Lighthouse Bay Read Online Free PDF Page B

wood, earth—filled her head. A shelf was lined up with inks, nibs and watercolor paper, books of art by Cézanne, Monet and Turner: all her favorites. So Mark had been listening. As the wind grew gustier and the thunder closer, she removed things from wrappers, lined them up tidily in drawers, going through the process robotically; both because she was tired and because she was barely able to enjoy the fantasy scenario without Mark by her side. He had purchased these things and putthem here assuming one day they would open them together, that he would be able to see her face and hear her squeals of delight, have a glass of champagne with her and toast her new art room at her beach cottage. But in her stubbornness and her fear she had refused to come here with him. Now he was gone. Now it was too late to tell him how grateful she was for his generosity, and especially for taking seriously her dream of painting.
    When the rain started in earnest, she remembered all the windows were open, so she grabbed her torch and hurried to the lounge room and kitchen. The wind was gusting madly by now, tying the curtains in knots, laden with the sweet, damp smell of rain. Libby slid the windows closed and was left with sticky humidity. She was tempted to reopen the windows but knew it would mean rainwater to clean up in the morning. She went to the other side of the house and opened the front door. From here she could see the stormy sky without getting wet, so she watched for a while as the lightning flashed and the trees were torn this way and that in the wind. Then she glanced up towards the lighthouse.
    There was a dim flickering light in one of the windows. Libby squinted, sure she was seeing things. Surely the lighthouse was empty. But there was unmistakably a light, like candlelight. Who was in the lighthouse, with a candle, at this time of night? The nerves in her belly tingled a little with fear, as she remembered how spooky the lighthouse had seemed to her all those years ago. Pirate Pete had cast a long shadow.
    No, tiredness and the storm had made her jumpy. She went back to bed, pushed off the sheets and slept naked and uncovered in the sticky warmth. She didn’t sleep well, dreaming of flickering lights in windows, and a cold ocean roaring like a great beast.

Four
    1901
    I sabella can do nothing but trust the sea. There is no ground beneath her feet, so she curls her toes lightly on the planks of the anchor deck as she watches the great waves roll beneath her. The sun is bright and wind flaps the sails and rattles the cleats. She pleads quietly with the ocean: “Keep us safe, for we are not fish; we are men and women, and we are far from land.” Every morning she comes out here and says her little prayer, in fair weather and in foul. So far, they have been safe. And while she knows rationally that her prayer can’t be the reason they are safe, somehow she still suspects it in a superstitious corner of her heart.
    “Making a spectacle of yourself again, Isabella?”
    Isabella turns. Her husband, Arthur, stands down a few steps, in front of the deck house. His arms are folded and, under his thin pale hair, he wears a frown. Or perhaps that is his permanent expression, at least for her.
    “Don’t fret,” she says, a little too boldly for his liking, no doubt, “nobody can hear me.”
    “They all know you’re standing up there, lips moving, talking to the sky.”
    “Talking to the sea, actually,” she says, moving to the stairs.
    “Shoes, Isabella. Where are your shoes?”
    Shoes. Today it is shoes. Yesterday it was unbound hair. The day before, gloves. Gloves! Why insist that she dress as though she were going to high tea when she simply wanted to get above deck for fresh air and sunshine? Nobody on this wretched ship cares what she wears, surely. “My shoes are in our cabin, Arthur,” she replies.
    “Fetch them. Wear them. I can endure you going without hat and gloves, but shoes are a necessity.” His eyes