Bay of Fires by Poppy Gee Page A

disappeared last summer was staying?”
    Hall did, but he would have preferred to see it in the morning. He needed to get some sleep. He had a lot of work to do tomorrow. Sarah didn’t wait for him to answer. She was already walking across the rocks, carrying the Esky.
    The shack was one of three timber huts overlooking the gulch. It was uninhabited, Sarah told him. The other two shacks had been let to holidaying families, as usual, but the one where the Crawford family had stayed remained vacant. There was a padlock on the door but they did not go close enough to look. It was spooky, hiding behind the gum tree with Sarah, peering out at the derelict hut. Boats screeched eerily on their moorings in the little harbor and he could hear tiny rapid waves lapping the sand. A curtain inside the shack was partly open and Hall fancied he saw something looking out at them.
    They shared the last can of beer, passing it back and forth. When the can was finished, Sarah crumpled it with both hands and stowed it in her Esky with the other empties. She turned to leave. Hall picked up the Esky and they followed a sandy track back toward the road. It was not a bad thing that they had run out of beer.
    The walk back to the guesthouse seemed to take a very short time. In his bedroom he opened the curtain to let the moonlight in and slid the window open so they could hear the waves crashing below. As long as he had had at least six drinks, he had the confidence to know what women liked. Anything less and he found himself walking home alone to open a bottle of red wine and switch on the television. Tonight he had drunk more than enough. He sat beside her on the bed and began his routine. It started with soft kisses on her cheek and neck, his fingers gently tugging the ends of her hair. The second stage involved the removal of clothing, and this he did gently too, one button at a time, one garment at a time. Sarah was wearing a flannelette shirt with the pocket ripped off. Underneath, her skin glowed in the soft light. He undid her hair elastic band and loosened her hair. It was longer than he thought it would be; honey-golden waves that smelled freshly washed. Her plump lips smiled each time he touched her. Most alluring to Hall were her eyes, those hazel eyes watching him kiss her, conveying both intelligence and a heartbreaking vulnerability. She was beautiful and he told her so.
    “You don’t have to talk me into anything.” She pulled him onto her.
    Hall tried to remember the things that women liked, but Sarah’s exuberance made him forget. The bed was old and rocked against the wall. It was loud. He thought about making a joke, but she was ignoring the noise. In the silent guesthouse the banging of hard wood on plywood was excruciating. He couldn’t believe that he was thinking about Jane Taylor right now, but the guesthouse owner would have to be deaf not to be awakened by the racket. He braced the bed head with his hand until Sarah was still.
    In the morning he boiled water on the gas stove for coffee. Sarah watched the ocean with her back to him.
    “Such a contrast of color,” he said. “Those reddish granite boulders and the ocean. Makes you want to run down and jump right in.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Maybe not. It’s always colder than it looks.”
    “Yes.”
    He tried a different topic. “I heard there were middens in the area; where are they?”
    “Don’t ask me. That’s a can of worms.”
    He couldn’t recall much of what they had talked about last night. He remembered swaying up the road and trying to scare each other with tales of serial killers. He remembered standing outside the guesthouse and contemplating inviting her in for a cup of tea when she grabbed his hand and led him up the ramp. The floor creaked with each careful step, and he put a hand over her mouth to muffle her giggles.
    While he waited for the kettle to boil, he read the signs on display. The sign above the sink said Wash, Dry, and Put Away Your Dishes.