A streak of lightning speared through the clouds, and the plane tilted as we headed into a steep, bumpy descent toward a bay fringed with yellow sand.
The lone flight attendant ordered us to restore seats to the upright position and stash loose belongings beneath them. She’d remained buckled into her fold-down seat next to the door for the duration of the short flight from Sydney’s international airport. The pilot announced we were about to land in Moruya. He said it was unseasonably hot and that the storm was moving south of us. Moruya was a short drive from Jarrawarra Bay. Martin would be waiting.
Crosswinds buffeted us, and my stomach surged as a foreign landscape whirled up to greet us—a twisting chocolate-brown river and estuary thick with mangroves. Spindly gums bowing to the wind. Oyster beds in the river with decaying pilings and docks. A crane flew low over the water. As we lowered, I saw kangaroos grazing along the side of the airport fence. We hit the runway with a jolt, bounced, and hit with another hard bang, and then the plane rattled and shuddered all the way to the very end of the runway, right past the tiny airport building. After the pilot finally managed to bring us to a stop, we turned and taxied slowly back to the building. The heat grew stifling inside the cabin. I peered through the tiny window at the squat, tin-roofed structure that passed for the Moruya Airport. A patio in front with tables. A fence. A gate . . . I saw him. My heart kicked.
Martin.
Tall. Deeply bronzed. Wearing shorts. His hair gleaming like gold. He shaded his eyes, scanning the windows of our plane as we came in. I could barely restrain myself from unbuckling and ferreting my stuff out from under my seat. I wanted to see it all. Right now. I wanted a hot shower, a clean bed. I wanted to feel my husband’s arms folding me into this new and exotic adventure of a life we’d chosen.
The seat belt sign pinged off.
The flight attendant opened the door. I could smell the sea. She extended the foldout stairs. We all waited, sweating, as the pilot and copilot climbed out first.
I was the first to descend after them.
Hot wind slammed me as I stepped onto the stairs. It carried the scent of eucalyptus trees and a tinge of smoke from distant forest fires. Martin’s hand shot up as he saw me. He waved wildly, and I hurried down the stairs, over the tarmac, and in through the arched gateway. He lifted me off my feet and hugged me as he spun me around in a circle and kissed me. Tears poured down my face—of happiness, relief, pure exhaustion. I was done.
He set me down, moved my bangs back off my brow, studied me a moment, then gripped my face in both his hands. Looking at me, right into me, his blue eyes all the more blue against his deep tan. He said, “Welcome to our new home, Ellie Cresswell-Smith. I have missed you so much. How was the trip?”
His accent was markedly Australian—much stronger than when I’d seen him last.
“It was . . . okay.” The baby who had screamed the entire way from Vancouver, the claustrophobia at being stuffed into a flying tin can, the anxiety bordering on panic, the zero sleep . . . It all fled my mind. “You look so tanned, so . . . Australian.”
“And what does that look like? Crocodile Dundee?” He wiggled his eyebrows.
I laughed, thrilled to be back in his aura and feeling the throb of his energy once more. “Thank heavens, no. I’m dying to see our new place. The photos looked amazing.” I pointed out my bags on the trolley that had been pushed from the plane. Martin dragged my two suitcases off the cart. His flip-flops flapped as we made our way from the airport building to his truck—our truck. All this was mine, too. This life.
Kangaroos watched us from sparse, dry grass near the parking area. Heat pressed down. I heard beetles. Birds screamed—harsh and unfamiliar sounds. Sweat beaded and trickled between my breasts. My hair felt sticky against my scalp and cloying down my back. I could smell the old sweat on myself. I literally ached for a hot shower, a firm bed, fresh sheets.
“Our new ute,” Martin said proudly as he drew back a tarp that covered the back. He hefted my bags into the high bed. They landed with a thump. I wanted to tell him to be careful with the suitcase that contained my art supplies, but I held back.
“I cannot wait for a shower,” I said, moving toward the passenger door. “And sleep. I don’t even know how many days I’ve been awake now.”
“Oh, babe—” He hesitated.
I stopped with my hand on the door. He looked crestfallen.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I brought us a picnic. I thought we’d drive straight on up to Agnes Basin so I could show you the site office and development right away. After all, that’s the whole reason we’re here, doing this thing, right?”
My heart sank. I wavered, feeling dizzy suddenly. “I . . . I hope we’re here for more than just the development.”
His gaze locked with mine. His features turned unfriendly. I blinked. I was imagining it. The world—the sunlight—everything was too harsh. Too bright. Too hot. Too discordant. The meds, my hangover, the jet lag suddenly making my ears ring. I dug into my purse, found my big sunglasses, put them on. “It’s fine.” I cleared my throat and focused on speaking with an easy, breezy tone. “I’m just
