Free Salvage by Jason Nahrung Page A

counter lunch? I’ll be ready for a drink by then. Besides, I’ll need to stock up if the neighbours are coming for dinner.’
    She put the flowers on the kitchen bench so she could hug him from behind, delighting in the feel of his chest, his back, the smell of his hair. It reminded her of their early days. If only he hadn’t invited Helena and Paul to dinner. She didn’t want anything to interfere with their fledgling reconciliation. She certainly didn’t want to see Helena again, not until she’d had time to make sense of it all.
    He patted her hands, crossed over his chest, without breaking his concentration. Schematics inched across the screen, unintelligible white lines on a blue background.
    ‘I might go down the beach,’ she said. ‘Leave you to your swearing.’
    He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest, the vibration triggering a ripple of pleasure across her skin.
    ‘Don’t get burnt.’
    ‘I’ll be careful, Dad.’ The word jagged through her and she paused. His hand held hers, squeezed.
    ‘I won’t be too long, Mel. Once this is done, it’s just you and me for the rest of the week. Promise.’
    She was quietly thrilled to feel his gaze sweep her as she changed her clothes. She kissed him on the cheek before she patted her straw hat onto her head. ‘See you for lunch. Don’t work too hard.’
    Armed with beach towel, book and sunscreen, she stepped out onto the deck. There was no sign of last night’s storm, the sky a brilliant azure, pale clouds stretched like frayed cotton across the horizon. A slight breeze tempered the heat of the sunshine.
    Through the glass door, she saw him punch a number into the landline, then heard him say, ‘Leanne’. She paused. ‘She’s fine. Just going to sunbake.’ He waved, the phone to his ear. She waved back. He started to talk about a foyer and she walked away. Damn that she had called him Dad; it just slipped out. She recalled the sex from last night, the cramps of this morning, the blood on the sheet. It wasn’t too late, she told herself. He’d finish his stupid building and then they could start over. Everything would be just fine.

    She stayed longer than she intended to, huddled in the shade of a whispering sheoak, its fallen needles making a soft carpet. She’d dipped her toes in the receding tide, feeling a shiver as she remembered her nocturnal swim, trying to reconcile the woman of that night with the one who stood here now. Small steps, she told herself. Small steps, back to Richard and the way they’d been. Moreton Island shimmered in a haze, gulls cried overhead, the surf sighed. Barnacles dotted the beacon’s pole; two cormorants perched atop it.
    Give Richard time to sort out his contractual mess , she told herself. Don’t rush things.
    She finished her book, glad to escape into its fiction and not worry about her own dilemmas; drowsed in the warmth; waved away the occasional fly. The bite on her neck itched and when she rubbed it, her fingers came away streaked with blood. She considered washing it with salt water, but stayed on her towel, lulled to lassitude by the heat and the surf.
    Finally hunger drove her to her feet. She wrapped her sarong around her hips, did the buttons of her blouse up over her bathing suit, slipped her feet into her sandals. Maybe she should paint her nails. She hadn’t for months, not since she’d fallen pregnant. Maybe it was time.
    When she reached the cabin, Richard was drinking beer on the deck with a man she didn’t know. Richard raised a stubby at her and she flourished her novel at him. His eyes tracked her as she shook sand from her sandals and came up the stairs. She leaned over Richard, the brim of her hat in the way when she went to kiss his lips so she settled for his forehead.
    ‘Mel, this is Paul, your friend Helena’s husband.’
    She felt heat in her cheeks and chest, one hand fluttering towards her lips.
    ‘My wife told me all about you,’ Paul said, his accent much like