Kelly Hunter - Paradise Nights

Later, by Sam’s reckoning, turned out to be approximately two seconds later. He took the cake and, head down, went back to examining the nets for holes. Loading themselves up in similar fashion, Nico and Pete did the same.

‘I should have taken it, shouldn’t I?’ whispered Chloe anxiously, her gaze still on Sam. ‘He offered, and I turned it down. I did it all wrong.’

‘No.’ Serena laid a hand on the other woman’s arm. ‘It’s okay, you did fine. It was sweet of Sam to offer, and right of you to turn it down.’ Her thoughts turned to Nico and to what she as a good and helpful cousin might do to support his cause. ‘Of course, if you wanted to capitalise on the whole food sharing business you’d go over there and very casually offer to help Sam cook up the sea bass he caught this morning, and even more casually suggest that Nico come over later and help you eat it.’

Chloe blushed furiously, her eyes wide and panicked as she turned back to Serena. ‘But, Serena, I couldn’t! That would put Nico in a terrible position. It’d be almost like a date or something.’

‘What if it was? Would that be so bad?’ Serena shook her head. ‘Get to know my cousin, Chloe. You might be surprised.’

‘I don’t want to be surprised! Nico will leave here soon. They always leave.’ She shrugged and looked back towards the village. ‘Whereas me … I couldn’t leave here even if I wanted to. My parents are old. Someone has to run the hotel. That someone is me. I have to make good, especially now I have Sam.’

‘You know from my point of view Nico’s leaving here is somewhat negotiable,’ said Serena, after a moment. ‘He could make this place his home, given the right incentive. Look at him showing Sam how to roll the nets. He likes fishing. He likes being a part of this community. He likes you.’

Chloe stayed silent, but her gaze skittered back to Nico and Sam. She was scared of opening herself up to hurt, Serena got that. But surely she could see that in this case the prize was well worth the risk? ‘So if you like him , maybe you need to think about giving the man a reason to stay.’

Serena ate apple and honey cake while Chloe headed up the beach towards the nets and Pete headed back down the beach towards her. They stopped midway to chat, while Serena brushed the crumbs from her hands and wet sand from her legs and tried to remember how she was supposed to be acting around this man. Cool, calm and collected, that was it.

Definitely a stretch.

But he made it easy for her as he made small talk about the island and his charter customers, settling back against the boat and leafing through the newspapers he’d brought with him. The Times was one of them; The Australian was the other one.

‘I saw a job in here for you earlier,’ he said as he reached into the cake box for another slice of cake. Serena eyed it wistfully. If she had any more of that cake she’d be up for some serious exercise afterwards. Tempting … but no. ‘They’re looking for a political foreign correspondent. It’s based in Jerusalem though.’

‘I could do Jerusalem.’

‘Can you do Hebrew?’

‘Do I need to?’

‘Beats me.’ He pulled out the jobs section and passed it to her. ‘Keep it.’

She waded the few feet to the shore and set her paint pot down, pushing it into the wet sand to stop it from spilling before settling down beside it and opening up the paper. Nothing like a world of possibilities to distract her from a vision sublime of man and cake, both of which she wanted far more than common sense allowed.

‘There’s one in here for you too,’ she said after a few minutes of silent browsing. ‘Feel like flying climate-control scientists around Greenland?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’d freeze. Here’s another one.’ He’d been leafing through The Australian . ‘They’re looking for a Wilderness Society photographer. This one’s based in Tasmania.’

‘You think I have environmentalist tendencies?’

‘Serena, you’re trying to send me to Greenland.’

Good point. ‘Tasmania might be a little too close to home,’ she told him. ‘I’m thinking further afield.’ Pete glanced at her and shook his head. Serena lifted her chin. She knew that look. Usually it preceded a lecture about setting goals that were realistic, not to mention closer to home. ‘What? You think I’m wrong to want my freedom?’

‘I think you should be choosing your future career based on the work you’ll be doing and whether it’ll satisfy you, not on how far away it is from your family.’

Another good point.

‘You’ll miss them, you know.’ He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at Sam, thinking of Sam, unless she missed her guess. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are to have a family who cares for you. People you can rely on because they love you.’

‘He’s talked to you, hasn’t he?’

Pete looked at her but said nothing.

‘Sam. He’s talked to you. About his mother.’

‘No.’

‘About Chloe, then? And not fitting in here.’

‘No.’ And at her look of disbelief, ‘What?’

Honestly, men! They had no idea how to communicate. ‘Well, what did you talk about?’

‘Money, and stuff.’

Serena sighed heavily and shook her head. ‘Talk to him next time. See if you can get him to open up to you about his feelings.’

Pete snorted. ‘Not gonna happen, Serena.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it won’t.’ He glanced back at Sam. ‘He’s doing okay.’

Serena followed his gaze to where Sam and Nico sat mending the net. She narrowed her eyes, automatically framing the shot as she waded out into the water and reached for the camera she’d tucked inside the boat. The pattern of the nets contrasted with the ripples in the sand beneath and presented an interesting juxtaposition, but it was the focus both Nico and Sam brought to their task that interested her. The wordless connection between them as boy looked to man for guidance. Nico’s nod of approval; the pleasure and quiet pride Sam took in it. She captured every heart wrenching nuance, and knew instinctively that somewhere amongst the photos she’d just taken she’d find the final image for her postcard series and that it could well be the best photo she’d ever taken.

‘Here, grab a brush and let’s get this done,’ she said to Pete, picking up the paint pot and handing it to him. ‘We’re getting out of here.’

‘We are?’ He took the paint pot with the brush sticking out of it and wandered around to the bow of the boat to survey her work. ‘I only just got here.’

‘How do you feel about spending the afternoon working on postcard photos?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘No. You’ll like it. Trust me.’

‘Does it involve a darkroom?’ He smiled a pirate’s smile. ‘I love darkrooms.’

‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘Start painting.’

‘I thought you said you had a darkroom,’ Pete muttered half an hour later. They were up at her grandparents’ little whitewashed cottage, in a neat little sitting room that looked as if it doubled as an office. A widescreen laptop computer sat on a table in the corner beside a printer. Half a dozen folders stood beside that. There was nothing wrong with it, as far as rooms went. But it wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind. ‘You know, dark, private, discreet.’

‘I said no such thing,’ Serena said cheerfully and pulled down the window shades, switched on the computer, and sat down in front of it. ‘You just assumed we’d need a darkroom. Welcome to the age of digital photography. The days of broom-cupboard darkrooms and messy, smelly chemicals are long gone.’