Summer's Awakening (20 page)

'Here comes Mr Antonio to carry your bags
up,'
said Mrs Hardy, as they climbed out of the Cadillac.

The short, thick-set man approaching them had
a
tan even deeper than James Gardiner's. Although his thick hair was white, his active-looking body wasn't that of an old man. His very dark, smiling eyes would have suggested a Mediterranean origin if they hadn't been told his name. He seemed to go with the house.

However, his accent, when he said hello and enquired about their trip, was American, and
a
form of American which Summer remembered from her childhood although she could no longer place it.

Her first impression of the interior of the house was of high, bleached-beam ceilings, pale colour-washed walls, vases of white flowers reflected in antique gilt mirrors and clay-tiled floors, with the patina of decades of polishing, spread with needlework rugs.

Noticing her looking at one of them, Mrs Hardy said, 'All the rugs in the house were hand-made in a place called Arraiolos in Portugal. Some of the patterns were brought back from the Orient by Portuguese mariners, centuries ago. The Portuguese were responsible for charting most of the world's sea routes, you know. Other patterns are from ceramic tiles made by the Moors when they ruled the whole Iberian peninsula for hundreds of years.'

As she led the way up the staircase, she went on, 'Once a year Mr Gardiner opens the house to the public in aid of the National Trust for Historic Preservation, and I have to be able to answer visitors' questions about everything. I thought Emily would like to sleep in the Octagon Room. It's quite small, but it's pretty and I'm sure she'll like it.'

They had reached the landing by now, a long sunny corridor with windows all along one side. These overlooked a large patio between two projecting wings of the house. On the outer side of the patio was a loggia; two lines of slender pillars forming arches to support the tiled roof.

Beyond this was a large garden, the lawn shaded by groups of palms and sloping gently towards a huge stretch of water bounded, in the distance, by a long line of low-lying land.

'That's Longboat Key out there,' said the housekeeper. 'Beyond that is the Gulf. There are Keys all the way along this coast. Lido Key... Siesta Key... Casey Key. On the Gulf side they all have fine beaches for swimming and shelling, but only a few hardy souls go swimming this time of year. In winter, the ocean is usually much warmer on the east coast of Florida.'

She opened the door of a small room with eight walls and three french windows, each of them opening on to a balcony. A four-poster bed, smaller than Emily's bed in England, and more lightly draped with airy folds of white batiste, had its back to one wall.

'Oh...!' Emily's gasp expressed more than liking for her new quarters. She was visibly enchanted by the room.

Mr Antonio lifted her suitcase on to a luggage rack and went away, taking Summer's case with him.

'Just before sunset the computer turns on the heating,' said Mrs Hardy, indicating a radiator. 'The computer almost runs this house. At dusk it switches on the pool lighting and the other outdoor lighting. It answers the telephone when no one's here. If you want to wake up specially early, you don't have to set an alarm. The computer wakes you with Tchaikovsky's violin concerto. I tell Mr Gardiner that if the computer gets any more efficient, I'll be redundant! Your bathroom is right here, Emily.'

Summer was about to follow them into an adjoining bathroom when she realised that what she had thought was an alcove of books built into the wall between two of the windows was not.

It was a
trompe-l'oeil
like the jib-door in the library of Cranmere.

So were the shelves with china dogs—pugs and King Charles spaniels—arranged on them. So was the wide-brimmed straw hat, wreathed with rosebuds and forget-me-nots, which appeared to be hanging from a hook by long pale blue silk ribbons.

Suddenly, out of the past, came the echo of her father's voice.

They have more money than they know what to do with, but it won't buy the one thing they want—their daughter's health. She's fifteen years old, and she has less than a year to live, Laura. They're doing everything they can to amuse her and make her happy. They want me to paint her bedroom in their winter house as a surprise for her birthday... her last
birthday, poor little kid. It's her favourite of all their houses and they're going down there in November. But right now it will be much too hot for you and Summer and the baby. It won't be a long commission if I work at it all hours. I'll be back before you know it.

Even though they had not come to Florida with him, Laura Roberts had lost the baby she had been expecting. Summer's parents had wanted a large family, but after having her first one, Laura had never managed to carry another child to term.

Summer remembered the times when her mother had had to rest a great deal, but till this moment she had forgotten the tragedy of the millionaire whose youngest daughter had contracted an incurable disease.

The others came out of the bathroom.

'Miss Roberts... are you feeling unwell?' Mrs Hardy asked, seeing Summer's face.

'No... I'm fine, really,' she assured her. 'It just came as rather a shock to see these paintings here.'

'Aren't they clever? They fool everyone. They're Thomas Roberts' work. He was—oh, goodness me, Roberts. Was he a relation of yours?'

'Yes, he was,' Summer answered huskily.

And then, because she knew she was going to cry, and she didn't want Emily to see her in floods for the second time in two days, she added quickly, 'Emily, would you unpack your night things while Mrs Hardy shows me my room. I—I want to use the bathroom, but I'll be right back.' She walked quickly out of the room.

In silence the housekeeper accompanied her along the landing, moving ahead to open a door at the other end.

By this time tears were pouring down Summer's cheeks. She felt acutely embarrassed because, if she hadn't been jet-lagged, she would have been able to control her reaction till later.

'My dear—' Mrs Hardy began, looking concernedly at her.

'P-please come in. Close the door.' Summer's voice was ragged with emotion.

Inside the room, which she saw through a blur of tears, she gasped, 'Where's the bathroom?'

'Over there in the corner.'

'Th-thank you.'

In the bathroom, she grabbed a towel and buried her face in it while several deep shuddering sobs forced their way from her heaving chest.

Being able to break down completely, where no one could see her, was a great relief. For a minute or two she let herself weep unrestrainedly. Then, remembering poor Mrs Hardy, hovering in perturbation in the outer room, she pulled herself together and ran the tap to splash her face quickly with cold water.

When she returned to the bedroom, she said, 'I'm so sorry, Mrs Hardy. You must wonder if I'm round the bend. The thing is that Thomas Roberts was my father. Those paintings in the Octagon Room are the first time I've seen his work since I was a little girl, younger than Emily.'

'Oh, I see... no wonder you were upset. But isn't that lovely... to find your father's work here, in the house where you're going to live.'

'Yes, it is. It makes him seem... close,' Summer agreed, her voice still unsteady. 'But the reason he came here was very sad. Do you know the story behind those paintings?'

The housekeeper nodded. 'They were done for the Melroses' youngest daughter... the one who died at sixteen.'

'Did she die here, at
Baile del Sol?

'No, no—not here. She died at their other house in Maine. Afterwards they couldn't stand to come here any more. They sold it to Mrs Charles Rathbone and she lived here till five years ago. Then she moved across to Palm Beach where most of her friends have their winter houses, and Mr Gardiner bought it from her. She sometimes comes back to stay with him. Now I'm going to make you some tea and bread and butter, and then I'll come help you unpack.'

'Tea would be marvellous, but no bread and butter, please.' Summer decided to take Mrs Hardy into her confidence. 'I'm trying very hard to lose weight. In fact, if there is one near here, as soon as we've settled in I want to join a Weight Watchers class.'

'That's a good idea. I have a friend whose daughter went to those classes in Bradenton. That's in Manatee County, north of here—although nowadays Bradenton and Sarasota have both expanded so much, with all the retirement and holiday condominiums which have been built, that the two towns more or less merge. There's also a Weight Watchers class right here in Sarasota. I don't know where the meetings are held, but it's easy enough to find out.'

Outside on the landing a bell rang. Mrs Hardy crossed to the telephone on one of the two night-tables flanking the king-size bed.

'Hello? Oh, Mr Gardiner. Yes, they've arrived. I'm with Miss Roberts in her bedroom. I'll put her on.' She held out the receiver.

He had said he would call tomorrow. Summer wondered why he was calling again today.

'Hello.'

'So—you've arrived.' The line was good. He sounded as if he were speaking from another room. 'Do you think you'll like living in my house?'

'I'm sure we shall. From what we've seen of it since we arrived, about a quarter of an hour ago, it's a lovely house. Emily is enraptured by the Octagon Room.'

'Good. Your voice sounds throaty. Have you picked up a cold?'

'I hope not. Shall I fetch Emily?'

'No, no. I only wanted to be sure you'd arrived in good order. It may be some days, even a week, before I call again. Meanwhile, you're in good hands with Mrs Hardy and the Antonios.'

Without saying goodbye, or sending any message to his niece, he rang off.

By the time they had been at
Baile del Sol
for a week, their systems had adjusted to local time, their skins were beginning to change colour, and Summer had found out where and when she could become a Weight Watcher.

She was given a lift to her first class by Mr and Mrs Antonio who were going to spend the evening shopping at a nearby mail. The class she had chosen to join took place in a smaller shopping centre to which they would return to pick her up.

A number of women were converging on the Weight Watchers premises when she arrived. On either side of it were shops, and the place where the meetings were held had been built to be a shop. Instead, the plate glass window was curtained. But through the glass door could be seen a long room with rows of chairs facing the inner end.

Immediately inside the door was a section made into an office. Here, two women clerks were seated behind a table, taking the weekly meeting fees and registering newcomers.

'You're lucky. There's a five-dollar reduction on membership this month,' said one of the clerks, when Summer had filled in a form, giving her name and address and telephone number. 'Do you have bathroom scales at home, or do you want to buy Weight Watchers scales? They're on sale right now.'

As she wasn't sure if Mrs Hardy had scales, she decided to buy them, and also the current issue of the organisation's monthly magazine. With these, and her Attendance Book in its plastic wallet, she joined the line of women waiting to be weighed.

Some had already been on the scales and were sitting down, discussing their progress since the previous week's meeting. Some were jubilant at having lost more than they had expected. Others were complaining of having been hungry all week without losing an ounce.

There were women from every age group, and of every size. Several were as huge and shapeless as the manatees from which a nearby river and the neighbouring county took their names. A few were slim and shapely. Their presence surprised her till she realised they must be reformed foodaholics with only a few pounds left to lose.

As the line in front of her moved forward, she noticed that the pointer on the weighing machine was hidden. It could only be seen by the lecturer, a pleasant-looking woman in her forties, her blue linen suit matching her friendly eyes.

After weighing each person in the line—which included one or two men—she would mark their weight on their card and have a short conversation with them.

When Summer's turn came to step, without shoes, on the weighing platform, the lecturer said, 'Hi! I'm Eleanor. How are you this evening?'