Crazy!
But there would be no more chance of crazy moments like that. Her suite was self-contained. She would plead tiredness and take her evening meals alone. And save them all some embarrassment and angst in the process.
The waves crashed in against the shore, water whooshing up the sandy cove before silence reigned for a few seconds and there was another crash, another whoosh.
She loved the sounds here, loved the sound of the sea so close. She heard a bird cry in the darkness, a seabird settling down, embracing the night.
Sounds so different from what she was used to. A difference she was determined not to grow accustomed to.
Not if she could help it.
The garage lights came on with a sudden snap and settled into a low hum. Usually his office was his retreat. Normally he could bury himself there for hours. But not tonight, not with the hint of fruit still on the air and the memories of a girl with brilliant blue eyes and lips he’d come too close to kissing. Tonight his office was no sanctuary at all.
Dominic cast his eyes around the long room, more like a car park than any mere garage. His half dozen favourite vehicles sat gleaming under the lights, ready for action, and as he looked around the room, his gaze lingered wistfully over the red Ferrari. It had been some time since he’d taken that baby out for a run and right now he could do with it more than ever.
But he turned away, his gaze going to the workshop beyond the cavernous showroom, because he wasn’t here to check out his collection of cars. It had been years since he’d last seen what he was looking for, but he’d kept them, he knew, so they had to be down here somewhere.
It took him an hour of searching but eventually he found them, buried deep in the shelving that lined the wall above the workbench. And what had first looked like nothing more than an old bundle of cloth was unrolled to reveal its treasure. His poppa’s woodworking tools—the gouges and chisels his grandfather had used to carve the tiny birds and animals that had adorned their home and the ornate carvings, the crucifixes and benevolent-eyed Madonnas he had sold to make a little extra money.
The wooden handles seemed darker than he remembered, stained with time and neglect, though the steels still looked keen edged and true. Just looking at them took him back to another era, another time. He lifted a gouge, testing it in his palm, never expecting it to feel so right—his poppa’s hands had always seemed so big compared to his—only to find the weight sat perfectly. His fingers curled around the wooden handle, settling into the long ago worn grooves from another’s hand.
He bowed his head, his eyes squeezed shut as the memories surged back. Powerful. Overwhelming. Of sitting on his poppa’s knee at the long workbench in the shed out back while his big hands guided his own, showing him how to work the gouge with the grain to shape the wood, and then to give detail with the different chisels. He’d shown him how to smooth the surface and then he’d learned how to polish with the slipstones until the surface was slick to the touch.
He’d wrapped the piece in cotton wool and a scrap of used birthday wrapping. Nonna had found a red ribbon to tie around it and he’d given it to his mother for her birthday.
The best present she’d ever had, she’d told him, and his poppa had beamed while his heart had swelled with pride.
When had he forgotten how to make things?
Right about the time he’d learned how important it was to have money.
Right about the time he’d learned that without money you were powerless to save the ones you loved.
But it hadn’t saved Carla.
Angry, he headed for the bin of offcuts the last lot of builders had left behind after they’d finished the gazebo by the pool. He fossicked for a bit before pulling out a piece six inches long. It wasn’t hardwood. His grandfather wouldn’t approve. But it would do.
He sat at the bench surveying the piece of wood, his fingers curling and flexing over the tools all lined up in their now flattened leather roll. He picked up the wood in one hand and a gouge in the other and attacked a corner. The tool skidded away, never gaining purchase, almost taking off a fingertip. He cursed, sharp and sweet, hearing his poppa’s voice in his ear advising him, imagined his old worn hand guiding his own.