He asked for a page from my notebook and scribbled calculations and schematics, coming up with a draft for our island house.
Once the blades were sturdy and the markings for walls and entrances were drawn by our toes in the sand, I took Galloway to my private zone with the bushes of bamboo.
His eyes lit up. His hands twitched to touch me. And my heart knew if Conner and Pippa hadn’t been with us, he would’ve kissed me.
And if he’d kissed me, I wouldn’t have let him stop.
Pregnancy or no pregnancy.
With the axe, he hacked away bushels of long, strong stems, carting them back to begin the arduous task of erecting walls.
Conner turned out to be a perfect protégé.
Pippa and I took over hunting while the boys spent every daylight hour hacking, splitting, tying, and constructing.
Pippa, apparently, was the chosen one with fishing. She wasn’t strong enough to use the spear, and I had no coordination. But together, we used my tatty t-shirt and a Y-shaped frame to drag the material through the water and catch the smaller silver fish in the shallows.
She became so fast, she could tickle them from the water with her bare hands.
The first meal with the smaller fish had been awful with crunchy scales and bones. But every inch of the creature (minus the entrails and head) was nutritional. The calcium from their bones, the protein from their flesh. Nothing went to waste, and slowly, we invented new ways to cook.
While the boys steadily turned our roofless camp into a home, Pippa and I experimented with menus. We forced ourselves to think outside the box. We wrapped fish fillets in leaves (like nature’s tinfoil) and broiled in charcoal. We pan-fried on rocks and buried pockets of ingredients in hot ash.
Some trials worked and others didn’t. But we never stopped trying.
One afternoon, we shredded three coconuts, warmed some water, and pounded the mixture together. Once a gooey paste, we wrapped it in a purple muslin scarf we’d found in Amelia’s tote. Squeezing the goo as tight as we could, we painstakingly drained the concoction and made coconut milk.
We used the white liquid to boil crabs and fish, and dinner had never tasted so decadently delicious.
Little by little, meal by meal, we were adapting, evolving.
Soon, we wouldn’t recognise ourselves.
Soon, we would be ruined for any rescue.
Because as we adapted and evolved, we found more and more happiness in the simplest of things. We gradually, grudgingly accepted that this was our home now.
And we might never be permitted to leave.
.............................
SEVENTEEN WEEKS
Christmas came and went.
We didn’t celebrate.
I took photos on my phone and recorded a home movie of the progress of the house, but I didn’t tell the children the date.
After all, the essence of Christmas was celebration and gratefulness.
We were grateful but not celebratory. We would wait until we were found to honour the day of gift giving and happiness.
“Are you awake?”
I jolted, curling up in the flax blanket I’d made. We each had one now. It wasn’t exactly warm, but it did grant a resemblance of comfort. “Yes.” I paused, breathing shallowly, waiting for Galloway to follow through. When he didn’t, I whispered, “Why?”
Shuffling sounded as he sat up. I looked over at him, glancing quickly at the children to make sure they were sleeping.
Three nights ago, Galloway had insisted we all move farther down the beach. We’d grumbled, but it was strictly temporary. The house was almost done and he wanted to add the finishing touches without us seeing the end product.
The inconvenience of sleeping in a more exposed area on the beach and not being allowed to return to the camp was overshadowed by the excitement of moving into our new abode.
Not to mention, the change of location had acted like a holiday. Lightening the moods of Pippa and Conner, making my heart sing as they played together and laughed more than they had in weeks.
Galloway murmured, “I think it’s time I told you something.”
My heart stopped. “Tell me what?”
He rubbed his face. “Everything.”
I sat up, kneeling in my sandy bed. “Okay...”
Raking both hands through his hair, he gave me a crooked smile. “I’m not ready. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. But I can’t keep it from you anymore. The past few weeks, talking with you, sharing small pieces of who I am, I’d forgotten how nice that is. Nice to be known.”
“I’ve enjoyed it, too. I’m honoured that you trust me enough to tell me.”
His blue eyes glowed. “I don’t just trust you, Stel. It’s gone far beyond that.”
I looked away, unnerved by how much emotion he stared with.
“I need to tell you because I want more from you. Being your friend...it’s not enough.” His voice deepened to a heavy rasp. “And I don’t think being friends is enough for you...either.”
My lips parted. This was my moment. The moment when I fixed what I’d broken. If he were brave enough to finally tell me what haunted him, I could be honest and tell him why I was terrified of sleeping with him.
The words danced on the tip of my tongue.