Chapter 13

Thirteen

T amara slid her sunglasses into place, tucked the latest crime novel under her arm, slung her towel over her shoulder, and headed for the beach.

She’d been in Goa two days, forty-eight long hours where she’d spent every waking moment touring, filling the time with sights and sounds of her mother’s birthplace.

“Prawns today, Missie?”

Smiling, she stopped at one of the many food vendors scattered along the roadside leading to Colva Beach. She’d been starving when she’d arrived her first day and the tantalising aromas of seafood sizzling in garlic and turmeric had led her here.

“Two, please.”

She held up two fingers for reinforcement, knowing the wizened old man would give her four, like he had the previous times she’d stopped at his stall. Not that she was complaining, but the waistbands of her skirts were.

His wide, toothless grin warmed her heart as she handed over the rupees and juggled the hot prawns, waving the skewer around and blowing on the prawns before biting into the delicious, crispy flesh, savouring the freshness of the seafood drenched in spicy masala.

She devoured the first prawn in two bites, saliva pooling in her mouth at the anticipatory bite of the next as she strolled past another vendor selling a fiery fish vindaloo that smelled as good as the prawns.

“Tomorrow,” she mouthed, to the hopeful guy whose face fell when she didn’t stop.

Not that she wasn’t tempted, but her new friends were waving her over with such enthusiasm she had to stop.

“You build?” The eldest of the group, five kids ranging from three to six, pointed to a makeshift bucket made from an old ghee tin, while the rest dropped to their knees and started digging in the sand with their hands.

“Sure.” She knelt, picked up the tin, and started scooping, enjoying the hot sand beating down on her back as she fell into a rhythm: scoop, dump, pat, listening to their excited chatter, unable to understand a word of the rapid Hindi but returning their blinding smiles as their castle grew.

Today, like the first day they’d beckoned her to join in their fun, she took simple pleasure in doing something associated with her childhood, the repetitive activity as soothing as it had been back then.

She’d built monstrous sand castles after her dad died, had poured all her energy into the task in an attempt to block out the pain. But as the castles grew, so did her resentment, until she kicked them down one crumbling turret at a time.

Yet she’d start building the moment her mum took her to the beach the next time, painstakingly erecting the towering castles complete with shell windows and seaweed flags. Until it didn’t hurt so much anymore and she stopped kicking them down, happy to watch the sea gently wash away her creations.

It had taken time to release her resentment—at losing her dad, the unfairness of it—and now, with the sand trickling through her fingers, calmness stole over her, soothing the discontent gnawing at the edges of her consciousness since she’d arrived.

She’d tried ignoring it, had even tried meditating as darkness descended each evening and she sat in a comfy cane chair on her veranda looking out over peaceful Colva Beach, her beach hut the perfect spot away from the maddening crowds.

While the deliberate relaxation had gone a long way to soothing her weary soul, to banishing some of the anger and acrimony that had dogged her incessantly for the last year, it had also served to tear a new wound in her already bruised heart.

Thanks to Ethan.

Even now, she had no idea what had happened in the interim between their first kiss and her walking away from him in Delhi.

She’d often felt like that with Richard; lonely, floating on a sea of anonymity despite being constantly surrounded by his acquaintances and friends. She’d been a part of his life, a fixture, smiling and chatting and playing the perfect hostess while inside she’d been screaming.

She hadn’t told her mum about it. Adhira had lived through enough trauma, losing a husband, and a country. Her mum had fussed over her enough growing up, overprotective to the point of stifling at times. Tamara understood her mum’s need to hang onto the only family she had and in her own way, she’d wanted to return the favour.

She’d never spoken an ill word against Richard despite her growing despair that her husband had morphed from a strong, steady man to a controlling, spoiled tyrant with a penchant for wine and women.

Losing Adhira when that driver had crashed into the bus stop had been devastating, but considering what Tamara had learned about Richard when he died, a small part of her had been glad her mum hadn’t been around to see it.

Bitterness had plagued her for the last year, yet over the last few weeks it had ceased seeping into her soul and sapping her energy.

Because of Ethan.

Ethan, who, by encouraging her to open her heart only to hand it straight back to her, had now left her unhappier than ever.

He’d been relentless in his pursuit ever since they’d started this trip yet when she’d finally given in, he’d retreated faster than a lobster sighting a bubbling bisque.

And she’d over-reacted. Boy, had she over-reacted, and the memory of how she’d berated him made her knock over a turret or two as her hands turned clumsy.

The kids frowned in unison and she shrugged in apology, intent on smoothing her side of the castle, wishing she could smooth over her gaff with Ethan as easily.

She’d picked a fine time to rediscover her assertiveness and while it had felt great standing up for herself and verbalising exactly how she felt, she’d chosen the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong man.

He hadn’t deserved her outpouring of anger any more than she’d deserved any of Richard’s callous putdowns.

Shame she wouldn’t get the chance to tell Ethan, because she was under no illusions that once they returned to Melbourne he’d move onto his next challenge, relegating her to…friend?

Considering they hadn’t been anything remotely resembling friends before this trip, she should be grateful. Instead, she couldn’t help but wish she’d had a chance to rediscover another part of her identity: that of a desirable woman with needs.

Dusting off her hands, she stood, surveying their creation. The kids imitated her and she pointed at the lopsided castle and applauded, charmed by their guileless giggles and high-fives.

Everything was so simple for these kids: they had little, lived by the sea in makeshift shanties, shared a room with many siblings, had few toys, yet were happier than any kid she’d seen rollerblading or skate-boarding in Melbourne.

Another lesson to be learned: keep things simple. She had once, content to curl up with a good romance novel, soft jazz in the background, a bowl of popcorn. Living the high-life, living a lie, with Richard had changed all that but it was time to get back to the basics. Her few days in Goa had taught her that if nothing else.

Waving goodbye to the kids, she set off for the shade of a nearby tree before throwing down her towel, smoothing it out, and laying down, watching a couple stroll hand in hand along the beach.

She wanted to warn them the first flush of love didn’t last, that it soured and faded no matter how committed the other person.

She wanted to caution the beautiful young woman against giving too much of herself in the name of love, wanted to alert her against loving too much to the point you risked losing yourself.

She wanted to rant at the injustice of being a loyal, loving wife, only to have it flung back in her face in the form of a six foot, Dutch, ex-model with legs up to her neck and a dazzling smile.

But she didn’t do any of that.

Instead, Tamara slapped on her sun hat, flipped open her book, and buried her nose in it. A much safer pastime than scaring young lovers and wasting time wishing she could change the past.