Fragrance of Violets

by Paula Martin

  She let herself meet his gaze. “Maybe we’d better stay away from controversial subjects?”

  He tilted his head in acknowledgement. “If you say so.”

  “Tell me about your career and all the places where you’ve been.”

  “Okay, if you really want to know. Once I went freelance, I managed to land contracts that took me to South America, India, Japan, the Middle East, and Kenya. In between those, I did my own thing, researching topics that interested me personally.”

  “What’s been the most interesting?”

  “Antarctica. I went with a team of scientists who were studying the effects of global warming there.” He hesitated before adding, “That was where I met Rachel.”

  “Rachel?”

  “My fiancée.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” Abbey tightened her hand around her lager can. “And I’m sorry about what I said the other day, about driving on a freeway, I mean. That was so thoughtless of me.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind talking about her, you know.”

  “All right.” She thought for a moment. “Why was she in Antarctica?”

  “She was doing an article for National Geographic.”

  “She was a journalist, too?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, from California.” He turned to gaze across the lawn. “And it was my fault she was killed.”

  Abbey stared at him. The whole conversation had taken such an unexpected turn she didn’t know what to say.

  Without looking at her, he went on, “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

  “Do you want to tell me?”

  “Do you want to listen?”

  She nodded. “Jack, years ago, you and I told each other things that we never told anyone else. So yes, let’s put everything else aside. If you want to talk, of course I’ll listen.”

  * * * * *

  Jack leant back against the bench. It would be a relief to unburden himself, but during all the hell he’d gone through, not for one moment had he imagined it would be to Abbey.

  He exhaled deeply before he said something he’d never told anyone else, least of all Rachel’s parents. “About an hour before she died, we had the mother of all fights.”

  “Oh.”

  He shot a sideways glance at her. “Yeah. Exactly.”

  “But it was a freeway pile-up, wasn’t it? An accident?”

  “That’s what all the reports said.”

  “What happened?”

  “Some witnesses said the truck driver lost control and smashed into the side of her car; others said Rachel cut in front of the truck which caused him to swerve. All I know is that she was in a fury when she stormed out of our apartment.”

  “Do you think she was driving recklessly or carelessly?”

  “I’ll never know, will I?”

  “What about the truck driver? Didn’t he say what happened?”

  “He was killed when his truck rolled over. Several other cars rammed into the truck and into Rachel’s car. A couple of other drivers were injured but no one else was killed, thank God.”

  “Jack, you can’t blame yourself.”

  “No? If we hadn’t argued, she wouldn’t have been on the damned freeway on her own. I would have been driving.”

  There was silence for a few moments before Abbey spoke again. “But you’re not responsible for any error Rachel or the truck driver might have made.”

  He thought back to the fight they had that evening. It was a variation of the same fight they’d been having for weeks, but he wasn’t ready to share that with anyone, not even Abbey.

  He took a gulp of his lager. “Enough about me. How about you?”

  * * * * *

  Abbey knew Jack had to find his own way of coming to terms with his guilt. Knew, too, that he’d closed himself off, not wanting to talk about it any longer. When he did that in his teens, she’d usually been able to persuade him to open up but she couldn’t do that now.

  “In what sense?” she asked in response to his question.

  “Are you happy?”

  “I’m enjoying being back up here.”

  “That wasn’t what I asked.”

  “All right, then. Yes, I’m happy.”

  “What about your career?”

  She shrugged in pretended nonchalance. “I’m not sure yet. It depends what comes up.”

  “I thought you’d be besieged with offers after the Jane Eyre series on TV.”

  “I was so lucky to get that role.”

  “Not lucky. Talented. Abigail Barton displays a magical blend of inner strength and heart-breaking vulnerability, exactly what Charlotte Bronte envisaged in her heroine Jane Eyre.”

  “Now you’ve surprised me. Wasn’t that The Times critic?”

  He nodded. “And he was right.”

  “You watched the series?”

  “Yes. You were good—very good.”

  A flush rose to her cheeks at his praise. “Thank you.”

  “Why did you change your surname?”

  “My agent’s idea. B comes before S, therefore it appears nearer the top in casting directors’ lists.”

  “Why Barton in particular?”

  “Oh, come on, you shouldn’t have to ask that. What’s the shop called?”

  She saw the light dawn on his face. “Yes, of course. Barton’s Gift Shop. Your mother’s maiden name. Anyway, what else have you done since Jane Eyre? Sorry, I should know, shouldn’t I? But I couldn’t get British television in most of the places I’ve been staying.”

  “I’ve done a few TV dramas, a couple of films, and several stage roles.”

  “What happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why have you come home?”

  “I told you, I needed a break.” When he raised his eyebrows questioningly, she knew he didn’t believe her. Okay, he’d been honest with her so maybe she needed to be honest, too. She stared down and faltered with the words. “The truth is that last December I didn’t get a part I desperately wanted, and it knocked my confidence for six.”

  “What part?”

  “Maggie Rycroft in The Rycroft Saga. You probably haven’t heard of it, but it’s a best-seller, a trilogy about a Lakeland family in the nineteenth century. I’ve read all three books and they’re fantastic. Maggie’s a wonderful character, feisty and rebellious against the submissive role the Victorians assigned to women. She’d have been a suffragette or an equal rights campaigner in later ages. They’re doing a TV mini-series of the first book, and I auditioned. I thought I’d done okay but they turned me down.”

  “Do you know why?”

  She shrugged. “My agent said the casting director wanted me but John Tyson, the author, didn’t, and he had the final say.”

  Jack nodded, drained his can of lager, and went on, “What about other roles?”

  “I had a couple of possibilities in the pipeline but I turned them down because I was holding out for the Rycroft one. I suppose I came home to lick my wounds and find a way to rebuild my confidence.” She looked around at him. “Is that what we’ve both done, Jack? Come home to our roots to regroup and start again?”

  “Could be.” He stood up. “I guess we’d better go back to the barn. There’s still a lot of stuff to clear.”

  He’d done it again. Shut himself off when he didn’t want to talk about something.

  He gave her a quick grin. “Race you there?”

  She laughed, taking her cue from him. “No way! You’ll win. You have longer legs than me.” Another reminder of their teenage years when they raced each other in the village or on the lake shore or even here in the grounds of his home.

  “I always had longer legs than you, but you often won. Mainly because you cheated.”

  “I did not!”

  “No? What about the times you tried to trip me up?”

  Abbey smirked. “Purely accidental, of course.”

  “Oh yeah? I seem to remember one occasion when you pretended you’d hurt your ankle so I
’d stop and come back to you.”

  She grinned at the memory. “Ah, yes, but that was a tactical manoeuvre, not cheating.”

  He laughed as they returned to the barn, and a pleasurable warmth seeped through her as they chatted and joked while they continued to clear the junk.

  When Jack found an old dartboard with three darts stuck in it, he hung it on a nail on the wall, and shot the darts at it.

  “Hah!” Abbey mocked. “Three, five, and two. Great score, Tremayne.”

  “Beat it.” He pulled out the darts and handed them to her.

  She screwed up her eyes as she aimed her darts. It was at least ten years since she last played, but she’d always had a good eye. Her first dart hit double nine, but the second one went straight to the bull, and she turned to him with a triumphant grin.

  “See, I haven’t lost my touch.” Her smile died when she saw his expression. Serious, intense, studying her. “What’s the matter?”

  “When are we going to talk about it, Abbey?”

  Her heart missed a beat. She knew but still asked, “About what?”

  “Oh, come on, you know exactly what I mean.”

  Of course she did, but she was reluctant to damage the fragile link they’d established that morning. Opening up the past would open up her old wounds of anger and resentment. She shook her head. “Jack, let’s not even go there. It was a long time ago and it’s better to leave it in the past.”

  Jack shrugged. “Okay, but that doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten, does it?”

  * * * * *

  Her silence was answer enough for him. She hadn’t forgotten, but how could they ever forget? And, from the way her lips tightened and wariness dulled her eyes, it was clear she hadn’t forgiven him either. He wondered what was dominant in her mind. His attempted seduction or their bitter fight afterwards? Or was it the Chronicle article?

  And now there was something else for which she wasn’t going to forgive him.

  The Rycroft Saga.

  He’d been about to come clean, to tell her he was the author who turned her down and to explain his reasons. Why didn’t he? The answer was simple. He didn’t want to add to the list of all the things he’d done that had upset her.

  He hadn’t realised for one minute it would affect her so drastically. He’d assumed she would have plenty of other offers. Now he struggled with the shock of what she’d just said. Guilt stabbed through him. Unwittingly he’d been the cause of her losing confidence in herself.

  But at least there was something he could do to right that particular wrong. If it wasn’t too late.

  He watched as she turned away and started to pick up a bunch of old paintbrushes from the floor.

  “Okay,” he said. “I guess you’re right about leaving things in the past, but how about the future?” Her eyes narrowed as she straightened up, and he went on, “Tuesday evening? The drama club?”

  “Oh, that.”

  He wondered for a moment if she’d been expecting him to say something different. “Yes, that. I had the impression you weren’t altogether in favour of Sam inviting me.”

  She pretended to inspect the brushes. “He took me by surprise, that’s all, and—” She paused before looking up and smiling. “And yes, I’d like you to come. He was interested in your ideas, so I’m sure the others will be, too. They were floundering when they tried to come up with suitable scenarios for the drama festival.”

  Relieved that they seemed to be on safe ground again, Jack thought back to his conversation with Sam. “It has to be connected with the Lake District, right?”

  “Yes.” She gave him a wry smile. “Did he tell you they thought they should do something about preserving Lakeland’s heritage?”

  He returned her smile. “Yes, and of course there are a lot of events or people in Lakeland’s history they could highlight, but my suggestion was that they might think about the issues facing young people here today.”

  Her eyes lit up. “What an excellent idea! There aren’t many youth drama clubs in this area. Most of the other festival entrants will be older groups so a play dealing with youth issues will be different.”

  “Even if it’s controversial?”

  “Especially if it’s controversial. Drama can provide a framework for young people to explore their own feelings and values within a safe space.”

  “Good point.” Jack took the dartboard from the wall and picked up a couple of framed pictures. “Tell me more about the kids in the group.”

  They went back and forth to the garage with the junk while she told him about the teenagers. The animation in her voice made him smile. She was the teenage Abbey again, vibrant and enthusiastic as she talked about the things which were important to her.

  She reminded him of how Rachel had been when they were at McMurdo Station in Antarctica. That was what had attracted him, before he understood the sharp edge of ambition which consumed her. He shook away the memory and concentrated on Abbey’s descriptions of the youngsters.

  “I won’t remember any of the names you’ve mentioned, but I’m sure I’ll enjoy meeting them all.”

  Abbey glanced at her watch. “I ought to go now. Mum usually makes lunch about one o’clock.”

  He walked with her to the gateway. “I’m glad you’re okay about me coming to the drama club. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Yes, so am I. See you on Tuesday evening, Jack.”

  He watched as she set off down the road. When she reached the bend, she half-turned to wave, and he raised his hand in response.

  Once she’d disappeared around the corner, he pulled his phone from his pocket. He found his agent’s number, hit the key, and exhaled in frustration when his call was diverted to the answer service.

  “Farrell, it’s Jack Tremayne here,” he said. “Call me as soon as you can, please. It’s about the casting for the TV series.”

  CHAPTER 8

  A curious and unexpected sense of euphoria filled Abbey as she walked briskly down the lane. She’d been right to offer to help Jack. During the last couple of hours, her awkwardness with him had eased. Perhaps they could re-establish a casual friendship, after all.

  The thought surprised her. Only a few days ago, she’d been adamant there was no way they could ever be friends again, but the shared memories of their teenage years had somehow bridged the huge gulf between them. The gulf was still there, of course, but if they ignored it, they could at least enjoy each other’s company again.

  The ring of her phone broke into her thoughts, and she reached into her pocket. When she saw her sister’s name on the screen, she smiled and put the phone to her ear. “Hi, Louise.”

  “Hey, Abbey, how’s things? Been to any auditions recently?”

  “No, you know I’m taking a break from those.”

  “When are you going to stop hiding yourself away up there?”

  “I’m not hiding away. I enjoy being here. Makes a pleasant change from London.”

  “Funny you should say that. I’m back in London now.”

  “Oh? I thought you were working in Brighton. What about your job?”

  “I resigned. It was only temporary, anyway.”

  “What’s happened to Colin what’s-his-name from Brighton? He’s your latest, isn’t he? Or is that the guy from Latvia?” She found it difficult to keep up with her sister’s love life. Since her divorce from Stuart three years earlier, Louise seemed to be on a desperate, but unsuccessful, hunt for someone to take his place. Few of her boyfriends lasted for more than a few weeks.

  “Jurgi was from Lithuania, not Latvia, and I broke up with him ages ago. And—well, the reason I’ve come back to London is because I’ve met this man called Farrell Saunders. He’s a literary agent and I think—”

  “You think this is the real thing.” Abbey sighed. She’d heard it so many times. “Honestly, Louise, when you are going to realise there aren’t any Prince Charmings in this world? Your knight on a white charger isn’t going to come galloping out of the misty
forest to rescue you.”

  Louise laughed. “You’re mixing your metaphors, sis. Prince Charming wasn’t a knight and didn’t have a white charger. Anyway, who’s your latest?”

  “I don’t have a latest, as you call it.”

  “Oh Abbey—”

  “Don’t oh Abbey me! You’re starting to sound like Mum. What is it? You think my life’s incomplete because I don’t have a man in tow?”

  Louise chuckled. “You don’t know what you’re missing, Abbs.”

  “Being cheated on? Lied to? Disappointed and hurt? No, thanks, not my scene.”

  “Oh, come on, not all men are like that.”

  “No? Are you forgetting Dad? Or your ex-husband?”

  “No, but I’m not letting either of them rule the rest of my life. I have lots of men friends.”

  “So do I, but that’s all they are.” She hesitated and decided to go on. “Oh, and by the way, talking about men, guess who’s back here.”

  “A man?”

  “Jack Tremayne.”

  “Jack Tremayne? Jack?”

  “The same. Except he isn’t the same.” She perched on the low dry-stone wall which surrounded the swings and slides of the small children’s playground. No, the good-looking boy had become a devastatingly attractive man. His maturity and his successful career had given him an air of self-assurance, but without the arrogance that often accompanied such confidence.

  “What d’you mean, he isn’t the same?”

  “He’s a man and not a boy, for one thing,” she said as casually as she could. “But before you start getting any ideas, his fiancée was killed two months ago, and I think he’s come home to grieve.”

  “Oh, my goodness, poor Jack.” Louise’s voice became compassionate. “Have you talked to him?”

  “Yes, a couple of times.”

  “How long is he staying up there?”

  “I’ve no idea. I didn’t cross-examine him, Lou.”

  “When are you seeing him again?”

  “Depends what you mean by seeing him.”

  “Dating him, of course.”

  “There’s no way that will happen.”

  “Oh, come on, you’re not still mad at him for whatever he did all those years ago, are you?”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”