A southern star, p.7
A Southern Star, page 7
“And I can tell that even now you’re not telling me everything,” Blake accused. He made an effort to moderate his voice. “Christie, I know you talking to Mark, to whoever, is innocent, but why not talk to me the same way? You can’t even be straight with me about what you said to Mark.”
“Because I don’t want to betray Mark’s confidence,” she burst out, surprising him.
“Fair enough,” he said. “Sounds like the two of you had quite a talk,” he added, amazed that Mark, who was usually so private, had told Christie. In that moment, Christie realised that Blake knew also. She nodded and his eyes softened slightly.
“And I felt guilty last night when I realised what you’d done. Mark told me how I could find you, pointed out the track.”
“You felt guilty?” Blake echoed, watching her intently.
“Yes,” she said. “I thought you’d be cold all week.”
Blake’s eyes flicked away and back to Christie again, disappointment flooding him as he realised she was talking in a practical sense, rather than about her cold behaviour the previous morning. “Well you can stop feeling guilty then,” he said, his voice unreadable. “You’ve discharged your duty.”
Christie nodded silently, realising she had explained nothing of substance, merely parried Blake’s questions. “I wanted to talk to you,” she said, trying one final time.
“You’ve had so much time to talk to me, Christie. And I’ve tried. But it’s like getting blood from a stone.” The finality in his voice made her heart clench; she could not speak.
“Are we going hunting or not, mate?” Christie turned as she heard the surly male voice, seeing the hunter who had complained when she frightened away the deer. Her throat ached with unshed tears; she looked up at Blake a final time, knowing she needed to leave to catch the water taxi.
“You’d better head off then,” Blake said, not knowing what else to say, how to get through to her. “I’m going hunting.”
Christie nodded, glancing at the dunes in the distance, trying to bring herself under control. “It was only because—”
“What?” Blake interrupted harshly.
Because you mean more, Christie finished silently. “Thank you again for the sleeping bag, and for everything the other evening,” Christie said instead. “Everything.” She turned abruptly and walked quickly down the track, not wanting to break down completely in front of Blake.
Blake watched her go, exhaling, uncomfortable without knowing why. He heard Greg complaining again, rounded on him savagely, swearing bluntly. I don’t know who the hell invited Greg along, Blake thought, his instinctive dislike of the other man increasing. He could see Christie was still walking swiftly down the track, rounding a slight curve, almost out of sight. She wanted to tell me something, he realised. And I kept interrupting.
Ignoring Greg, Blake strode up the track, catching up to Christie almost immediately. She swung around, obviously surprised as she heard him say her name. Shocked, he saw she had been crying. “What?” she said defensively, embarrassed that he could see her tears. “You were going hunting. And I’ve got to get going.”
“Bambi can wait,” he said irreverently.
“Not according to your friend,” Christie muttered.
Blake’s eyes narrowed. “Scott?” he queried, remembering he had heard Scott introduce himself.
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I do really need to get going, Blake.”
“You wanted to tell me something,” he stated.
Christie shrugged, her eyes defeated. He fought the urge to take her in his arms, conscious of his rough attire after two days and nights camping. “You’ve said it all, Blake,”
she replied, not wanting to admit how she felt in the face of his coldness, aware of his masculine scent, the stubble on his face emphasising his dark eyes.
“That’s it then?” he said abruptly.
“What more do you want?” she said, an edge of bitterness in her voice. Unable to stop himself he stepped closer, looking down at her, standing so near she could see the coarse wool of his jacket collar, the strong column of his neck. Her gaze crept upwards. Unbidden, she half raised her hand, wanting to—
“A goodbye kiss,” she heard Blake say, his voice deep, rough.
Before she could react she sensed Blake move closer, unslinging his rifle and laying it down on the tussock.
“Blake—”
His strong hands moved up to unclip the strap of her pack across her chest; Christie had a sudden intense memory of his words to her on the ferry. “Forgot to get my sleeping bag,” he said softly. “And it’s in your pack.” His touch brushed over the front of her thick woollen jersey, seeming to burn through even the fine merino top underneath.
“Why are you undoing the…” Christie’s breath strangled in her throat as his hands moved lower, snapping open the clip across her hips.
“So I can do them up again,” Blake replied, laughter, desire, in his voice. Effortlessly, he eased the pack off her shoulders. Again, Christie said his name, hardly realising she had spoken out loud, aware only of Blake standing close to her, the distant roar of the waves from the bay. Christie looked up at him, moving closer imperceptibly. She felt the stubble on his
cheek as he turned his head, pulling her against him, kissing her hungrily. Christie returned his kisses ardently, clinging to his heavy wool jacket, pressing against him.
Blake kept his arms around her, holding her tightly before relaxing his embrace. “So I’ll see you when I get back,” he said, trying to be casual, instantly registering her tense
reaction. “To return your sleeping bag,” he added quickly. “It’s back at the hut.” Christie relaxed slightly, suddenly relieved she didn’t have to explain despite her earlier resolve. She knew it was far too soon to be in another relationship, even a casual one, which Blake’s comments clearly hinted at. More like spelled out in very clear words, Christie thought wryly, unable to clear her mind of the spiralling desire she felt for Blake, belatedly trying to disguise her feelings.
Paul’s face suddenly filled her mind; her quickly indrawn breath made Blake tilt his head to look down at her, frowning. Reluctantly, feeling strangely empty, Christie straightened up, stepped out of Blake’s embrace. “I should go,” she muttered woodenly. Blake nodded silently, stung by her continuing rejection despite her initial reaction to his embrace. Blood from a stone, he repeated to himself silently.
Without speaking he moved over to her pack, discarded on the ground only a few minutes ago. Mechanically, he unzipped the lower compartment, removed his sleeping bag, put it to one side. Christie moved over towards him, reached for her pack. She stilled at the look on Blake’s face, knowing she had upset him. Suddenly intensely weary, she stood as Blake held the pack for her to slide her arms through the side straps, the memory of his help on the ferry, his words only a few minutes ago, threatening to overwhelm her.
Blake moved to stand in front of her; before he could do anything more, Christie deliberately reached up herself to fasten the straps across her chest and hips, the decisive snap of each clip loud in the silence between them. She watched as Blake slung his rifle over his arm, reached for his sleeping bag, quietly appalled at her own behaviour, knowing she richly deserved the cold look he slanted at her before he walked off without another word.
— # —
Christie walked into the clearing at Freshwater Landing just as Ian threw the rope over the wooden post on the jetty. The tramp back to meet him had passed in a blur. With no time to linger at Mason Bay she had walked down the beach as if in a dream, staring blindly at the crashing surf as she replayed Blake’s words, her own behaviour.
She spoke to Ian for several minutes, minimising Blake’s presence, emphasising the incredible scenery. As she mechanically answered Ian’s polite questions, Christie’s mind was still on Blake, realising he still had to return her sleeping bag. I’ll talk to him then, she decided, not wanting to leave things between them as they were. Christie was uncomfortably aware of the grains of truth in what Blake had said as she agonised again over how to explain herself. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything, she decided suddenly, as the water taxi bumped against the wharf at Golden Bay. Blake will just drop off the sleeping bag at the hotel and that will be that. I can hardly expect anything more, she thought, remembering the coldness of his words, her own contrary behaviour. An explanation won’t fix things.
Again, Ian helped Christie with her pack, not commenting on her sudden blush. Soon Christie was back at the crib, looking forward to a hot shower and a comfortable bed. Exhausted, she fell into bed early, thoughts of Blake filling her mind. So much for Paul, she thought sleepily. Maybe I will talk to Blake.
— # —
The next day at the hotel was a haze of people and routines; Christie was relieved as she realised it was almost the end of her shift. Smiling, she handed room keys and copies of a tourist map of the island to two middle—aged women who had just checked in. They smiled back, still preoccupied with their own conversation. Christie focused on what she needed to tell the next receptionist, only half listening to what the two women were saying as they walked up the stairs.
“She’s so thrilled,” Christie could hear one of them say. “They’ve been trying for so long, and she’s so lucky, no morning sickness.”
“Really?” the other woman commented. Christie froze, feeling like ice cold water had just washed over her.
“She says the worst thing is just the constant exhaustion.” Dimly, Christie heard their laughter.
“Not as bad as morning sickness, I’ll bet,” one of them commented, their voices finally fading as they reached the top of the staircase.
Shaking violently, Christie gripped the desk for support, her mouth dry. Her stomach swirled with nerves. What if? What if? Her mind repeated the same words over and over again, remembering the utter shock of the breakup, remembering the way she had felt since. The overwhelming tiredness, the other signs she had blamed on grief and stress. Suddenly her mind cleared; she straightened up. I was using contraception, Christie remembered, almost hyperventilating as she thought back. But I should— She tensed at her replacement’s cheerful greeting, excusing herself, almost bolting out of the front door of the hotel.
Chapter Five
An hour later, Christie fumbled to open the door of the crib, breaking down in tears as she blindly stumbled through the living room, falling onto the bed. Noticing her obvious distress the nurse had been practical, sympathetic as the test confirmed Christie’s pregnancy, suggested she make an appointment to see a doctor in Invercargill for a check-up.
Now, as reality set in, Christie started to question what the best course was, unable to stop her thoughts as alternatives spun through her overwrought mind. But I can’t do it, she thought brokenly. I can’t have a termination. She winced as she thought of the euphemism. Fresh tears overwhelmed her as she thought of Blake, desperately, irrationally, wanting him to be there with her. Like he would, she thought, distraught. He would only want a casual hook up, he… Christie wept, agonising memories of Blake joking with her, holding her, filling her mind.
Now suddenly, her life was going down a different path, even if a small, barely-heard voice inside her had wanted a summer romance, a casual relationship to forget the hurt of Paul and Amanda. Now even that possibility had been taken from her as the shadow of her pregnancy fell over her. How am I going to cope, she wondered, her thoughts twisting endlessly through the night.
The evening with Blake at Mason Bay taunted her with the vividness of her memory, only to be replaced with images of Paul in the first heady months of their relationship, his callous words when he told her about Amanda. Christie knew she would have to contact Paul, at least let him know, but the following days brought no relief to her exhausted mind. She barely got through work each day, relying on a deep core of professionalism but spending every spare moment sorting through plans in her mind. Christie avoided Lisa, making vague excuses and delaying replies to Lisa’s text messages.
Eventually, Lisa cornered her at the reception desk in front of Murray, insisting Christie join her and others for drinks on Saturday night. Trapped, not wanting to say anything in front of Murray, Christie nodded quickly. Guilt filled her as she thought of the wines she had drunk, oblivious to her pregnancy. The results of the furtive Internet searches she had done at the Internet café had terrified her; she wondered what Lisa would say when she saw Christie drinking juice. I have to tell her too, she realised, knowing Lisa would tell Blake, dreading the reaction.
Again, Christie left the hotel quickly at the end of her shift, wanting to return to the crib to think. She stared mindlessly at the television, realising she was at least starting to recover from the initial shock and starting to make tentative plans. Christie still had not told Paul, knowing the phone call to him would make it all real. She heard a knock at the door, looked around quickly. Her heart leapt and then relaxed, reasoning that Blake was more likely to go to the hotel than call in to the crib. Especially after the way I behaved, she thought, a mirthless smile on her face.
It will be Lisa, Christie thought, dreading opening the door to her friend and her blunt questions. She reached for the front door hesitantly, stepping back abruptly as it was forcefully pushed open. “Christie, what is going on?” She closed her eyes briefly at Blake’s direct tone, the shock of seeing him in front of her making her throat ache with yet more tears. I’m not ready for this, she thought weakly. I just want to curl up in a ball and— “Answer me,” he said, steel in his voice as he stepped into the crib.
“I’m fine,” Christie managed. Blake’s eyes raked over her, assessing, relentless.
“Spare me,” he returned. “Next you’ll be talking about porridge and the weather.” He strode into the lounge, not waiting to be invited in. Casually he set the sleeping bag down on one of the chairs.
“Thanks,” Christie said tonelessly, her mind filled with memories of Mason Bay, of the evening with Blake, returning his sleeping bag. Of him keeping her warm. Dangerous tears threatened; she blinked them away. He stood in the room, still watching her, his face unreadable. “How did hunting go?” she said lamely, wanting him to leave. Wanting him to stay, wanting to throw herself in his arms. I don’t know what I want, she thought, panicked. And he is going to find out, whether I tell him or not.
“Really well,” he said briefly. “Apart from one morning, when there was a distraction.” Christie saw the warmth in his eyes, warmth that disappeared so quickly she thought she had imagined it.
“So your friend said,” she managed, barely able to cope with Blake’s presence let alone try to flirt with him.
“Forget him,” Blake said roughly, surprising her. “Scott told me what Greg said; he takes everything too seriously.”
Christie took a deep breath. “Actually, I’m not feeling that well, Blake. So I’ll let you head off. But thanks again for dropping off my sleeping bag. And for everything at Mason Bay.” Unable to continue she simply looked away, biting her lip.
“So that’s why you ignored me this afternoon by the hotel?” His voice was cool.
“I didn’t even notice you, Blake,” Christie said, her surprise genuine.
“Another win for my ego,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. Christie looked up at him, her heart breaking, knowing that whatever she said now, there would be no future for them.
“So you’re not well.” Blake repeated her words. She shook her head, not knowing what to say. He looked out towards the bay, knowing Christie was not being completely honest, not believing her. “The island rumour mill has you going into the medical centre waiting room a few days ago.” Christie tensed with shock, dimly remembering the crowded waiting room, realising any one there could have known Blake.
“Why ask me at all?” she said with difficulty. “You can just rely on gossip.”
“I prefer not to do that,” he said quietly, not mentioning that his friend had also thought Christie was upset. Christie remained stubbornly silent. Blake took a step closer to her. “We got to the part where you weren’t well. And you might have been to the medical centre.” His voice was low, dangerous. “But don’t bother telling me what’s going on.”
Christie heard his words, remembered his comments when she had returned his sleeping bag. She knew she should just tell him to go, let him find out through the rumour mill. It doesn’t matter anymore, she thought bleakly. Part of her still hoped desperately for Blake’s support, for the benefit of his practical clear mind. I do need to tell him now, she realised, bracing herself.
“I’m pregnant,” Christie blurted out, terror rushing through her as she saw the shock in Blake’s eyes. She waited for him to say something, anything, so she could gauge his reaction.
“Congratulations,” he said hoarsely, blinded by hurt. “I didn’t realise you were seeing someone on the island.” Before Christie could react he laughed bitterly. “Something the rumour mill didn’t pick up on.”
“I’m not,” Christie whispered, stunned at his automatic assumption.
“Well I know it’s not me, Christie. I guess that’s why you wouldn’t sleep with me.” Blake’s tone became derisive, sarcastic. “Even though we did actually sleep together.”
“No,” Christie said firmly, realising whatever answer she gave would anger him. “I didn’t know, Blake, until a few days ago.” She looked up at him, pleading with her eyes, not wanting him to think she had known but not told him.
“Christie,” he said deliberately, “you can’t have it both ways. You say you’ve only just realised, but you haven’t met anyone on the island. Get your story straight, at least.”
“I do have my story straight,” she said with dignity, inwardly flinching at his tone, the look in his eyes. “Just go, Blake, please.” She looked at him, his imposing height dwarfing the small room, his jeans and casual shirt only emphasising his fit, toned body.
