Second Tomorrow (13 page)

‘I can’t leave her many minutes, Luke,’ she began. ‘If Phil were with her it would be all right.’

‘What’s she been saying to you?’ he demanded, bypassing her words. ‘You looked shattered just now.’

‘It was nothing,’ quivered Clare, lifting her glass in obedience to a gesture he made. ‘She—
she naturally wanted to talk about Frank and it—it upset me.’

‘You’re almost in tears,’ he observed wrathfully.

‘It’s just reaction.’

‘To what?’

‘Oh, please—don’t keep on questioning me!’ she cried. ‘I want to go back to her.’

‘When you’ve had your drink and you’re more settled.’ He paused, then said decisively, ‘I’m having a word with Phil.’

‘Oh, no, please don’t interfere, Luke! Promise!’

‘I’m promising nothing—except,’ he added, ‘that I shall join you for tea. I want to take a look at this visitor of yours.’

Chapter Eight

Clare was both troubled and angry as she made her way back to where she had left her visitor on the terrace. Luke’s attitude, imperious and determined, had created a resentment within her that almost matched that which she had har
boured against him right at the beginning when, probably unknown to himself, his personality had affected her so strongly that it was often his image that intruded when all she desired was to see that of her dead fiancé. Luke had decided he had the right to interfere if he thought that she was being upset by Mrs Weedall. Clare knew very well on what basis he claimed this right: it was his feelings for her. But as he had not declared openly that he loved her—and would never do so until she gave him some concrete evidence of her own love—he had no command over her at all. It was understandable that he should be angry on seeing her upset, but to put it bluntly he ought to mind his own business; her welfare was not in any way his concern at the present time. It was all very illogical, Clare admitted, because one part of her mind
wanted
it to be his concern, wishing he
did
have the right to interfere.

But for the present her own sentiments were unimportant. What was important was that Mrs Weedall should not be hurt by anything Luke or anyone else should say. She had come here in all good faith, expecting to be treated as an invited guest should be treated, and Clare was determined to do all in her power to ensure that she enjoyed every minute of her stay.

‘Phil will be here in a few minutes’, she smiled as she sat down, hesitating a moment before adding, ‘Another man’s joining us for tea. I hope you don’t mind?’

‘No. . . . Well, I’m a shy sort of person, as you
know, Clare, and I suppose it’s from being alone so much. However, I must get used to people if I’m to be staying here, mustn’t I?’

‘It’ll be good for you to mix, Mrs Weedall. We all need company at times.’

‘Yes—I’m sure you’re right, dear. Er—who is this man? Is he one of the hotel guests?’

‘No, he’s a friend of Phil’s and he lives here, on Flamingo Cay, in a beautiful house called Silver Springs. His name’s Luke Mortimer.’

‘He must be rich.’

‘He is. He’s just bought an island.’ The information escaped mechanically and Clare regretted having offered it the moment it was voiced.

‘An island?’ The older woman’s pale eyes widened to their fullest extent. ‘One like this?’

‘Not as large as this.’

‘Is he going to live there?’

‘No, he intends developing it—partly. He’s building three hotels on it. There’s nothing much on it at all at present.’

‘Won’t the building spoil it?’

‘No, Mrs Weedall, it will not be spoiled.’ She glanced around, looking for Phil and Luke but there was no sign of them. ‘Are you very thirsty, Mrs Weedall? Shall I have a pot of tea brought to us now and we can have it while we’re waiting?’

‘No, thank you, Clare. I must admit I’m thirsty but if you say Phil will be here soon then I can wait. You were talking about this gentleman who’s joining us,’ she went on, her pale eyes curious. ‘Is he a young man?’

‘About thirty-five, I think.’

‘Young to be so wealthy,’ mused Mrs Weedall. ‘Is he married?’

Clare shook her head, and for a fleeting moment there flashed before her eyes the beautiful face of Stella Wesley. Luke would have been married if she had not jilted him. . . . ‘No, he’s not married.’

‘It sounds as if he devotes himself entirely to business?’

‘Yes, mainly he does. He buys land and develops it. He’s bought several large plots of land here on Flamingo Cay.’

‘For building on?’

Clare nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’

Mrs Weedall fell silent for a moment, her attention having been arrested by a graceful white-sailed yacht that was coming into the marina. ‘If Frank could only have seen all this. . . .’ She spoke to herself, her voice a dull monotone. She appeared to have forgotten Clare’s presence altogether as she went on, ‘And if he could ever have afforded to buy an island he’d have kept it exactly as it was.’ She looked up, into Clare’s face. ‘He loved nature and natural things—but why am I telling you this when you already know? Do you remember the rambles you used to take on Sundays—across the moors—and come back exhausted, and I’d have a lovely meal ready and we’d all sit over it and you’d both tell us what you’d seen and done? Those were the happiest days of my life, Clare, when we were all together—Frank and his
father and you and me. And I know I’m right when I say they were the happiest days of your life.’ She lapsed into silence, inviting a response but Clare said nothing. She was feeling stifled, and a nerve-twisting tension was building up inside her. ‘You have memories, though, dear Clare,’ continued Mrs Weedall in her thin, expressionless voice. ‘Have you ever stopped to think what your life would be if you didn’t have such beautiful memories?’

Clare looked at her, wondering what she would say if she were to tell her that the memories had been fading until she came, bringing them all back with poignant intensity. ‘They certainly are beautiful memories,’ she forced herself to say.

‘And they’ll last forever,’ she heard Mrs Weedall assert triumphantly. ‘You’re the loyal and faithful kind, Clare, and I know just what I missed when I didn’t get you for a daughter. My darling Frank would have been so blessed and so would I.’ Tears filled the pale colourless eyes and as Clare watched, fascinated without knowing why, two big tears rolled unchecked down her face. Pity welled up, flooding Clare’s whole being and on impulse she reached across the table to cover Mrs Weedall’s hand with her own. And it was at that moment that the two men appeared, to stand in silence for a space, staring down at the two hands touching.

Clare glanced up, withdrawing her hand swiftly. Luke’s face was marble hard, set and
stern but otherwise unreadable, while Phil, after greeting Mrs Weedall with his customary politeness, introduced Luke to her and then, offering her a charming smile, asked her about the flight, and about her health. But beneath the gracious exterior Clare sensed anger and resentment. Luke had done his work well, obviously having convinced Phil that, even at this early stage, Mrs Weedall had succeeded in making Clare unhappy.

The two men sat down; the waiter appeared with the sandwiches and cakes, and while Clare poured the tea Luke spoke to Mrs Weedall, his manner aloof but polite, and Clare was thankful for small mercies. Her glance during the meal spoke volumes as she silently begged Luke not to say anything to hurt her guest. Mrs Weedall seemed shy and diffident with him, answering his questions in monosyllables and invariably avoiding the direct glances he often sent in her direction.

‘I can’t say I care very much for Phil’s friend,’ she was confiding to Clare an hour later when they were walking slowly along the beach, the breeze from the sea delightfully cool on their faces. ‘He’s rather frightening, isn’t he?’

‘Frightening, Mrs Weedall?’ Even as she spoke Clare was recalling with a wry grimace her own experiences of just how frightening he could be when angered.

‘He’s stern and—formidable, and a snob, I think.’

‘He’s often rather arrogant,’ Clare agreed.
‘He’s that kind of man. But he has other traits that are very attractive.’

‘He has?’ Mrs Weedall almost stopped to look searchingly into her companion’s face. ‘Do you know him well?’ she asked.

‘Er—quite well, yes. He comes to the Rusty Pelican often for dinner or for a drink in the evening. Most of the residents do; they use the hotel as a sort of club. In England it would be their local.’

‘I see. And so of course you’re very friendly with him?’

Clare’s nerves tingled, on the alert. Diplomacy was required, and would be required throughout Mrs Weedall’s stay on the island. And if diplomacy meant a white lie now and then, so be it. ‘Not
very
friendly, Mrs Weedall. He’s Phil’s friend; they’ve known one another for over a year, while I’ve known Luke for just over two months.’

‘It’s a wonder he doesn’t have a girl-friend. Handsome men like him usually do have one—even if they’ve no intention of marrying them.’

‘He’s had girl-friends I believe.’

‘But he doesn’t have one now?’

‘No,’ she answered, feeling that this was fairly close to the truth because she and Luke were not actually keeping company.

They walked on in silence for a time, and as Clare cast her companion a sideways glance she noticed with satisfaction that her face had taken on a complacent expression as if she were thoroughly enjoying the stroll along a beach of powder-soft sand. ‘Do you know, Clare,’ she
began as they turned eventually to retrace their steps, ‘this is the first time I’ve ever seen coconut palms growing.’

‘I hadn’t seen them until I came here.’

‘There’s something fascinating about it, isn’t there?’

‘Yes—and about all the other exotic plants and trees you see here. The lovely vine that you saw on the terrace is bougainvillaea, and the bushes close by are hibiscus.’

‘I must take some snapshots to show Simon and Sue.’ A small pause and then, ‘If only Frank were here. Wouldn’t he just love all this? And he was such an excellent swimmer as you know. He’d have enjoyed the diving. . . . Those men over there are diving down into the coral gardens, aren’t they?’

‘Yes—well, they’ve just come up. We can take a trip on a glass-bottomed boat if you like, and see the coral gardens from a comfortable seat on board.’

‘That would be nice.’ Her smile was a weak attempt. ‘My Frank could swim from the age of three. His dad took him to the baths every weekend, and everyone became interested in Frank because he was so young to be swimming.’ She continued to reminisce, her voice quiet, monotonous, but her tone at times took on a whining quality which set Clare’s teeth on edge. ‘Are you going to your room to rest?’ she asked as soon as they arrived back at the hotel.

‘Yes, I think so. What should I wear for dinner?’ she wanted to know, her voice edged with
a tinge of anxiety. ‘Simon said it’s all informal nowadays and you don’t need to dress up unless it’s specially requested for some reason.’

‘You don’t need to dress up,’ Clare agreed, but went on to say that she usually wore a long dress because she liked to be different in the evenings. ‘A long skirt and frilly blouse would be all right,’ she suggested. ‘You used to wear frilly blouses, I remember.’

‘Yes, because both Frank and his father liked me in them. Frank had such excellent taste in women’s clothes, didn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ replied Clare, quite unable to remember whether he had or not.

‘He told me he would have liked to design your wedding dress but you’d ordered it before he had time to suggest it.’

‘Oh—I didn’t know.’ It was all coming back with aching poignancy—the dress, delectable with its flowing skirt and tight-fitting bodice, the bridesmaids’ gowns, the rehearsal in the church, the presents and invitations, the booking of the hall for the reception, the arrangements for the honeymoon. . . . And all leading up to—what . . . ? Oh, God—stop! Unconsciously Clare put her hands to her eyes as if by the frenzied action she could shut out for ever the terrible anguish of the final scene, enacted in a churchyard. . . .

‘Well,’ said Mrs Weedall, obviously unaware of Clare’s distress, ‘he wouldn’t tell you because he didn’t want to upset you. But it was a disappointment to him, and it’s a pity, now, looking back,
that he didn’t speak up in time. . . .’ She stopped reflectively and Clare seized the opportunity of bringing her attention to the time and pointing out that if she wanted to rest she ought to be going to her room at once.

‘Phil and I usually have dinner at about half-past eight,’ she added finally. She was endeavouring to maintain a veneer of calm as she spoke but her nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point and she felt that if she could scream it would bring untold relief.

‘I’ll leave you then, dear. And thank you so much for the lovely walk on the beach. It was kind of Phil to give you time off to be with me. It’s wonderful not to be lonely for a change. I do sincerely thank you, Clare, for inviting me here to this lovely island.’ She seemed to falter on her last words and, glancing at her, Clare saw the moisture in her eyes. A terrible lump rose in Clare’s throat; her voice was jerky and edged with tears as she said, ‘Don’t thank me, Mrs Weedall, it’s a—a pleasure having you.’ She managed to accompany her to the lift and then she turned away abruptly, because the deluge of pity enveloping her was finding an outlet in tears. They rolled unchecked down her cheeks as she hastily made her way towards a corridor and a flight of stairs which would take her to the floor where her bedroom was situated. But first she had to pass the door of her brother’s office. She was half-way along the corridor and almost running, when to her chagrin and dismay she
saw Luke emerge from the office and close the door behind him. He gave a start on seeing her in such a hurry, and noting her tears he exclaimed, ‘Clare—what’s wrong—?’ Then he stopped, his eyes narrowing to mere slits. ‘Why are you crying?’ he demanded harshly. ‘That woman! What’s been happening? You’ve been with her since teatime?’

‘Yes, but—it’s nothing to do with you—’

‘By God, it is!’ His action was as swift as his words, and Clare had no time to escape before he had gripped her by the arms, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. ‘She’s been upsetting you,’ he rasped, ‘and it’s not going to happen again—’