“Nothing’s going to happen.”
“You don’t know the people you are dealing with. They are dangerous.”
“That was many years ago. Times have changed.”
“I worry that I have put you in danger again.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Oh, Rafa, you give me such strength. I will try not to worry.”
“I’m going to come home at the end of the summer, and everything is going to be just the same as it always has been. Trust me.”
“I trust you, hijo. I just don’t trust … them.”
Rafa distracted her with questions about the farm, his siblings and their children. Little by little, her voice grew less strained and she sounded more herself. When he hung up, he felt a little better. He hated to think of her sitting alone in the middle of the pampa, worrying about him. He knew how precious he was to her, and that since the death of his father he had become even more so. He stood up and put his hands on his hips, staring out into the eternal blackness of the night, lost in thought. He wasn’t ready to go back inside, there were so many knots to unravel in his head. So he took a walk.
The scents of the garden were intensified by the dew, and he was reminded of the midnight walks he used to take as a younger man across the pampa. As his mind delved deeper into his past he felt the sharp pain of longing pull at his heart.
When Rafa was a small boy, Lorenzo was already an old man in his sixties. His other children were all grown up, and his wife worried that he no longer had the patience or the energy to endure the constant demands of a small child. But little by little Rafa had won him over with his enthusiasm and curiosity, following him around the farm like a worshipful dog. When his older children were small, Lorenzo had been too busy to indulge them, but in his old age he had found to his delight that he had all the time in the world to indulge his youngest. He taught him how to ride and took him on long excursions across the pampa, telling him about the history of the land and his own childhood in Italy. He taught him to play cards and to smile when he lost, and at night, by the warm light of the fire, they’d sit on the grass with the other gauchos and sing songs while Lorenzo strummed his guitar. The old man relished having one child to dote on instead of four, and he spoiled him with the indulgence of a man who has little else in his life to afford him pleasure.
Rafa had loved those times, alone with his father, a gruff bear of a man with the quiet, gentle nature of a hound. How he missed him.
13.
Marina hadn’t suffered nightmares for many years, not since she first settled into married life. But that night she awoke in a sweat, her heart throbbing frantically against her rib cage, her throat choked with sobs. She sat up and clutched her bosom, slowly returning to the present and her bed, where Grey lay sleeping peacefully beside her. She reached over to her bedside table and picked up the glass of water. With a trembling hand she brought it to her lips. Gradually, her pulse slowed down and her heart stopped pounding. She took a deep breath and wiped her face. Yet the sadness that dream provoked hung over her like a shroud.
She climbed out of bed and walked unsteadily to the closet where she kept her clothes. Taking care not to make a sound, she opened the door and reached into the very back of the top shelf, where a shoebox lay hidden against the wall, behind her sweaters. She hadn’t taken it out for years, even though it emanated a strange kind of magnetism whenever she opened her cupboard, to remind her of its presence.
With the box safely tucked against her chest she tiptoed into the bathroom and locked the door. She switched on the light and winced at the brightness. Slowly, she went over to the lavatory, replaced the lid, and sat down. She remained still, staring at the box with its simple white lid until her eyes stung. It looked like a little coffin, so pure and unblemished. She ran her fingers over the smooth surface, and her tears fell heavy and fast. Her heart contracted with dread until it was a little nugget, like a cold stone.
She dreaded what the box contained, although she was as familiar with its contents as she was with her own pain. Her breathing grew labored and she cried out, muffling her sob against her hand. She closed her eyes and quietly wept. It didn’t matter whether or not she opened it, for it would always be there to remind her of her error. And if she threw the box away? The memories would still be there, indelibly marked upon her soul, to resurface in night terrors to remind her of her guilt. Only God knew how much she suffered.
She remained in the bathroom until her heartbeat slowed again and her grief subsided. Then she replaced the box in the far corner of her wardrobe and went back to bed.
Grey rolled over and pulled her close. “Are you all right, darling?” he whispered sleepily.
“I am now,” she replied, snuggling into his embrace.
“Not that dream again?”
“Yes, but it’s gone now.” It had been years since that recurring nightmare had stalked her sleep. He kissed her head and she closed her eyes, knowing she could drift off safe in the knowledge that it wouldn’t come back tonight.
The following morning Harvey appeared in her kitchen with a big smile, and Marina had to restrain herself from throwing her arms around him like a child.
“Oh, Harvey, I’m so pleased you’re back. We missed you.”
Harvey looked at her, concerned. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. But Rafa arrived yesterday and my old ladies arrive today, and Grey wanted you to help him with something. He left early to go fishing, so I can’t ask him what it was. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. Why don’t you have a cup of tea and talk to me while I have breakfast? Bertha will be arriving soon and then I’ll have to leave.”
Harvey rolled his eyes. “You mean the workaholic?”
Marina laughed. “Wonderful name for her.”
“Never seen anyone move so fast from room to room.”
“If only.”
“I bet the minute you’re gone, she settles down, makes herself a cup of tea, and reads the papers.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t dare.”
“That’s what she wants you to think.” He pulled out a chair, and Marina poured boiling water from the kettle into a mug. She knew how he liked it: Earl Grey with a large spoonful of honey. As she handed it to him her battered heart recovered a little. She watched him take it, his big hand rough and lined like the bark of an old oak tree.
She sat down opposite and poured herself another cup of coffee. He looked at her with kind eyes. “So, what’s up, then?”
“Besides the robbery?”
“I know, I heard. He’s running rings around the police.”
“No leads. Nothing. It seems unbelievable in this day and age, with forensics and all the technology at their disposal, that they can’t find something.”
“They must have had a lot of silver in their dining room to make it worth the robber’s while to break in and steal it.”
“At least he didn’t explore further. Think of all those paintings.”
“I imagine he knew what he wanted. Silver is easy to sell.”
“Has it come out in the papers?”
“Haven’t read them yet. I have my mole in the police force.”
“Same one as Jake’s mole, I suspect. He doesn’t waste any time in telling everyone, does he? Probably tells the local paper, too.”
“I think he enjoys being in the know.”
“And showing off to anyone who’ll listen. No wonder they can’t catch him, they’re too busy gossiping.”
“So, how’s the artist settling in?”
Marina’s face lit up at the mention of Rafa. “He’s charming. A positive, happy presence to have around the hotel, just like you.” Harvey grinned over his teacup. “He’s nice to everyone, you know. Jennifer and Rose are on cloud nine because he takes trouble with them and everyone seems happier. It’s as if he has sprinkled fairy dust over the place. I sense he’s going to make a real difference here.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
&
nbsp; “I don’t think Jake likes him, though.”
“Really?”
“The green-eyed monster.”
“Ah,” said Harvey, knowingly.
“Sometimes Jake’s very immature. But Clemmie thinks Rafa is wonderful.”
“That’s good.”
“The trouble is, she’s rather obvious about it.”
“He probably doesn’t notice. Men notice less than you think.”
“I don’t know. But he’s a grown-up. I’m sure he’ll take it in his stride.” She looked uneasy.
“You don’t want her to get hurt.”
“She’s never really been in love before. She’s had boyfriends.” Marina pulled a face. “Lots of boyfriends. But she’s never loved.”
“You think she’s going to fall in love with Rafa?”
“Almost certainly. I fear she’s going to get hurt.”
“It might be a perfect match.”
“I don’t think so. He lives on the other side of the world, and he’s almost too handsome for his own good. He must be used to girls falling in love with him.” She lowered her eyes and frowned. “I don’t trust beautiful men when it comes to love.”
“But you like Rafa.”
“Yes, I like him very much. I’m just being silly.”
“No, you’re not. You’re being a good stepmother.” She looked at him, now smiling at her with such affection, and felt her throat tighten for no reason at all.
“Thank you, Harvey. You know I only want what’s best for her.”
“I know you do.”
The front door opened, bringing in a gust of wind and Bertha. “Goodness me, it’s blustery this morning.”
“Time to go over to the hotel,” said Marina to Harvey as Bertha made her way across the hall towards the kitchen. They both drained their cups. A cloud of Anaï Anaï wafted in on the draft, then Bertha filled the doorway, her large body squeezed into a yellow floral tent dress. Marina put down her coffee cup and stared in horror, while Harvey was unable to take his eyes off her. The yellow fabric fell straight from the neck edge to her ankles, which stuck out of the hem like two uncooked sausages. Her feet were squeezed into gold pumps. Marina blinked at her, lost for words.
“Don’t say you don’t like it,” said Bertha, unfazed. “I’ve spent all morning trying to zip it up.”
“You look very bright,” said Harvey. He stood up and replaced his cap. “I need my sunglasses to look at you.”
“I felt positive this morning.”
“That’s good,” said Harvey. “Perhaps you’ll put some of that positivity into your work.”
“You know me, forever the perfectionist.” She dropped her handbag onto one of the kitchen chairs. “I think I’ll make myself a cuppa.” Harvey caught Marina’s eye and raised an eyebrow. “Anything special you need me to do today?” She directed her question at Marina.
“Um, no. I mean, no, nothing special.”
“Who’s going to clean the artist’s room, then?”
“I don’t know. It’s up to Jake.”
“Well, if you want it done properly, you know you can count on me.”
“Thank you, Bertha.” Marina made for the door.
“Have a word with Jake. Perhaps he can assign me to that room for the summer.” She bustled over to the kettle and thrust it under the tap. “I wouldn’t necessarily trust those silly housemaids to do a good job. He’s a handsome lad, and they might get into trouble.” She gave Marina a meaningful look. “You know what young girls are like. Much too free with their loins.”
Harvey and Marina crossed the gravel to the hotel, laughing together at the absurdity of the woman.
“I didn’t know they made dresses that size,” said Marina. “Or that shape. I dread to think what the rest of my staff are wearing. Has everyone gone mad?”
They entered the hotel to find Rose and Jennifer on reception. There was nothing unusual about their clothes, but they had certainly applied their makeup with more care than usual.
“He’s in the dining room,” said Jennifer, as Marina swept in.
“Good.”
“He’s sitting with the brigadier.”
Marina looked worried. “Oh, okay.”
“He’ll love the old brigadier,” said Harvey as they walked on through the hall. “They don’t make them like that in Argentina.”
“What do you know of Argentina, Harvey?” Marina laughed.
“That they don’t make men like the brigadier.”
Rafa was indeed sitting at the brigadier’s usual table by the window. They were deep in conversation. When the two men saw Marina approach, they got to their feet to greet her.
“Please don’t get up,” she said, watching the brigadier, who had only just managed to lift his bottom off the chair, drop back into it. “So, you two have met.”
“Fascinating young man,” enthused the brigadier. “His father fought in the war, for the other side.”
“Then he migrated to Argentina to forget about it,” Rafa added.
“I don’t want to forget about it. The day I forget about it they might as well bury me in the ground. Best days of my life.”
“No, your life is good now,” said Rafa.
“Not as good as the past, young man,” chuckled the brigadier a little sadly.
“But the past is just memory, the future just anticipation; the only reality is now.” Rafa looked around the room. “And here you are in a beautiful place, eating a delicious breakfast. There’s not a lot wrong about that.”
“Is it bad to dream?” Marina asked.
“Of course not, as long as your desires don’t make you unhappy.”
“I gave up all my pipe dreams when I was no longer young enough to smoke them. Now I just smoke conventional tobacco,” said the brigadier.
“You’re young in your heart,” said Rafa kindly.
“This old heart. Nothing made it beat more surely than the sound of gunfire and the smell of battle.” He raised his rheumy eyes and gave a little sniff. “Or the pretty face of my girl.”
Rafa sensed that his girl was up there with his father and looked on the brigadier’s wistful face with empathy. “You know, she’s still here,” he said softly.
“Oh, I know she is. It’s been five years—five long years. I can feel her sometimes, but then is it just my mind playing cruel tricks on a sad old man who wants to believe?”
“Most certainly not,” interrupted Marina. “You have to believe what you feel.” She turned to Rafa. “What are your plans for today?”
“He’s going to teach me how to paint,” said the brigadier.
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. He thinks it’ll make me feel young again.”
“Then he should teach us all how to paint,” said Marina with a laugh.
“You’re all welcome.”
“Any other takers?”
“No, just the brigadier. We’re going to paint in the garden.”
“Good.”
“We’re going to paint a tree.”
“A tree?”
“Yes,” Rafa confirmed decisively. “A tree.”
Clementine had slept better than she had in a long time. Last night she had ignored a call from Joe at ten o’clock and switched off her mobile. Rafa had come in from the garden at about eleven, and they had sat in the conservatory until midnight, talking in the candlelight until the wax had all but melted. He had told her more about his father, whom he missed dreadfully, and about his childhood. She felt flattered that he had opened up to her, as if she were his confidante. They already shared the secret church, the house that God forgot, and the hidden cove. When they had got up to go to bed, she had almost expected him to kiss her. But he hadn’t. He had smiled and said good night, leaving her in the hall with Bill, the night porter.
She had floated across to the stable block, her head swimming with wonderful fantasies and her chest full of something light and fizzy. She had hummed as she enjoyed a bath, danced as she had dried hers
elf, and laughed as she had smoothed her body with some lotion she had bought but never used. She had snuggled beneath the duvet with a contented sigh, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she had actually looked forward to waking up in the morning.
She had seen Rafa before dashing off to work in her Mini. They had bumped into each other in the hall (not that she had any business to be there), and he had suggested they go out in a boat after work. The promise of an excursion together fueled her all the way into Dawcomb. She drove down the narrow lanes, past frothy green hedges and white-flowered blackthorn that lay heaped on the branches like snow. She observed the little birds that dived in and out, and the gulls that circled above in a glittering sky. Her heart filled with happiness at the sudden glimpses of the ocean as she weaved down the coast towards the town. She took in the beauty around her and wondered why she had never noticed it before.
Sylvia was standing by her desk in a tight red skirt and satin blouse tied at the throat in an extravagant bow. She was fussing over a bunch of lilies, cutting out the pollen-laden antherd with a pair of scissors. When she saw Clementine, she did a double take and paused her cutting.
“Oh my Lord, what’s up with you?”
“Nothing’s up,” Clementine replied, shrugging out of her jacket.
Sylvia narrowed her eyes. “Now let me see. You’ve made an effort today, so something must be up. You usually look like a sack of potatoes.”
“Thank you for the compliment.”
“So, are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to torture you?” She put her hand on her rounded hip. “The flowers are from Freddie, by the way. In case you were curious.”
“I’m not.”
“I’d like to think it’s Joe, but it isn’t, is it?”
“No,” said Clementine, sitting down and switching on her computer. “Do you remember that Argentine I met in the Black Bean Coffee Shop?”
“Yes. Don’t tell me he’s come back?”
“He’s the artist-in-residence.”
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