Chapter 1: First Night in St Lucia
The humidity hit Charu the moment the taxi pulled away, a thick, wet blanket that wrapped around her lungs and made her starched cotton kurta cling to her spine. She stood at the bottom of the wooden stairs, staring up at the Queenslander house. It was all cream weatherboard and tangled greenery, frangipani blossoms littering the path like discarded promises. The verandah wrapped around the entire structure, deep and shaded, and she could imagine sitting there with her textbooks. If she could just get her suitcase up there.
It was impossibly heavy, jammed with everything her mother insisted she bring. A pressure cooker, a dozen packets of masala, her grandmother’s silver wedding sari just in case. She gripped the handle with both hands, heaving it onto the first step with a grunt. The case thudded, threatening to tumble back. She tried again, muscles in her slender arms trembling. A drop of sweat traced a path from her temple to the hollow of her throat. This was not the dignified arrival she’d pictured.
“Let me get that for you.”
The voice came from behind her, calm and weathered like the timber of the house itself. She turned, clutching the suitcase handle like a shield.
He stood on the path, a pair of gardening secateurs in one hand. He was tall, with silver hair cut close at the sides and a neat beard that framed a kind, lined face. His blue eyes were the colour of the Brisbane sky just after dawn. He wore faded cargo shorts and a simple grey t-shirt that stretched across a lean, capable frame. His forearms were corded with muscle, dusted with fine silver hair and a fading tan.
“I’m Eric,” he said, moving forward. “You must be Charu. We emailed.”
“Yes. Hello.” She stepped aside, instinctively crossing her arms over her chest. Her loose kurta, chosen for travel, felt suddenly thin and inadequate in the heavy air.
“That flight from Chennai is a killer. The humidity here takes some getting used to.” He set the secateurs down on a step and reached for her suitcase. His calloused fingers brushed hers as he took the handle. A simple, practical transfer. But the touch was a live wire against her jet-lagged skin.
He lifted the massive case as if it were empty. The sinews in his forearm tightened, a map of strength and use. As he shifted his weight to ascend the stairs, the solid curve of his bicep, firm and rounded, pressed briefly, accidentally, against the soft, full swell of her breast through the thin cotton.
The contact lasted less than a second. It was a jolt of pure, electric heat that shot directly to her core, a shocking flood of sensation that left her breathless. She took a sharp, silent inhale, the scent of him filling her head—sandalwood soap, clean sweat, and the crushed green smell of the garden.
He seemed not to notice, already two steps up. “I’ve got the room all ready for you. Coolest in the house, with a ceiling fan. Key piece of kit.”
She followed mutely, her body humming where he’d touched her. She was disoriented, blaming the fatigue, the climate, the profound strangeness of being halfway across the world from everything she knew. This was just a helpful man. Her landlord. He was older than her father.
“This is us,” he said, shouldering the screen door open with a familiar creak. The inside was all light and space. Polished timber floors, high ceilings with slow-turning fans, lace curtains filtering the afternoon sun into golden stripes. It was tidy but lived-in. A bookshelf overflowing with paperbacks, a pottery mug on a side table. It smelled of lemon oil and, faintly, of him—that sandalwood and earth scent.
He led her down a hallway. “Bathroom’s here. I’m just down at the other end. Kitchen is common space, help yourself to anything. I brew my own beer, if you’re ever curious.” He said it casually, without presumption.
He stopped at a door, nudged it open with his foot, and carried her suitcase inside. The room was simple, beautiful. A wrought-iron bed with a white quilt, a desk under a window that looked out onto a riot of magenta bougainvillea. The air was cooler.
“It’s perfect,” she said, and her voice sounded small.
“Good.” He set the case down by the bed and straightened, turning to her. He wiped his hands on his shorts, a humble, practical gesture. For a moment, they just stood in the quiet room, the only sound the distant whirr of the fan and the crescendo of cicadas from the garden. His eyes held hers, and she saw a quiet intelligence in them, a depth that unsettled her in a new way. It wasn’t the brash, entitled staring she sometimes got from men in the market or on campus. This was different. Softer. More observant.
She felt his gaze trace the line of her ponytail, the curve of her cheek, and then, inevitably, flicker down to the front of her kurta where the fabric, damp with sweat, clung more revealingly than she’d realised. A blush of heat flooded her neck and face. She saw his throat move as he swallowed.
“You must be exhausted,” he said, breaking the spell, his voice a little rougher than before. He took a step back towards the door, giving her space. “I’ll leave you to settle in. There’s cold water in the fridge. Join me on the verandah later if you like. No pressure.”
“Thank you, Eric.” She used his name for the first time. It felt foreign on her tongue.
He nodded, a small smile touching his eyes. “Welcome to Brisbane, Charu.”
He left, pulling the door softly closed behind him. She stood motionless in the centre of the room, the ghost of his arm against her breast burning like a brand. The scent of sandalwood lingered. She thought of Venky, his sweet, predictable nightly messages, the chaste peck on the cheek he’d given her at the airport while her parents looked on approvingly. That touch had never made her feel like this—hollowed out and filled up all at once, her body a stranger to her.
Outside, she heard the soft creak of floorboards as Eric moved through his house. A profound loneliness washed over her, so deep it ached. It was mixed with something else, a restless, forbidden hunger that stirred low in her belly. She walked to the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. In the garden below, Eric was back at work, patiently trimming a hedge, the powerful muscles of his back shifting beneath his shirt with each deliberate movement.
She watched, hidden, her breath fogging the pane. The cicadas’ hum seemed to pulse in time with her own quickening heart.