Beautiful Lies (9 page)

“I don't suppose you'd let us pay you a bit at a time,” Archer said.

“Can't. I need the money to increase my fleet.”

Archer nodded. “I understand you're a gambling man, Skipper. Is the reputation larger than the reality?”

Garth laughed. “I was, once upon a time. All pearlers are gamblers. Haven't you seen that?”

“Once upon a time? Then your luck ran out?”

“The best gambler is one who has nothing important to lose. When I reached the point where I could lose my chance at a future, I put down the cards forever.”

“That sounds smart,” Tom said.

“I have nothing to lose except the wages you still owe me,” Archer said. “You have nothing to lose except a lugger you don't want anymore.”

“Your wages for the
Odyssey
? Are you joking?”

Archer shrugged. “We could just play for my wages, then. If I win, you double them. If you win, you don't owe me a thing. You save what you would have paid me, and coupled with what you can get for the
Odyssey,
you can buy those two new luggers.”

Garth stroked his waxed mustache. Tom had expected him to refuse immediately, but Archer obviously knew their employer's reputation better than he did. “And what would you live on during lay-up if you lost?”

For obvious reasons, Archer didn't mention his gambling wins. “I still have more than half the advance you gave me when I signed on. That will take care of things.”

“If I win, you stay on with me next season and open shell.”

“I have nothing better to do.”

Garth turned to Tom. “What about you?”

“What
about
me?”

“Will you stay, too? I'd rather not lose either of you.”

Tom saw Archer give the barest nod to encourage him. If he'd had other plans he might have refused, but he was
intending to work the next season anyway. “All right,” he conceded. “I'll stay, too. But watch him, Garth. He's slick, and he's good.”

“You Americans think you're better at everything, don't you?” Garth called for a deck of cards and another bottle of gin.

“I'll have that lugger by the evening's end,” Archer said in a conversational tone. “Don't say we didn't warn you, Skipper.”

 

Willow wasn't sleeping when Tom came home that evening. She didn't want to sleep while he was awake. She had been raised to be respectful and dutiful. She had not been raised to expect pleasure in her life. What shreds of pleasure were destined for her would have come from fulfilling her role in a society of ancient customs and laws, of meeting the stern, demanding standards of her ancestors. Instead she had abandoned all roles and standards to live as the concubine of a man who adored her.

And how she adored him in return. Tom was handsome and kind, but still strong enough to frighten away Bobby Chinn. He had brought her to this house with its garden of flowering shrubs, its veranda where she could sit unseen and breathe in the fresh sweet air. The crowded alleys of Chinatown, the heat of her father's laundry, the filthy room where the old man had bartered to buy her body, were fading farther away each day.

Now Willow thought constantly of Tom and what she could do to please him. He often bought her presents when he was in town. One day a small hand mirror, another a painted tin box, and another a jade necklace to place inside it. In return she tried to give him what she could. A single hibiscus beside his plate. A steaming cup of rare jas
mine tea bought with money she carefully saved from the household accounts. An etching of mountains and ocean on a thin slab of melaleuca bark.

She knew, though, that nothing she gave him was as valued as her love. At first he had treated her like a rare and precious ornament. He had been so gentle, so concerned about her, so afraid she would suffer. But as time had passed, she had uncovered the passion she had seen under the surface. She had shown him that she could be passionate, too, that she was more than a delicate blossom to admire and care for.

She had never thought she might someday know a man with whom she could share her heart. But Tom wanted to know the smallest things about her. He encouraged her to talk, and he remembered the details so that he could adjust his life to hers. If she told him she liked candles on the table, he made certain to light them each night without being asked. If she told him she liked to watch the full moon rising, he made certain to walk with her in the evenings when the moon's reflection was like stair steps over the town mudflats.

Because their moments together were precious, she didn't want to waste them. So even when he went out in the evenings, she was always waiting for him when he returned.

Tonight he returned much later than she had expected. The glaze of pleasure that adorned the simplest of their days had begun to wear thin by the time he arrived. She worried that Bobby Chinn had sought revenge after all, or that a fight had erupted at the hotel and Tom had been injured. When he walked through the door, straight and strong and held out his arms, she ran into them like a frightened child.

“I was afraid.” She rested her cheek against his chest as he folded his arms around her.

“Why? Did something happen?”

“No. I was afraid you would not come back.”

“Willow tree, I would never do that to you.”

“But another might do it to us, Tom. Another could hurt us.”

“I won't let that happen, either.” He lifted her face and kissed her lips. She could taste strong drink and knew now why he hadn't returned earlier.

“I have prepared food,” she said, when he let her go.

“I'm not hungry. Will it keep?”

“Yes. Perhaps tea?”

He hauled her against his chest and held her there, hugging her fiercely. “You won't believe what happened tonight, Willow. I still can't believe it myself.”

He was holding her too tightly, but she didn't care. “What? What is it?”

“Archer and I have our own lugger. The
Odyssey,
the boat we worked on this season. Archer won it tonight in a card game.”

She broke free so she could see his face. “You won this boat?”

“No, Archer did. But we're going to be partners. His boat and my money to fund next season.”

“A man lost this boat in a game? How must he feel?”

“Well, not good, of course. But he's a man, and an honorable one. He gambled and lost. He could have stopped any time, but he refused. And at the evening's end, when Archer offered to bet everything he'd won against the lugger, Garth chose to take the bet.”

Willow frowned. “Gambling is not honorable.”

“I don't have the heart or the instincts for it myself. But I can't very well condemn Archer for winning tonight, can I? Not when it's going to mean so much to you and me.”

“Mean so much?”

“We'll build a fortune together, Archer and I. He's going to become an Australian citizen right away, so there won't be any trouble about a license. Archer isn't a pearler by nature, so once he has enough money, he'll buy land. He'll raise cattle and sons and find some happiness at last. I'll stay here with you, Willow. You and I, we'll have a whole fleet of luggers one day, and we'll raise our sons in Broome and find our happiness right here.” He enfolded her in his arms again, kissing her hair, then her forehead, and finally, once again, her lips.

She wondered why, when his heart was so light, hers felt so heavy. Tom had just outlined a perfect life, a life beyond any she had ever hoped for. But when she closed her eyes, she didn't see the golden glow of a happy future. She saw nothing but darkness.

 

Archer had considered many ways to bring Freddy Colson to his knees. At night, when he stumbled into his room at the Roebuck, he lay in bed and pondered the possibilities until he fell asleep with a smile on his lips.

He had discovered the secret to Freddy's downfall on their first evening together, but the ways in which he might bring it to pass had been a source of considerable delight since then. The months of the lay-up were interminable, and the weather was so foul a man had to entertain himself any way he could. When the streets of Broome were awash in rain and mold bloomed on every surface, when the rats, the spiders and snakes slithered inside for shelter, and the heat grew so intense the rain turned to steam, Archer thought about Freddy and what he would bring to pass.

One night between storms, when a king tide had risen so high it washed barramundi through the streets of Chi
natown and the deadly local crocodiles into the gardens of the prettiest bungalows, Archer waited in the front bar of the Roebuck for the Somersets' houseboy. He had cultivated the young man on his infrequent visits, making certain to give the boy small gifts and show him small kindnesses. Two nights ago he had called in the favor, begging the boy to carry a private note to Viola. As he had expected, the boy had complied.

Now Archer waited for Ashwar, as he had last night, hoping the boy would return with news. In his note he had asked Viola to meet him, or at the very least to let him know when he could visit her in secret. He had implied he had news she would be glad to receive.

The clock ticked on, and the mood in the bar grew glummer. Lay-up was a time of intrigues, of melancholy and suspicions. When the rain and heat were at their worst, men plotted against each other and swore lifelong enmity against their best mates. A fight had broken out just minutes ago, squashed quickly by the publican and his assistant, but another would crop up by the evening's end. By eleven, when a policeman arrived to be certain the front door was closed for the night—then settled down for another hour or more of drinks with the patrons who came in through the back—hostilities would be reaching their peak.

Archer could feel his own tension building to a climax. He understood why men lost their minds in this weather. Forced into inactivity, he had no outlet for his energy except his thoughts. The glow of winning the
Odyssey
from Garth had long since dulled. Even if he and Tom had an exceptional season, they would be a long way from a fortune. Viola, and the real fortune she represented, would still be out of reach. And by the time he could afford to claim her, she would be married to someone else.

But not to Freddy Colson.

“Sir?” Archer felt a tug at his jacket hem, and he turned to see the houseboy, Ashwar. He was a lad not yet fifteen, slight, but tall for his age, and he always had a shy grin for Archer.

“Ashwar.” Archer held out his hand. “Did you finally bring me some news?”

“Very wet outside. Take time.”

“You look like you swam here.”

“Walk almost as bad.” Ashwar dug in his trouser pocket and pulled out a canvas-wrapped package. “This for you.”

Archer unwrapped the canvas and pulled out a single sheet of paper that had been folded and sealed. “Wait, would you?”

Ashwar put his hands behind his back and looked deferentially at the floor.

Archer broke the seal and saw one short paragraph. Viola's parents were away. He was to come at nine, but not by buggy, in case her parents arrived home early. Ashwar would lead him.

Archer slipped the paper into his pocket. “It looks like I'll be going back with you. Wait on the veranda while I get my duster.” Archer returned to his room for rubber boots and a cape-shouldered duster that would keep off some of the rain. He wrapped a sheaf of documents in the same canvas Viola had used; then he went to find Ashwar.

The trip to the Somersets' took twice as long as it should have. Even with Ashwar looking for potential dangers, they still had to pick their way through trash heaped high by the tides and wade through treacherous stretches of water.

By the time they reached the Somersets', Archer was thoroughly wet and filthy, and the thrill of sharing his news had diminished considerably. Under cover of darkness and
a new storm whipping up from the east, he followed Ashwar to the back of the house and waited on the veranda while Viola was called.

She appeared at last, and he was certain she had made him wait on purpose. She wore a violet skirt and a shirtwaist trimmed in embroidered flowers. One long curl trailed over her breast, clinging tenaciously when she moved.

“Such an odd night for a visit,” she murmured in greeting. “If Ashwar becomes ill, it will be difficult to explain.”

“Perhaps, if I'm so unwelcome, I should leave before I give you the gift I brought.”

She cocked her head. “A gift? I'm intrigued. What could a man like you give a woman, Mr. Llewellyn?”

“What would you want most, Viola?”

She didn't blink at the use of her name. “A ticket out of town. But I doubt you've brought me that.”

“No, but I've brought you something nearly as good. Something you requested.”

“Freddy's head on a platter?”

“Nearly.”

For once the cultivated ennui of her expression livened into something more appealing. “Tell me.”

“I think not.”

“Then why have you come?”

“I'm asking myself as much. I come at some personal expense, and I'm greeted as if I'm a nuisance. A man prefers a warmer reception.”

“Is that so? But you're nearly a stranger, Mr. Llewellyn.”

“Archer.”

She lifted an eyebrow.

He didn't smile. “My name is Archer. Say it.”

“Has the weather affected you badly?”

“This business is affecting me badly. You are affecting me badly. Good night, Viola.” He turned, fully prepared to leave.

“Archer…please. What did you bring?”

He faced her again. “Are you glad to see me, Viola?”

“I can't say until I know why you've come.”

“That's not what I want to hear.”

Her expression was pensive. He recognized a woman sorting through her options. He tipped his hat and turned away again.