Still shaken and glancing over my shoulder every few steps, I headed back to the cottage.  As I hurried along the edge of the harbour I heard my name being called.  A small blue and white  Walkaround, The Water Gypsy, was coming in and I saw my friend, Peter Armstrong, waving frantically from the boat wheel.  I could tell, even from this distance, he was beaming as he slowly coasted in to moor.  I reached him by the time he had finished securing the boat. 

   "Hi!" he smiled, and came over to give me one of his usual friendly bear-hugs.  Peter was the  tall, athletically built son of real estate owner, Bruce Armstrong.  His father, over the years had accrued a very healthy fortune with his purchase of properties all along the West Coast, refurbishing, in some instances completely rebuilding various properties and selling or letting them out.  Peter had also branched out in the construction industry, which had him travelling to many exotic places on large projects.

   "Hi," I found myself having to force my smile. 

Peter wasn't easy fooled though, his concern instantaneous.  "What's wrong?"  He still had his hands firmly clasped on my arms as he stood back to look at me.  "Sienna?"

It was what I'd needed to open the flood gates.  Tears streamed down my cheeks.  Peter pulled me close, then with his arm supporting me, he led me back to the cottage, which was only a few minutes away.  Once inside, he sat me down.  He knew his way round the kitchen (it had after all, been one of the properties his dad had modernised and sold to my parents) and I heard him clattering away making coffee. 

He placed a mug of strong, black coffee in my hand, then sat next to me, putting his own mug on the coffee table.  He studied my face for a while.  "Is it the nightmares again?"

Yes, he knew all about my infliction.  He was one of my closest friends.  Almost twelve years my senior, he had been affable from the first day we met and one who I had been able to open up to easily.  He had never mocked me for the things I told him.  Neither did he consider me weird, like so many others had over the years.  He'd always been sympathetic and understanding.  I rested my head on his chest and blurted out the news about the car accident and my adoption.  His arms encircled me and he rocked me gently, just as my parents had done years before to comfort me from my nightmares.  "I'm so, so sorry Sienna," he said kindly. "You poor thing.  Why don't you come up and stay with me and Kula, at least until you have to go home.  We will come with you, if that's OK?."

   "Thanks, Peter," I managed between sobs.  So much for space.  But then again, it wasn't space I needed at all.  It was someone to listen, to understand and help me face the reality of losing my parents.  Peter and Kula, his wife, were the very ones I needed.

Half an hour later, we arrived at their home, a mere two miles north of the town.  I had quickly packed an overnight bag, and a couple of sets of fresh clothes.  Peter must have phoned ahead of us, as Kula met me at the door and immediately gave me one of her sisterly embraces.  "Ah, you poor girl," she said.  "So sorry about your mum and dad. Come on inside now, you is always welcome here."  She ushered me indoors, taking my bag then passing it to Peter, with instructions to put it in the spare room. 

I absolutely adored Kula.  She was warm and friendly, always willing to help others.  In my opinion, she epitomised what I could only desribe as a  Jamaican beauty queen.  Tall, slender, with exquisite bone structure. Her  long hair cascaded in a mass of beaded plaits.  I used to envy how every male head would turn to watch her as she'd pass by. She was totally oblivious to the attention she drew and of her own attractiveness.  She had met Peter six years ago, during his construction of a holiday complex in the Caribbean.  They had hit it off straight away and married in less than six months.  Their happiness was evident to all who met them.  They did however, harbour a sadness.  Kula was unable to bear children. 

We all sat round the dining table in the conservatory and plunged into one of Kula's mouth-watering chicken curries, with rice, kidney beans and a garnish of peppers, spring onions and homemade corn bread.

  "So little sista," Kula said.  "You hiding som'ting from me.  Tell me what it is."

I was baffled.  Peter had told her the news already on our way there.  Even he looked surprised.  Kula stared at me, with her wide dark eyes.  "C'mon now!" she coaxed.  "I feel som'ting else has happened that you've not told us about."

Oh.  I had forgotten about her rather unnerving "sixth sense".  Then it dawned on me. 

The enormous, man at the ruins.