Joe sat up. “Has he tried to seduce you?”
“He wouldn’t dare. He knows I don’t like him.”
“Good.”
She laughed at his jealousy and rolled back onto the bed. “Are you my knight in shining armor?”
He pulled her into his arms. “Yes. I don’t like the idea of anyone trying to seduce you but me.”
“Would you fight for me?”
“You know I would. Tooth and nail.”
“I like it when you’re jealous,” she purred, curling up against him, her anger dissipating in the might of his devotion.
“That Argentine had better watch it. He’s not flirting with my girl.”
Clementine drove home with a sense of empowerment. She’d move in with Joe, and all her problems would be solved. She couldn’t think why she hadn’t thought of it before. It was the perfect solution to every problem. The CD player filled the car with the rousing music of Pixie Lott. She wound down the window and sang out into the night about what would her mama do.
She parked on the gravel and hurried across to the stable block. The light had been left on in the hall, but the rest of the house was dark. She grinned as she climbed the stairs two steps at a time. There’d be no more creeping in like a thief in the night. No more annoying questions at the breakfast table. No more having to share the same living space as her stepmother. She’d be free.
The following morning she announced her plans to her family over coffee and croissants. Marina was stunned. “Are you sure that’s what you want, Clemmie?”
“It’s absolutely what I want,” she replied emphatically.
“But do you love him?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“It’s just rather quick.”
“Clemmie is rather quick,” quipped Jake.
“Look, I’m telling you, not asking for your opinions.”
Grey was more pliant. “Darling, if that’s what you want, then you have my blessing. No one knows better than you what will make you happy.”
“Thank you, Daddy.”
“Grey, I don’t think—”
“Darling, Clemmie is old enough to know what she’s doing.”
Marina looked at her stepdaughter in desperation. She wondered whether her fight with Rafa had anything to do with her decision. “Well, you can always come back if it doesn’t work out.”
“Thanks for your faith in me,” Clementine snapped.
“It’s a big deal, moving in with a man.”
“One step away from marriage,” Jake added helpfully.
“As if I’d get married after the fine example our parents set us.”
“That’s unfair,” said Marina.
“Oh, I don’t think it is. After the hell we went through, why on earth would I wish that on children I might have?”
Grey interjected. “Now, Clemmie, this is no time to start a row. I think it’s a very good idea that you move in with Joe and gain some independence. You’re a woman now, and it’s no business of ours what you do.”
“So that’s settled then,” Clemmie replied, getting up.
Marina noticed that she hadn’t eaten anything, but refrained from suggesting she take a croissant to eat in the office.
“So when are you planning to move out?” she asked.
“Tonight.”
“So soon?”
“What’s the hurry?” Jake asked.
“I want to be with Joe,” she replied. “I’m in love.” But her words sounded hollow even to her.
“Do you want any help packing?” Marina asked, knowing the answer before her stepdaughter turned on her angrily.
“For God’s sake, I’m not a child. I’ll do my own packing, thank you.”
They watched her march out of the room, slamming the front door behind her.
“They’re going to love her in the office this morning,” said Jake, pouring himself another cup of coffee.
“What’s got into her?” Grey asked.
“I think I know,” said Marina with a sigh.
“It’s great she’s moving out,” Jake added. “We won’t have to suffer her dark moods every morning.”
“She’s unhappy, Jake,” chided Marina, one eye still on the door, hoping Clementine might return through it any minute to apologize.
“The divorce happened a long time ago,” said Jake carelessly. “Shit happens, but hey, we’ve survived.”
“She’s chewing on an old bone,” said Grey wisely. “Try to take it away and she growls.”
The front door opened. However, it wasn’t Clementine who stepped into the hall but Bertha. Her habitual sigh was replaced by an exuberant smile.
Marina got up. “I feel sorry for her,” she said, taking her coffee cup to the sink.
“She’ll find her way,” said Grey, giving his wife a sympathetic smile.
Bertha bustled in, filling the kitchen with Anaïs Anaïs. “What’s got into Clemmie this morning? She very nearly ran me over.”
“She’s running away as fast as she can,” said Jake.
“She’s moving out,” Marina added.
“Going to live with her boyfriend, is she?” said Bertha, tossing her handbag onto a chair.
“That’s right,” said Grey. “I’m off, darling. I’ll be back for lunch.”
“No news from William Shawcross?” asked Jake.
“Nothing yet. I’ll chase him up. I’m sure he’s in high demand,” replied his father.
“There are others we can approach.”
“But Shawcross is the one I want,” said Grey.
Bertha began clearing away the breakfast. It was Grey who noticed first that she didn’t lumber over to the counter and turn on the kettle, or sigh wearily, clutching her back and complaining about her aches. He made eyes at his wife. Marina hesitated in the doorway to see what he was grinning about. Sure enough, Bertha, clothed in a bright purple dress with a red bead necklace dangling merrily over her bosoms, was almost dancing around the table, stacking the plates and saucers, a hum hovering upon glossy lips.
“At least someone’s in a good mood this morning,” said Grey.
“Oh, yes,” Bertha replied. “It’s a beautiful day.”
“But Clemmie nearly killed you,” said Jake.
“But she didn’t.” She piled the plates on the sideboard and opened the dishwasher.
“You look very nice,” said Marina. “Color suits you.”
“I know. That’s what Mr. Santoro said, and he’s a man who notices women.”
Marina didn’t dare look at Grey in case she laughed. “He certainly does,” she agreed.
“I’ll do an hour here then go over to make up his room. Then I’ll come back and finish off,” Bertha informed her.
Marina looked at Jake in surprise. “You’re in charge of Mr. Santoro’s room?”
“It’s not a job for the young ones,” Bertha said importantly.
Jake got up. “She’s the right woman for the job,” he said, grabbing his jacket and slipping past his stepmother, who still stood in the doorframe.
“Fine,” Marina said tightly. “Just don’t forget to come back and finish off here.”
Bertha smiled. “Of course not. Clemmie’s room will need a good going over once she’s moved out. Who knows what we’ll find in there.”
Marina strode over to the hotel in search of Harvey. She found him in the garden, talking to Mr. Potter. Harvey had his hands on his hips while Mr. Potter leaned heavily on his spade. The two of them were laughing cheerfully as they shared a joke.
“Harvey,” said Marina as she approached, “I need you.” She hadn’t meant to sound so desperate. Both men turned to look at her in alarm.
Harvey immediately noticed the strained look on her face. “Catch you later, Potter,” he said before striding across the lawn towards her. “Is everything okay?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Righty-oh.” He followed her through the Children’s Garden, where th
e little aqueduct remained barren, and through the French doors into her office. She collapsed onto the sofa with a moan.
“Clemmie’s moving out,” she stated, shaking her head forlornly. “I don’t know what to do.”
Harvey sat beside her, his wise old face smiling at her kindly. “When did she tell you?”
“This morning. She had a row with Rafa last night, and now she’s moving in with a man she doesn’t even care about.”
“Marina, love, it’s out of your control. She’s a woman now.”
“But I see her making a terrible mistake.”
“Which you are powerless to do anything about.”
She swallowed back tears. “Rafa said he had upset her, but it’s not really about him. It’s about me.” Harvey took her hand between his big rough ones and stroked it tenderly. She turned to him slowly, her dark eyes shiny and sad. Suddenly, she wasn’t a woman in her fifties but a little girl, gazing up at him lost and alone. “I can’t have children, for the love of God, I can’t have children of my own … and … and …” The words caught in her throat.
“It’s okay.” He drew her into his arms and held her tightly as a father would hold a hurting daughter.
She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, tears squeezing through her lashes. “I can’t even win the love of my stepchildren.”
He embraced her with all his might, wanting more than anything to make her smile again. “But that’s normal, Marina. Stepchildren will always love their natural parents more, and most often they see the stepparent as a usurper. It’s the way it will always be.”
“I feel I’m being punished.”
“Whatever for?” He felt her hands grip his sweater.
“I’m frightened, Harvey.”
“What about?”
“I’ve done something terrible.” She drew away and looked into his eyes. His heart lurched to see the terror in hers.
“Tell me, love, what have you done?”
She thrust a trembling hand against her mouth as if fighting to contain an awful secret and shook her head. “I can’t …”
“Whatever it was, I’ll understand. I know you so well, Marina. Nothing you could do would make me think less of you.”
“I’ve never told anyone, not even Grey.”
Harvey considered it a minute. There was something wild in her that he’d never seen before. A flash of someone he didn’t recognize. “If you want to confide in me, I won’t tell a soul, I promise.” His words were like a rope to a drowning woman, and she seized them with relief.
“I trust you, Harvey.”
“I know you do.”
She took a deep breath, about to share the burden of her secret at last.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. They stared at each other in alarm, like conspirators caught hatching a plot. There was nothing they could do. The moment was lost. As the door opened the air was sucked out of the room and with it all the tension that had been steadily building. Marina’s resolve deflated like a soufflé. She raised her bloodshot eyes to her stepson, who now stood in the doorway.
“Sorry, have I interrupted something?” he asked. He was used to his stepmother’s mercurial nature and wasn’t in the least surprised to see her crying on Harvey’s dependable shoulder.
“No, carry on,” she said, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand.
“We’ve just had a booking from Charles Rueben.”
Marina paled. “The Charles Rueben?”
“Yes, booked in for two nights with his wife, Celeste.”
“Really?”
“I thought you should know.”
“Have you told your father?”
“He’s out.”
“When are they coming?”
“Friday the twelfth of June.”
She ran a hand through her hair. “There’s only one reason why he’s booking in.”
“To take a look,” said Jake.
“With a view to buying it.”
Harvey’s face darkened. “Who is this man?”
“He’s bought up some of the finest hotels in the world,” Marina replied.
“Good Lord,” Harvey sighed. “Do you think he really wants ours?”
“Perhaps. Why else is he coming to stay?”
“Why doesn’t he send a gofer?” Jake asked. “I mean, why bother to come himself?”
“Oh, that doesn’t surprise me. That’s very Charles Rueben. He’s a famous micromanager. He probably just wants to check us out.”
“What shall we do?” said Jake, scratching his head.
“We shall entertain him in the same way that we entertain all our guests,” Marina told him, and there was a steely edge to her voice.
“And if he makes an offer we can’t refuse?” said Jake.
“Never say ‘can’t,’ Jake.” She stood up. “That is one lesson my life has taught me, which I had all but forgotten. I won’t forget it again.”
Laughter bubbled across the lawn from beneath the cedar tree.
“Oh you do have a good sense of humor, Brigadier,” said Pat, dipping her brush into green paint.
The brigadier ran his eyes over the four women positioned in front of their easels and decided that they were rather good company for an old fellow tired of being on his own.
“You’d better behave, Pat,” said Grace. “Teacher’s coming.” Pat chuckled into her chins as Rafa wandered behind her to look at her progress.
“Not bad,” he said, scratching his bristles. “I can feel the happiness and nostalgia in your tree.”
“Can you?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes, I can.”
“Reminds me of my girlhood,” Pat said wistfully. “The only difference now that separates me from who I once was is my cranky old body. I still feel exactly the same inside.”
“I try not to look in the mirror,” said Veronica.
“You’re very quiet, Jane,” said the brigadier.
“I’m concentrating,” she replied.
“Can I have a look? I need to stretch my legs.”
“If you must. It’s not very good.”
The brigadier stood up and lumbered over. As he stood beside her he caught a warm whiff of roses. He dilated his nostrils to catch another, but the breeze swept it away before he was able to savor it. He peered at her painting. “It’s more than good,” he murmured, recognizing something melancholy in the misty pinks and grays she had used. Unlike his painting, however, there was a hopeful feeling in the way she had painted the sky. “I think it’s jolly good, Jane.”
Jane flushed with pleasure. “Do you mean it or are you just being polite?”
“I’m not frightfully good at being polite,” he reassured her.
“Then I’ll thank you for the compliment.”
“You’re a bit of a dark horse, aren’t you, Jane?”
“Sue McCain always says it’s the quiet ones you should look out for,” said Pat. “And she should know because she was as quiet as a dormant volcano, just waiting for the right man to set her on fire.”
“That’s rather good, Pat,” said Veronica. “You should be a writer.”
“And I suppose that’s just what the Argentine did?” said Grace. “Never trust an Argentine.” She sucked in her cheeks as Rafa moved behind her to appraise her work.
“Are you flirting with me, Mrs. Delennor?” Rafa teased.
“Good Lord, no, I’m much too old.”
“I think your painting needs a little more depth,” he said. “Here, let me show you.” He took her brush and dipped it in paint. She watched with admiration as he swept it over the paper.
“It’s so terribly easy for you, isn’t it?” she gushed.
“It’s what I do.”
“Like shopping for me. That’s what I do. What can I say? I’m terribly good at spending money.” Pat and Veronica laughed like a Greek chorus. Jane was too busy talking to the brigadier to hear.
“You smell of roses,” he said, catching another
whiff. “Roses with a hint of something sweet … I know, it’s honey.”
“You have a very keen sense of smell.”
“It’s one of the few pleasures I have left,” he replied.
Jane paused her painting. “That’s not true, surely. There must be lots of things you enjoy. Like good company, good food, beautiful views.”
“I don’t know.”
She lost her gaze in the branches of the tree. “When my husband died, I thought there’d be nothing left for me to love. He took such a big part of me with him, you see. But now I realize that I’m still me, continuing along the path of life but in a different way. It’s up to me to make that way special; otherwise, what’s the point of going on?”
“My wife died, too. I can’t pretend I’m not lonely.”
She looked at him, her expression softening as her heart filled with empathy. “I know how you feel,” she said kindly. “I’m lonely, too.”
Later that afternoon Sugar Wilcox came to the hotel for a drink with four girlfriends. She wore a baby-blue dress unbuttoned to her solar plexus and a coy smile intended to lure the mysterious artist-in-residence. They sat on the terrace in a cloud of perfume, revealing tanned legs and painted toenails, sipping cocktails out of pretty purple glasses. Rafa had finished giving lessons and was looking for Clementine. She had been very much on his mind all day, and he was anxious to apologize and make friends again. As he strode onto the terrace, expecting her to be taking tea in the sunshine, he found Sugar grinning up at him invitingly.
“Well, hello there, stranger,” she gushed.
“Sugar,” he replied, taken aback.
“Do join us for a cocktail.”
“Well, I was just—”
“I won’t accept any excuses. Let me introduce you to my friends: Jo, Becca, Hailey, and Flo.” Rafa was left no means of escape. Sugar clicked her fingers to summon a waiter. “What will you have?”
“A martini,” he replied politely, sitting down.
“I’ve been telling my friends about you,” she continued. “We all want to have painting lessons.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged.” He swept his eyes over the grinning, sun-baked girls and knew none of them had the slightest interest in art.
“Good. It’s not every day that a handsome stranger saunters into our town. We’d be crazy not to take advantage of your services.” The girls giggled. Rafa couldn’t help but laugh, too, at their silliness. He sat back as the waiter put his cocktail in front of him. He could play their game far better than they could.
The Mermaid Garden Page 21