are going gangbusters. I’ll show you the numbers when we get home.” He forced a smile.
We passed a shed with corrugated metal siding. Painted in bloodred, angry letters were the words:
DEATH TO THE CRESSWELL-SMITHS!
THEN
ELLIE
“This is it! What do you think?”
I stood with Martin in front of a prefabricated building that squatted on a freshly paved parking lot next to a sullen tidal river.
A sign creaked in the hot sea wind: AGNES MARINA SALES OFFICE. Sulphur-crested cockatoos, white and surreal, screeched in the branches that hung over the building. Surf thundered in the distance. A shag—a black bird some might call a cormorant—perched atop a rotted piling, wings spread out to dry like a cape. A flotilla of pelicans bobbed on the surface, eyes like giant marbles watching us.
I shielded my eyes against the glare. The sky had turned hazy but no less harsh, even from behind my shades. I was disoriented, wobbly on my feet, and the world seemed to sway with the ripple and push of the river. Topmost in my mind was that slogan in dripping-blood paint.
DEATH TO THE CRESSWELL-SMITHS!
“They threatened us both personally, Martin,” I said quietly.
“Oh, come on—it’s just some nutjob. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“It’s not even worth it.”
“Are you sure? And why drag me into it? It said, ‘Cresswell-Smiths.’ That’s both of us.”
“You’re my wife. We’re equal partners and some crazy is trying to spook us, that’s all.”
“Well, it’s working.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, El. Come.” He took my arm and opened the door.
The air-conditioned interior was cool and furnished with a gleaming white desk, leather chairs, and a marble-topped counter that hosted an espresso machine and was fronted by barstools. Television monitors screened footage that showed laughing couples on yachts, private marinas, surfers in barreling waves, deep-sea divers, aerial shots of the inlet and estuary, exotic meals, flowers, fancy drinks, swimming pools, tanned girls in bikinis, men with smiles that belonged in toothpaste ads, and children who grinned from ear to ear.
Stacks of brochures covered glass-topped tables, and posters showed sunny images of an idealized lifestyle. I picked up a brochure. It advertised the various ownership models available, from a quarter share to a half share to full ownership, with potential to put properties into a rental pool.
“This is Lennin, my on-site sales ace,” Martin said proudly.
I looked up and blinked as Lennin exited an adjacent office. Lennin was female. In her mid- to late twenties. She wore a red T-shirt and white shorts. Really short shorts. Her legs were long and sunbrowned, her arms lean and muscular. She sported a huge white smile and a mane of chestnut-colored hair that bounced softly around her shoulders. I was momentarily stunned by her in-your-face radiance and the fact that Lennin was a young woman. When Martin had told me he’d hired a terrific salesperson named Lennin, I’d just assumed it was a guy. And older. She reminded me of the ubiquitous ever-youthful employees at high-end health clubs where—despite my wealth—I’d never felt I fitted in. Or one of those reality television stars who crewed on exotic boats and looked totally unreal.
“G’day, El,” she said in a hearty Australian accent. “Martin’s told me so much about you.” Lennin offered me her hand. “So great to finally meet you.”
I shook her hand and was suddenly acutely conscious of my wintery jeans, the damp perspiration marks under my armpits, my unwashed hair. The fact that I could do with a shower. The notion that I’d never in my wildest dreams have a body like hers. Martin watched us as though he was weighing us, one against the other. For some absurd reason I felt he’d done this on purpose—juxtaposed, contrasted me against Lennin—so I could take note of my own shortcomings, my age, against Lennin’s youth and vitality. Even while I knew it was an absurd idea, resentment pulsed through me.
“It’s Ellie,” I corrected. It was fine for Martin to call me El, not her.
Her smile wavered, but just for a nanosecond. “I’m so thrilled to be part of a Hartley Group project, Ellie.”
“Excuse me?”
A tiny frown crossed her brow. “The Hartley Group,” she repeated.
“The Agnes Marina project has got nothing to do with the Hartley Group.”
She glanced at the brochure in my hand. I followed her gaze. The back page was covered with a glossy photograph of my dad, a copy of his signature in bold black underneath.
“Your father’s backing is a huge sales point for us,” said Lennin. “Sterling Hartley has