STOP AGNES MARINA!
“Martin?” I turned in my seat. “Is that aimed at us?”
“It’s nothing. It’s normal. Every development gets that stuff. Bloody greenies.”
I saw another poster, edges torn and snapping in hot wind.
NO! TO AGNES MARINA
A few hundred meters farther, several placards had been hammered into trees.
MAKE A PARK, NOT A RESORT FOR MILLIONAIRES,
SAVE THE ENVIRONMENT, STOP AGNES!
SAVE THE FISH EAGLE
SAVE OUR FISHING HABITAT
Martin took the ute onto a smaller side road. As we rounded a curve, we were warned by a forest of red signs planted like election banners into the dry verges.
STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP.
DEATH TO THE MARINA.
VOTE MAYOR OUT!
Kangaroos grazed between the signs, looking like giant rats with malformed hands. Wind gusted. Branches and twigs crashed down from the gums, and leaves dry from drought scattered across our path. My head felt thick, as though I weren’t really here and I were seeing all this through some viscous filter from far away. Pressure began to build inside my ears. A heavy sensation pressed down into my gut. My own words to my father when I’d told him about our venture filtered up into my memory.
Besides, how wrong can it go?
“Martin,” I said softly, trying to pull myself into focus, “this seems—”
“Most people in this shire, Ellie, including the majority of councillors plus the mayor, are more than pleased at the prospect of construction jobs,” he said crisply. “They’re pro the development. And new jobs mean more votes, and the new houses will bring more taxes for the shire coffers, and new houses will mean more residents for the constituency, and that means more state funds.”
Another tattered sign flapped on a fence.
SAVE THE FISH EAGLES, KILL THE MARINA
“But the environmental study is—”
“In the bag, dammit, I told you! The consultants were chosen because they’re on my side. They’ve promised it will be positive. It’ll be good.”
“I thought environmental consultants were supposed to be neutral.”
He swore under his breath. “You can be so naive. Don’t worry about it—I said it’s fine, okay? Everything is going to be okay.” His voice turned quiet. But his neck was corded and so were his arms. He flicked a glance at me, and he must have seen the extent of the shock in my eyes because his features softened almost instantly. He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, El.” He took in another deep, regulating breath. “I realize this development stuff is all new to you, but every project has to jump through these hoops, and it always comes with bumps. And those bumps can be frustrating. Creating a marina that requires deep channeling into an estuary thick with mangroves where local fishermen hide illegal crab pots and do what in the hell they like—of course you’re going to get objections. But the bottom line is, approvals are on track, presales are going gangbusters. I’ll show you the numbers when we get home.” He forced a smile.
We passed a shed with corrugated metal siding. Painted in bloodred, angry letters were the words:
DEATH TO THE CRESSWELL-SMITHS!
THEN
ELLIE
“This is it! What do you think?”
I stood with Martin in front of a prefabricated building that squatted on a freshly paved parking lot next to a sullen tidal river.
A sign creaked in the hot sea wind: AGNES MARINA SALES OFFICE. Sulphur-crested cockatoos, white and surreal, screeched in the branches that hung over the building. Surf thundered in the distance. A shag—a black bird some might call a cormorant—perched atop a rotted piling, wings spread out to dry like a cape. A flotilla of pelicans bobbed on the surface, eyes like giant marbles watching us.
I shielded my eyes against the glare. The sky had turned hazy but no less harsh, even from behind my shades. I was disoriented, wobbly on my feet, and the world seemed to sway with the ripple and push of the river. Topmost in my mind was that slogan in dripping-blood paint.
DEATH TO THE CRESSWELL-SMITHS!
“They threatened us both personally, Martin,” I said quietly.
“Oh, come on—it’s just some nutjob. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“It’s not even worth it.”
“Are you sure? And why drag me into it? It said, ‘Cresswell-Smiths.’ That’s both of us.”
“You’re my wife. We’re equal partners and some crazy is trying to spook us, that’s all.”
“Well, it’s working.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, El. Come.” He took my arm and opened the door.
The air-conditioned interior was cool and furnished with a gleaming white desk, leather chairs, and a marble-topped counter that hosted an espresso machine and was fronted by barstools. Television monitors screened footage that showed laughing couples on yachts, private marinas, surfers in barreling waves, deep-sea divers, aerial shots of the inlet and estuary, exotic meals, flowers, fancy drinks, swimming pools, tanned girls in bikinis, men with smiles that belonged in toothpaste ads, and children who grinned from ear to ear.
Stacks of brochures covered glass-topped tables, and posters showed sunny images of an idealized lifestyle. I picked up a brochure. It advertised the various ownership models available, from a quarter share to a half share to full ownership, with potential to put properties into a rental pool.
“This is Lennin, my on-site sales ace,” Martin said proudly.
I looked up and blinked as Lennin exited an adjacent office. Lennin was female. In her mid- to late twenties. She wore a red T-shirt and white shorts. Really short shorts. Her legs were long and sunbrowned, her arms lean and muscular. She sported a huge white smile and a mane of chestnut-colored hair that bounced softly around her shoulders. I was momentarily stunned by her in-your-face radiance and the fact that Lennin was a young woman. When Martin had told me he’d hired a terrific salesperson named Lennin, I’d just assumed it was a guy. And older. She reminded me of the ubiquitous ever-youthful employees at high-end health clubs where—despite my wealth—I’d never felt I fitted in. Or one of those reality television stars who crewed on exotic boats and looked totally unreal.
“G’day, El,” she said in a hearty Australian accent. “Martin’s
