The Way Love Goes

by Pauline Saull

  Chapter Fifteen

  Flynn sat outside on the terrace long after Freya’s house lights had gone out.

  He had never enjoyed an evening so much. He’d found her a delightful companion in every respect—witty, charming, knowledgeable, intelligent—and if he was to start thinking about her physical attributes he’d be out here all night. But that smile! The way she tilted her head, those large green eyes fixed on his as she listened intently. On the beach he’d wanted so much to take her hand, or put his arm around her, yet Freya never gave any signs of welcoming such a move, so he’d kept his hands firmly in his pockets. When they were leaving the beach and she’d leaned down to put her sandals on was the first time he touched her, steadying her with his hand.

  Flynn squirmed in the seat at the memory. The top of the silky dress had fallen forward slightly and he’d groaned inwardly.

  In the car he’d kept up the conversation, but his thoughts were everywhere. Would she ask him in for a drink?

  Dare he accept if she did? Wouldn’t he make an absolute fool of himself acting like a fifteen-year-old on his first exciting date?

  He’d felt relief mixed with bitter disappointment when she hadn’t. And then, oh for pity’s sake! She’d accidently stumbled against him and surely knew what was on his mind.

  Flynn stared down at her rooftop. The sky had clouded now, no sign of the stars and moon from earlier. He checked his watch. Two thirty and he had no sleep in him. He rubbed his eyes, picked up his empty glass, and walked indoors. An hour of mind-deadening TV would suit him just fine.

  »»•««

  Sunday was overcast, and dark clouds hung low over the hills. Freya packed a picnic of cold chicken, salad, and fruit. At ten o’clock she heard Tim’s car and went out. He opened the trunk, smiling as he took the cool box.

  “Morning.” He looked up at the sky. “Do you think we’ll get away with it?”

  “Hi. Maybe. If we’re lucky!”

  She climbed in the car. Tim got in beside her.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “It’s a lovely old town, Santa Batista. There’s a monastery there with amazing gardens. I thought it would be ideal for a picnic. It’s not too far.”

  “Sounds interesting. I love gardens. The different ways people plant and design has always intrigued me. How have you managed the day off? I never asked.”

  “I have a very able second-in-command, Sara.” Tim smiled. “She’s totally dedicated, would work all hours God sends if I’d let her.”

  Freya was surprised. “You’ve never mentioned her before.”

  “No. I suppose at first I didn’t think she’d stay. Being so highly qualified I expected her to move on to the city, but she seems to like where she is.”

  “I wonder why that is?” she said with a grin.

  The small town was a pleasant surprise for Freya. Tim showed her the quaint cobbled back streets, the old stone houses now mostly renovated, the blacksmith’s, turned into a hotel, finally leading her to the monastery gardens. Terraces, abundant with flowers, some she knew and some not, assailed her eyes. Purple miniature hollyhocks, the deep blue California lilac, bright yellow poppies, and white and yellow fried egg tumbled over the low terrace walls.

  “It’s just wonderful,” Freya said. “Very beautiful. I’d love to re-create something like this at Byron.”

  They walked down to the edge of a small lake covered in water lilies. Tim spread the blanket beneath a tree.

  “Ah.” Freya sighed, her mind elsewhere. “I do love California.” And a surprising thought suddenly struck her. Lucy would have enjoyed this more than I’m doing!

  »»•««

  Freya watched Tim drive away, sad because she knew that for her, their platonic relationship was drawing to its natural close. I will always be fond of him, would like to stay his true friend, but only that.

  “How was it?” Lucy asked. She was standing at the kitchen sink washing strawberries when Freya walked in.

  “Fine. Lovely place. You’d have enjoyed it.”

  Lucy turned away. “I’m sure I would.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  First thing Monday morning Freya called a removal company and arranged to have her father’s bedroom furniture taken away. Freya took the two men upstairs into the back bedroom. The older man scratched his head.

  “That’ll take some moving,” he said. The wardrobe and chests were removed first, accompanied by a lot of grunting and moaning. Freya had stripped the bedding and watched as the men heaved the heavy old mattress off the bed.

  “Oh!” she said and leaned over to pick up a thick manila envelope wedged between the damaged springs. The men ignored her and carried the mattress out. Freya stared at the envelope.

  Some instinct told her that now was not the time to open it. She needed time and privacy. Hurrying to her bedroom, she pushed it under the mattress of her own bed and frowned. Why did I do that?

  The men were back upstairs. She closed her bedroom door and went into her father’s room where the bed was in the process of being dismantled and removed.

  Once the truck was gone, Freya checked for Ian. He wasn’t there, so she locked the house and drove to Margaret’s.

  “Morning,” Margaret called on seeing her. “Come through, Freya. I’ll show you what we have on for today. How did you enjoy The Green Frog?”

  “I thought it was a real cool place. I shall enjoy taking my family when they arrive.”

  “Good. Now, how do you like this?” Margaret pointed to the old, battered-looking hall stand with drawer and mirror. The drawer had no handle, but the mirror was unmarked and beautifully beveled.

  Freya smiled. “I want it!”

  “Gorgeous, isn’t it? I was like that when I first started, until Ron said, ‘Whoa! Can’t move in this house!’ Anyway, take that as your first piece. Paint it whatever color you like. All the paints are on the shelves.”

  Margaret handed over a canvas apron.

  Engrossed in painting the piece of furniture, Freya’s mind nevertheless kept straying back to the envelope. When it did her stomach would give a little lurch. What was she going to discover inside it? No one hid anything under the mattress anymore! She thought of it now under her own, waiting.

  “I have so enjoyed this,” she said to Margaret at four o’clock. “The time flew. In accounting I always seemed to be watching the clock!”

  “Good. Come in whenever you like. Just turn up, I’ll be pleased to see you.”

  On the short drive home, her thoughts once again on the waiting envelope, Freya found herself wishing she had the courage to just throw it away without opening it. Yet…her father had hidden it under his bed and left the house and contents to her, so who else did he think would eventually find it?

  She had only just walked into the kitchen and flung her keys on the table when the phone rang. She snatched it up.

  “Hi.” Flynn’s deep voice sent a delicious trickle down her back, and Freya smiled, the envelope temporarily forgotten.

  “Hi, yourself.”

  “I’ve called to say another thank you for Saturday night and ask how your day went.”

  “I thoroughly enjoyed it. Trouble is I might want to buy all the pieces I work on!”

  There was a pause. “I meant your day out yesterday. Didn’t you get caught in the thunderstorm? I hope it didn’t spoil it for you.”

  Freya thought she heard a touch of smiling satisfaction in the question. “It only started as we were leaving, so no, it didn’t spoil anything.”

  “Mm. Well, as I said, thanks again for Saturday.”

  “I should be thanking you. You showed me a lovely place, and,” she added softly, “I had a great time. Thank you, Flynn.”

  “Did you really? It’s always hard to gauge a person’s reaction when they’ve been invited out…what I mean is, politeness sometimes masks true feelings, don’t you think?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose that can be said. But when I say I enjoy something,
it’s meant! So take it from me, I enjoyed Saturday evening!” She heard his throaty chuckle.

  “Then we must do it again sometime. Catch you later.” And he was gone.

  Freya stared at the silent phone. “Drat,” she muttered. “Why couldn’t I tell him I hadn’t wanted to go home?”

  She wasn’t hungry so made coffee and found a cookie. Lucy had left a note. A surprise interview had come up at a clinic in San Francisco and she’d taken the train in but was hoping to be back by nine.

  Taking her coffee with her, Freya went upstairs into her bedroom, undressed, had a quick shower, and donned her robe. Sliding her hand beneath the mattress, she pulled out the envelope. It wasn’t sealed, and opening it she saw it contained a diary.

  Her name was on the front.

  “Oh!” She put a hand to her mouth.

  Sitting on the bed, knees drawn up, she propped her back against the pillows and opened it. The very first entry was the eighteenth of August, just two weeks before his death. Freya frowned.

  What?

  But it had never been written as a diary, she quickly discovered. It was in fact more of a journal. She leaned across to switch the bedside light on and began reading the neat, tidy writing.

  In June 1986 I met your mother, Susan. She was a first year student and I, a prominent, well-respected heart surgeon. I fell madly in love with her gaiety, her laughter and love of live. She brought me such amazing joy.

  But I was married.

  My wife, Pamela, who had battled since her teen years with depression, very soon after our marriage became much worse. I now blame myself for this because of my wish, put to her, that we start a family. She became hysterical, and thereafter had regular bouts of what I can only describe as manic depression. I never again mentioned children.

  Through all this, I turned more and more to Susan and we made a life together of sorts.

  In March 1987 she told me she was expecting our child and I was beside myself with happiness, although, as I could never leave Pamela to fend for herself, a divorce was out of the question. I desperately wanted your mother in New York with me so I could be part of our child’s life. At first she agreed to this, but as the pregnancy progressed she became very concerned about my reputation. Not only that, she worried that should news of an out of wedlock child of mine with a young nurse find its way into the newspapers, Pamela might hear about it. Your mother, fearful that such news may tip my wife over the edge told me she was leaving New York.

  I was totally devastated and remain so to this day.

  Freya stopped reading. Tears were streaming down her face. She wiped her face on the robe and picked up the book again.

  And so I had no choice but to let her go. That day I, a grown man, cried like a child. Susan said she would not get in touch and so never left me an address, but from your birth regularly sent the photos of you, which I know you’ll find in the shoe box.

  My little girl, Freya. With your gorgeous gold red hair and green eyes, how I have always adored you, loved you. I know from Susan that your pop gave you a happy life and for that I’m thankful. I hope that now, with the money from the sale of Byron and the land that you’ll be able to do with your life whatever you wish. The house only brought me unhappiness…

  “Wait!” Freya stopped sniffling and read the line again. “What’s this?”

  The house only brought me unhappiness. I was glad to leave it. You see, dear Freya, Pamela had somehow found out about you—must have been the photos, though I’d carefully hidden them—and our lives after that were just misery. Pam sank further into depression and began hurting herself. I couldn’t leave her alone, not even to enjoy a game of cards with that old cheat Mickey O’Neill. Many times, even though I was careful, she’d find something to harm herself with. My poor Pamela.

  Freya turned the page. It was empty, as were the next few, as though, she thought, he’d meant to add more. It started again.

  So I did the unforgiveable. I had Pamela certified and committed. A suitably qualified psychiatrist authorized by the Santa Clara Mental Health Institute examined and declared her suffering from bipolar, unable to clothe, feed, and take care of herself, with suicidal tendencies. I set up a Discretionary Trust which will pay for her care until her death.

  Yes. Until her death. For you see here is the worst thing I have to disclose. Pamela, to date, is still alive and living in the Santa Clara institution. I told my good friend she’d died at her sister’s in Ohio. There was no sister. She never went to Ohio. I invented Ohio because I knew that the good O’Neill family would want to support me at a funeral. I couldn’t face them seeing what my wife was doing to herself because of me, which is why I secretly put her into care. It is a dire and dreadful thing I have done and now I fear Pamela haunts me. Strange happenings….

  Freya clutched her throat. “Oh my God!” She felt sick. Leaning her head back she cried softly. “Poor, poor Daddy.”

  There was only one page left.

  So my darling daughter, my times is almost up. I haven’t been a heart surgeon all these years for nothing and I know my inoperable condition is slowly killing me. Pamela is safe, and my love for you will keep me happy until the end.

  I’ve told you all. You had to know the truth and I feel sure you will judge me fairly.

  Please ask Flynn to do the same.

  All my love forever,

  Your Father.

  Freya lay down, pulled the blankets over her, and held the diary to her chest.

  Pamela alive.

  She heard Lucy’s taxi arrive but felt so blue she couldn’t raise herself off the bed to welcome her. Her heart was just too heavy.

  Not long afterward, Lucy crept along the creaking landing and her bedroom door clicked softly shut. Freya turned on her side, looked out at the stars, and prayed fervently that her father was now at peace.

  Chapter Seventeen

  That week, the sale for the land was completed, swelling Freya’s bank account considerably. The amount was far more than she’d ever envisaged and would enable her to start work on her business. But her heart was no longer in it.

  She knew both Lucy and Margaret were continually casting concerned looks her way but could not bring herself to disclose the reason for her sadness.

  Finally, she made the call to Mr. Wainright.

  “Miss Martin!” He sounded, she thought, cautious. “How are you?”

  “How am I? That’s a hard question to answer right now so instead I’ll ask you one. What do you know about Pamela McFee, Mr. Wainright?”

  “Ah. Now. Yes. I take it you’ve found the diary?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about her?” Freya’s voice rose. She felt more tears threatening.

  “My dear girl.” Mr. Wainright sighed loudly. “Archie specifically asked me not to reveal anything and I had to go along with his wishes. He wouldn’t give a reason for this, he was just adamant. He did not want you to know beforehand. And that is all I can tell you. What I know about Pamela is that she is alive and physically well, living in the Mornington Institution in Santa Clara. I’m sure this has come as a dreadful shock, but you know it doesn’t affect your inheritance.”

  “Well, to be perfectly honest, that hadn’t even crossed my mind! But how so?”

  “It’s a rather complicated procedure set up for her well-being called a Mental Health Conservatorship, basically it means she will be given the best care for her illness until her death. Because of her extreme bipolar disorder, she is not in a position to live alone and cannot inherit.”

  “I see. This information has quite changed my feelings about Byron House.”

  “How so, Miss Martin?”

  Freya stared out the window. She felt drained, listless. “I thought it had warmth, now I’ve learned there was so much unhappiness here, for both my father and Pamela, I don’t feel the same. Do you…is Pamela allowed visitors?”

  There was a pause. “Is that wise?”

  Freya closed her phone thoughtfully. She h
ad a nagging headache, and the thought of spending the day among paint fumes didn’t appeal at all, but she couldn’t let Margaret down.

  At the shop, Margaret greeted her warmly.

  “You look a little pale, Freya. Everything all right?”

  “Fine, tired is all.”

  “Any news yet on your business plan?”

  “Nothing will happen for a few months. There’s so much to do, so many rules and regulations to comply with I can’t see me getting it under way until the new year.”

  “That’s California for you,” Margaret said ruefully. “I meant to ask you, I know you’ll probably be wanting to have your friend all to yourself, but we have a few people from the tennis club coming over for drinks this evening, and well, with the sale through and now this new venture of yours, we’d love to share a drink with you. If you’re free, call by at seven. I’d really like you to come.”

  »»•««

  Lucy was up the ladder, just finishing hanging the lounge curtains, when Freya arrived home. She exclaimed with pleasure over them. They both stood back to admire the effect.

  “Gorgeous, Luce!” They lay in soft pools on the parquet flooring, thick folds of silky cream damask. “Thank you.” She kissed her. “Now, how do you feel about an evening at the O’Neill’s? Margaret’s invited us over. Want to go? They’re a lovely couple.”

  Lucy laughed. “What you really mean is that you’ll have a chance to cast your lustful eyes on Flynn! I’m sure his parents are indeed lovely, but pull the other one, hon, it’s him you want to see. So let’s do it, I’d like to go.”

  Freya laughed too. “Got it in one. You know me so well.”

  They ate cheese on toast, and then both went to shower under new showerheads which worked properly. The new boiler had been installed and the electrical work was almost finished.

  Freya dressed in a pair of designer jeans and a white silk shirt. She scraped her hair onto the top of her head, holding it in place with a tortoiseshell clip. Lucy wore a loose shift-style dress and did, Freya told her, look gorgeous. They arrived at the O’Neill’s just after seven, where there was already a throng of people gathered. Margaret spotted them straight away and on reaching Freya, embraced her warmly. Freya then introduced Lucy, and on joining them, Ron was introduced too.