Episode One: The Newcomer

The morning sun sparkled on the turquoise waters of the bay. As far as the eye could see in both directions the sand stretched in a dazzling white curve, fringed with drooping pandanus palms, their creeping trunks propped up by many legs like petrified sea monsters. Flocks of noddy terns, white-capped heads bobbing, foraged in the shallows for food.

Little Moon Bay deserved its reputation as one of the most enchanting ports of call on the Great Barrier Reef. The fabled beauty of the bay had long been one of the best-kept secrets of the tourist industry, but in recent years the word had got around that Little Moon Bay was the closest thing to paradise on earth.

Now the bay, and the quiet little fishing town that was located at the Southern end, had become a popular tourist spot, and while the locals who had lived there before the tourist boom enjoyed the increased benefits that came with it, some still felt a deep nostalgia for the peace and anonymity of the past.

Briony Campbell was one of these. On this enchanting spring morning, hers were the only human footprints on the white sand. A watcher on the headland at the northern end of the beach, which jutted like a dark spearpoint into the sea, would have seen a loose-limbed, athletic young woman walking at a leisurely pace among the flocks of noddy terns, disturbing them as little as they disturbed her.

Briony loved to walk along the deserted shore at this hour, just as the sun was coming up over the ocean. She had been doing this since she was a child, but now she paused, her face somber, as she gazed out across the ocean. Floating on the placid surface, she could see a soft drink can.

Briony glared at the floating litter in disgust, then plunged into the pristine waters and started wading out toward it.

Tourists brought much to Little Moon that was sorely needed. Once it had been a thriving fishing port, but gradually over the decades the industry had died away. Now only one or two fishing boats plied their trade out of the bay. These days many former fishermen operated cruise and charter boats. Briony’s own father, Frank Campbell, operated two charter boats.

Without tourists, her father often reminded her, Little Moon Bay would have become just another little coastal ghost town, and to a certain extend, she agreed that they were necessary. She and her friend Cheryl Hemming operated a small seafood café on the sea front, and she knew how hard it was to keep going out of the tourist season. The tourists brought their money with them – but did they have to bring their untidy habits as well?

Briony reached down and plucked the can out of the water. The Little Moon locals considered it their duty to keep the bay as clean as possible. Deep in their hearts, Briony thought wryly, they hoped the fish would come back and things could be as they used to be.

She waded back to the beach and dropped the can into a recycling bin. The sun was above the horizon now, and it was time she got to work. Even Cheryl would be stirring now, sleepily reaching for the alarm clock and turning it off before tossing it to the foot of her bed.

Back on the footpath, Briony’s path curved upwards, to the lookout situated in the center of the bay. This gave a view of the crescent curve in all its glory.
Briony stood for a moment, enjoying the view. The boats were fast approaching the long jetty now, and she would reach the township just in time to greet them. Beyond the Heads she could see the coral reef, a shimmering magic carpet of colors overlaid with a veil of shimmering blue, pale and translucent where the reef came close to the surface, darkest indigo where it fell away to the ocean floor and boats could safely pass over it.

It’s truly paradise, she thought – I shall spend the rest of my life here, and Ian and I will raise our children here, just like our own parents.

At the thought of her fiancé, Ian Hughes, a small shadow fell on Briony’s sunny morning. Ian was away in Brisbane, not due back for a couple of days, but it wasn’t his absence that worried her. Rather, it was his presence these days. He seemed to have changed in some way, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. But whatever it was, it disturbed Briony.

The path led through a small grove of sheoak trees, and Briony hurried along, anxious to meet the fishing boats. She noted with some annoyance that a four wheel; drive vehicle was blocking the view of Turtle Island off the South Head. Apparently the owner had not seen, or chose to ignore, the No Parking sign on the path. She walked round the back of the van and almost ran into a man coming the other way. He was carrying a digital camera.

“Oh, just my luck,” he said. “You’re here already.”

Briony took a step backwards. The man was casually dressed, but her mind quickly noted tousled dark hair and deep blue eyes, as blue as the deeper parts of the ocean. This tourist would set a few hearts fluttering in the bay, she thought flippantly.
“I beg your pardon,” she said.

“I saw you walking along the beach, and I wanted to get a shot of you with the wind in your hair,” he went on. “Well, at least they sent a girl who looks like she belongs outside this time. Would you believe the last one was covered in makeup and wearing high heels?”

“I think you’ve confused me with someone else,” Briony said.

He looked taken aback. “You’re not from the Agency? You’re not the model?”

“No, I live here,” Briony said. “I’m a local.”

The blue eyes raked over her appraisingly. “I thought you looked too natural,” he shrugged. “But, you know, you would be perfect for this shot. Would you model for me?”

Briony almost laughed. She had heard some good lines, but this one, she thought, was right up there with the best.

“Sorry,” she said. “I know I look like a model – we all do, this is a model town, after all – but I hate cameras.”

“Do I detect a note of sarcasm?” he said.

She ignored that, and glanced back at the vehicle. “You’re not supposed to park here.”

“I wanted to get the sunrise,” he said. “And I have permission.” He rummaged in his jeans pocket. “Here’s my card.”

She glanced at it. Lawless – what an apt name. Mike Lawless, freelance photojournalist.

“You’re a photographer?”

“Yes, I’m doing a tourist brochure and some articles on the bay. Your local Chamber of Commerce hired me – and there really is a model. She’s late – but then, they always are.”

“You could at least have parked off the path.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll move it. I didn’t think anyone else would be up here this early.” He gave her what he clearly thought was a charmingly rakish, lop sided grin. It probably worked, most of the time. “Look, if you have time, could I use you as a model instead? You’re just perfect.” He had a deep, resonant voice that lingered over the last word, as he looked her up and down again.

“You’re very presumptuous,” she said.

“Being presumptuous is my business. And I really need a human figure in this shot – for scale, you know.”

“Put a notice in the local paper,” she said shortly. “I’m sure you’ll get a flood of replies.”

“But not from you?”

“Not from me,” she agreed, and made to move past him.

“You know my name,” he called after her. “Can I know yours?”

“Jezebel,” she shot back, with a grin, and continued down the path toward the town.

“Jezebel,” he mused aloud at her retreating back. “Now where have I heard that before?”

No Comments

No comments yet.

Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI

Leave a comment

You must be logged in to post a comment.