes. It’s unusual for swell to hit at this time of year, so we want to see what’s going to happen.”

“Finn and I are heading that way.”

“Are you?” he said, and she found herself hoping he was pleased.

As they continued along the beach she caught sight of something glimmering in the sand. She bent down and collected a shell from
the tide line. It was oval shaped, the size of her hand, and the outside felt rough and calloused. Angling it towards the moonlight, she saw that the inner layer was an iridescent bed of mother-of-pearl. She ran her finger across it and felt the whorls beneath her fingertip. “What would’ve lived in this?”

“Abalone—it’s a type of sea snail. Muttonfish, we call them. Tough as a rag to eat. A delicacy in Asia, though.”

“Really?”

“It’s been overfished, like anything with a price tag. Abalone divers can make a fortune on a good day.”

“The shell is beautiful.”

“You’re lucky to find one that size here.”

She glanced up and saw that the guy who’d been standing on the dunes was moving towards the shoreline and into their path. His dark clothing blended into the night and he stopped at the water’s edge and turned to face them. The steady hold of his gaze made her uneasy. He drew a joint to his mouth and inhaled deeply, the heady smell of marijuana drifting downwind.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” he said.

They stopped.

“Going anywhere nice?”

“Just walking,” Noah answered, and she could hear the tension in his voice. “I thought you’d still be at the party.”

“Wasn’t in the party spirit.”

The man stepped towards Mia, close enough for her to smell the smoke on his breath. His face was unshaven and his clothes looked disheveled. “And who are you?”

Her fingers tightened around the shell at her side. “Mia.”

“Where are you from, Mia?”

“England.”

“How very nice.” He scratched at his upper arm suddenly, as
if bothered by a mosquito. “As Noah’s forgotten his manners, I better introduce myself. I’m Jez, his brother.”

Brother?

He put the joint to his lips and extended his hand. His fingers felt bony and callused.

She searched for a similarity she must have missed. His hair was thinning, small blond tufts sprouting from his head, and his mouth was narrower than Noah’s, but there was something shared in the prominence of their brows.

“So you’re a
friend
of Noah’s?”

She hesitated, unsure. “Yes.”

“What brings you to Australia?”

“I’m just traveling.”

“You smoke, Mia? Fancy getting stoned?”

“She doesn’t,” Noah cut in. “We’ve got to get going. See you later,” he said, moving off.

They walked in silence. Mia turned the shell through her fingers, waiting for Noah to say something. When several minutes passed without a word, she asked, “So that’s the brother you’re traveling with?”

“Yes.”

“He’s older than you?”

“By three years.”

“Same gap between me and Katie. What’s he like?”

“He smokes too much weed.”

She glanced at Noah sideways. There was something troubled in his expression. She was going to ask more, when he said, “I’ll walk you back to the tavern now.”

She didn’t want their night to end like this. In Maui, she had left Noah beside the cooling embers of the beach fire, not talking of phone numbers or e-mail addresses, because that had never
been her way. It was only when she had woken the following day and drew his sweater to her face that she had found herself wanting to know more about him. There had been other men, other one-night stands, but with Noah it had felt different. When he looked at her, it was as if he saw exactly who she was. She had taken to jogging along the beach in the hope of seeing him. But she hadn’t. And then she and Finn had flown on.

Now she realized that she didn’t want to let him go again.

She stopped walking.

He turned to face her and she felt her heart beginning to race. “That night in Maui,” she began. “I felt like . . . there was a connection between us, or something.”

He lowered his gaze. “Mia—”

A cool feeling crept over her skin, as if he was about to say something she didn’t want to hear. Before he had a chance, she stepped forward and kissed him.

“No,” he whispered against her lips. “You don’t want this.”

But as her fingertips met his skin, every cell in her body was telling her that she did.

(Western Australia, June)

E
d drove with his elbow resting on the driver’s side window, his forearm turning a reddish brown in the afternoon sun. Katie watched the vineyards of Margaret River flashing by in rich strips of green, an earthy breeze filling the car and stirring her hair.

“There is a winery,” he was saying, reaching for a booklet by the gearstick, “that runs a vine-to-bottle tour. It’s in here somewhere.” He handed her the booklet. “Seeing as we drink so much of the stuff, it might be interesting to understand how it’s produced. What do you think? There’s wine tasting at the end,” he added hopefully. “Shall I book?”

What Katie thought was that a winery tour was not the purpose of visiting Margaret River: Mia was. But what Katie said was, “Yes, do.” Only three days of Ed’s visit remained and she was determined that they’d enjoy them.

“I’ve been thinking about the wines for the wedding. The sommelier from Highdown Manor suggested a Pinot Grigio for the white. Californian, I think. I ordered a bottle while you were away
and, I have to say, it was better than I expected. No hangover, either.”

“Perfect,” she said, glancing at the roadside where a dead kangaroo was slumped with an engorged stomach; a swarm of flies buzzed around its lifeless black eyes.

“I meant to tell you, Jess said the bridesmaid’s dress arrived. No alterations needed. She offered to look for shoes if you think you’ll run out of time.”

“She was meant to be one of two bridesmaids.”

Ed glanced at her. She hadn’t realized she’d made the remark aloud.

“You do still want to go ahead with the wedding?”

Her thoughts were stalled by the sudden shift in conversational gear. “Of course.”

“But?”

She rolled the wine booklet into a tube and then smoothed it flat again. “It’s just hard imagining Mia not there.” She had pictured them getting ready together, Mia teasing her for the meticulous schedule with allocated time slots for breakfast, manicures, hairstyling and makeup. Old tensions would have been put aside for the day and they’d have drunk champagne in glass flutes, raising a toast to their mother. Mia would have helped her step into her wedding dress and told her it was beautiful, and then cursed the thirty ivory buttons she had to do up by hand.

“I know it is, darling. I’ve given a great deal of thought as to whether we should postpone the wedding. If we did postpone it—say for a year—what difference does it make? Mia still wouldn’t be there. I came to the conclusion that we should go ahead as planned because it gives us both something positive to focus on. Life has to move on, doesn’t it? Our wedding can be the first stage of that.”

That was the whole problem: she wasn’t ready for her life to move on. Not without Mia in it.

Ed swung the car into a gas station. “I’ll fill up.” He cut the engine, then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, the conversation closed.

Without the air-conditioning, heat engulfed the car. She tugged down her dress; the lining was clinging uncomfortably around her middle. She was eager to reach their hotel and drench herself beneath a cold, powerful shower. Car journeys always left her restless and sticky, something about leather seats against the backs of her thighs or the sugar-rich car snacks that coated her teeth. She wound down the windows and breathed in the deep gas fumes.

A rusted pickup pulled in on the other side of the pump, music blaring from rolled-down windows. Surfboards were slung in the back and in the passenger seat a girl of about Mia’s age sat with her feet propped on the dash. Her toenails were painted electric blue. A man stepped out in scuffed flip-flops, his heels cracked and dirty. He flicked open the fuel cap and clunked the nozzle in. As she watched, she wondered if he was anything like Noah, the enigma in Mia’s journal whom her entries were weaved around.

Katie felt intrusive reading some of the intimate descriptions of their romance, yet was also glued to the pages as she discovered her sister’s growing feelings. She’d read that the day after Mia had been reunited with Noah, she had climbed into the passenger seat of his van, which smelled of neoprene and warmed surf wax, and they’d bounced along unsealed roads, dust flying in their wake, till they reached an empty beach. They swam out to a tiny island where they stripped off their swimsuits and lay drying on the sun-baked rocks. Noah talked to her about spear-fishing and a shoal of Spanish mackerel that had coiled above his head like a silver whirlwind, far too beautiful to spear. She talked about traveling
and the ocean, and of books by Hemingway that had given her a thirst for both.

Mia wrote pages and pages about him, decorating the entries with swirling doodles that blossomed from the margins. She detailed every interaction and transcribed verbatim a conversation about music. Other entries were overshadowed by doubt as she questioned why Noah preferred to sleep alone each night, or interpreted his quietness as a cooling off. Finn featured only as a passing comment, and Katie found that she missed the descriptions of him.

Ed bent his head to the window. “Would you like anything?”

“No, thanks.”

She watched him walk into the kiosk, swinging the car keys around a finger. She turned in her seat and reached for Mia’s journal. Pulling it onto her lap, she opened it at the latest entry. The date caught her eye:
“Christmas Day.”

She remembered that they had spoken that day. The phone had rung just as she was leaving the apartment, and she’d run across the hall with her handbag bouncing against her hip. She was thrilled to hear Mia’s voice, but what should have been a festive chat turned sour. The journal entry would contain Mia’s frank opinion on the conversation and the thought of reading it filled Katie with dread. She bit down on her lip, knowing that this phone call was only a prelude to their final devastating argument weeks later.

When Ed returned, he placed a handful of mints between them. “The chap said we’re only a couple of kilometers from the hotel.”

She nodded.

He started the engine and then glanced at the open journal. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she said, closing it and putting it away.

“Katie?”

She swallowed. “I think Mia’s next entry is going to be about
an argument we had. I remember her phoning me from Margaret River.”

He pulled out of the garage, accelerating sharply to slip between two cars in the fast-moving traffic. When he was back in his lane, he said, “And you think it’ll be difficult reading about it?”

“Perhaps.”

“What was the argument about?”

She hesitated. “Sister stuff.”

“When was this?”

“Christmas.”

His eyebrows rose. “Just after I proposed.”

“Was it?” she said, hoping to keep her tone light.

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

Ed stopped the car alongside a tall manor house with a regal green front door and brass knocker. There would be no dorm beds or guitar playing here. “I’ll check in and take the bags up. Why don’t you stroll into town to clear your head?”

“I think I’ll just take a shower. Cool off.”

“A walk might do you good. You could have a look at the restaurants, too. See where you fancy going for dinner.”

“Okay,” she agreed, unclipping her seat belt.

“If it will help, why don’t we read that entry together when you’re back?”

Katie smiled, but she had no intention of reading the journal with Ed. How could she when the argument had been about him?

*   *   *

Katie wandered through the small town of Margaret River, glancing into shop windows. Heat radiated from the sun-baked pavements and the metallic bodies of parked cars, and she felt the prickle of perspiration at the backs of her knees.

She passed an art gallery with a sleek navy sign and framed paintings of white sailboats in the window. She paused, admiring the soft curves of their sails, full and proud with wind, and the skill with which the artist had captured the shimmer of evening light reflecting off the water.

A bell announced her entrance into the gallery, causing a redheaded man to look up from his book. He smiled, said, “Afternoon,” and then returned to reading.

Paintings filled the crisp white walls and she chose to look at one positioned beneath an air-conditioning vent, grateful for the chilled air against the nape of her neck. The painting was an abstract of a woman’s hand. From the fine lines running over her knuckles and the ridges in her short nails, Katie guessed it belonged to a woman in her fifties or sixties. The hand clasped a cheap pen, the plastic end chewed and splintered, incongruous against the refined poise in which it held the pen above quality writing paper. The painter had obscured most of the words so that the eye was drawn to only one phrase:
“When we were young.”