Tears welled in Sara's eyes, she let them fall unchecked. As a mother she wept for the baby she would never know. As a woman she wept for a love of which there was nothing left.
Peter sat by her side, silently. Almost as if he knew the thoughts that passed through her mind, she would think later. It was a measure of his empathy that he was able to understand; that he could accept without intruding, even though that acceptance must cause him pain of a different kind.
Peter was still with her when the doctor came. The latter was matter-of-fact, but with it he was kind. There were things Sara had to know, knowledge which she could not be spared. He tried to soften the telling as much as he could.
She had a rare disease, he told her, one that had been dormant inside her for many years, but which the pregnancy had brought to the fore. It was this which had brought about her collapse on stage on that night. She could lead a normal life, he said. But he did not know if she could have more babies. And she had to avoid undue physical exertion.
It took a few seconds for his meaning to make its impact. When it did, she stared at him wide-eyed. 'No more dancing?'
Something came and went in an expression that was outwardly calm. 'No more dancing.'
Was it possible for all one's world to be shattered in the space of a few short hours? Sara's eyes went from the doctor to Peter. There was compassion in both faces.
Still in the grip of shock—surely all this was some nightmare from which she would wake?— Sara passed a tongue over dry lips. 'I can't give up dancing.' And then, with sudden vehemence, 'I won't!'
'You have no choice, my dear.' The doctor's voice was very quiet.
'Sara, your health is more important than anything else.' Peter was bending over her, his voice was urgent. 'Don't you understand that?'
She pulled her hands from his and put them over her face. Her heart was beating very fast, and at the back of her throat was a lump so big that she could hardly swallow.
'Darling…'
'Leave me,' she managed, without lifting her fingers from her eyes. 'Just… just let me be alone.'
CHAPTER FOUR
Time passed, and Sara grew stronger. Soon she was walking along the beach again every day. Bruno the labrador was still her constant companion. But now the dog did not always run ahead. Often he stayed at her side, his head nuzzling her legs, his tongue going out to lick her fingers. It was as if he sensed her unhappiness and wanted to comfort her.
Now and then Sara reached out and stroked the shaggy head. Bruno was more comforting than he knew. But he could not erase the sense of numbness, could not fill the emptiness that was like a vacuum inside her. Just as Peter was unable to do.
And Peter had tried. He had put as much of himself into trying as it was possible for a man to do. Sara, grateful to him, had tried, on her part, to respond. Nevertheless, she knew her husband was not fooled by her facade of outward cheerfulness; his expression told her that.
The baby had lived two days. Its death had been merciful, the doctor had said. Sara, trying to shake off the mantle of depression, had tried to believe him.
Peter had brought her home from the hospital. He himself had taken leave of absence from the ballet company. Sara had attempted to dissuade him, knowing the importance of his work, but he had been unexpectedly firm. No man was indispensable, he had said. Another choreographer could perfect the groundwork he had laid for a new ballet. When she was better they would return to Cape Town together.
'You're so good to me.' Sara had trailed a finger along the familiar lines of his face.
'I love you,' he had said simply.
She loved him too, as much as it was possible to love another human being without being actually in love with him. There had been a time when she would have considered her feelings for Peter as being the ultimate in love. Had she never met Clyde, Sara knew, her love for Peter would have been a deep and completely satisfying emotion. There would have been no sense of incompleteness, of knowing that love was more than sharing and gentleness and compassion. But she had met Clyde, and there was no way of rationalising away the fact that there was a part of her, a deeply passionate part of her, which would never be fulfilled by her husband.
The knowledge induced a feeling of guilt. Clyde was in the past. He had no right to intrude in the night when Peter held her in his arms. She had no right to think of him…
Clyde was never mentioned between them. And yet his ghost was always there, an invisible barrier between them. It drove Sara to be extra attentive to her husband. When they made love, it led her to respond with an ardour she did not feel. Peter was the best thing that ever happened to her. She would not hold herself back from him, in any way whatsoever.
A month went by. There were phone-calls from the company. It was time for Peter to go back. He assumed that Sara would return with him, and when she said she would remain behind at Morning Glow, he was at first puzzled, then upset.
'Dr Simons said you could go.'
'I'm not ready,' she protested.
'You need to get away from here. Your place is in Cape Town. With the people you know.'
'Not yet,' Sara insisted.
'It won't be easy to be with dancers. I know that…'
'Just a little more time,' she begged.
Peter's lips softened. He was never immune to her pleading. 'A month,' he said. 'I'll visit you every weekend.'
Two months passed. As Sara walked along the beach with Bruno she knew that she could no longer postpone the return to Cape Town. Today was Friday. Peter would be coming for the weekend. Yesterday his tone on the phone had signified a growing impatience. When he left Morning Glow on Monday he expected Sara to go with him.
By late afternoon he had not arrived. Something must have cropped up, she thought, some unexpected difficulty in a ballet which needed correcting.
The shadows lengthened on the ground. Afternoon became evening. Sara was growing worried. Then the sound of the telephone rent the stillness of the empty house; there had been an accident, and Peter had been badly hurt. He was unconscious.
Lettie, hearing a scream, ran into the living-room. She was just in time to catch Sara's slender form as it slumped into a faint.
'Say you'll do it, Sara.'
'I'll think about it, Lynn.'
'I have to know today.' Lynn's mop of red curls was like a ball of flame in the sunlight. Eyes that were normally laughing were now serious. 'I have to book right away if I'm to take Mom on the cruise.'
Sara looked at her friend, then away. Lynn's request had been unexpected. She wanted Sara to take over the running of her antique shop in the village while she took her mother, who had been ill and was now recuperating, on an ocean cruise.
'Well, Sara?'
'I don't know. It would mean…' She stopped.
'It would mean leaving Morning Glow each day,' Lynn said crisply. 'Best thing that could happen to you.'
'You make it sound like a prison,' Sara protested.
'In a way it is.' Lynn put out an impulsive hand. 'Don't get me wrong. It's a lovely house. But you're letting yourself become a hermit. A period of mourning is normal, but you've been living like a recluse for more than a year. Since Peter died… You should have gone back to Cape Town long ago.'
'I can't go back to dancing,' Sara said unsteadily. 'You know that.'
'And you've no desire to do anything else.' A rueful grin. 'I know that too. But there are other interests out there in the world. You could find a new niche in one of them.'
'And you think running an antique shop is where I'll find it?'
'I didn't say that.' A vigorous shake of the red curls. 'Though I know you'd do it well. You've a natural taste for lovely things, old things…' She paused. 'I need a favour, Sara. By running the shop you help me and yourself at the same time.'
'In the light of such eloquent pleading how can I refuse?' For the first time Sara grinned, a gamin-like expression curving the soft upward-tilted lips.
The first step, thought Lynn who was
watching her, and heard Sara ask, 'When do I start?'
Tuesday, said Lynn, and began to talk about the shop. She would be away a few months. There was much Sara would need to know.
'How do I get hold of you?'
'You won't be able to,' Lynn laughed. 'You'll have to cope as best you can.'
'Why do I get the feeling that I've been manoeuvred into something?' But Sara's protest was a smiling one. 'All right, Lynn. You've been the best friend anyone could want. I'll start on Tuesday.'
Sara was humming as she polished the collection of copper pots. She had been at the Antique Den three weeks and was enjoying the experience more than she would have thought possible. Though she loved beautiful things, her knowledge of antiques had till now been limited. Since her thrust into the situation, she had spent much time reading the books Lynn had left with her. The more she understood and recognised, the more fascinated she became with the objects by which she was surrounded.
There had been one postcard from Lynn. No questions about the shop—almost as if she wanted no comebacks, Sara thought. Instead, in Lynn's breezy style, there had been the news that her mother, desperately in need of a convalescing holiday, was responding well to the trip. The change had affected her whole mental outlook.
As her own outlook had been changed, Sara had thought, putting down the card. Not till she had been faced with the necessity of travelling into the village every morning had she understood how limited her life had become. The contact with customers was unexpectedly stimulating, the responsibility of having to run the shop on her own a challenge. Much as she missed dancing—she would always miss it, she knew—she was learning that other careers existed, and that they could be satisfying. For the first time she began to wonder what avenues she herself could pursue after Lynn returned.
From a financial point of view she had no need to work, for Peter had left her well provided for. And yet work she must. Mentally she blessed Lynn's persuasiveness. Now, when she returned to Morning Glow in the evenings she was able to see the estate for what it was: a place of exceptional beauty, yet a prison of her own making unless she reached out.
Perhaps Lynn would let her come in with her as a partner. It was just possible that an input of capital was what she needed. If not that, perhaps she could start a gallery. This stretch of coast was a haven both for artists and retired people with money. That combination might make a gallery viable.
'… where is the collection of Cape silver?'
The words did not penetrate her consciousness as much as the voice. A low voice, vibrant and vital. A voice that appeared in her dreams.
She was turned a little away from him. He would not be able to see her face, just as she could not see his. But she could feel the sparks between them and tried to tell herself she was imagining things.
Her whole body had grown rigid. She could feel tension extending from the base of her neck down her spine to toes which were normally a miracle of flexibility, could feel it in her chest, so that breathing was difficult.
'The collection of Cape silver,' he said again. There was a new inflection in his tone, as if he wondered why she did not answer him. Perhaps, too, the beginnings of recognition.
Through the tightness Sara managed, somehow, to take a breath. She did a half turn. 'In the far corner…' And then, turning fully, she lifted her head.
'Sara!'
'Hello, Clyde.' Her voice wobbled.
'My God, Sara!' He took a step towards her. His eyes were wide, and something worked in his throat. He was as surprised to see her as she was to see him, and as shocked. Any thought that he might have made a deliberate excuse to seek her out vanished. His shock was genuine.
Wordlessly she stared at him, drinking in the eyes that were more blue than she had remembered them, the nose that was strong and straight, the shock of fair hair that fell across the high forehead in a manner that was familiar, the firm line of the jaw above the proud thrust of throat. She was dreaming, she told herself wildly. It must be a dream, one from which she had no desire to waken.
'My God, Sara,' he said again, 'what are you doing here?'
'I—work here.'
'I don't believe it!' As the initial shock faded, she saw his eyes narrow, and she knew that she was not dreaming. This was happening, really happening, and what would follow might not be pleasant.
'You may as well believe it.' Her voice was light.
'Keeping shop?'
'As you see.'
His hands reached for hers without warning, clamping themselves around fragile wrists. The polishing cloth dropped from unsteady fingers as a tingling shot up her arms.
'Let me go!' It was hard to speak as if she meant it, when what she really wanted was to be close to him, to be kissed by him.
As if he had not heard her, the pressure increased. 'You're in between ballets, I suppose.' Sara closed her eyes, just for a moment. There was just so much pain, surely, that a person could be expected to endure.
'I'm running this shop.'
He was so close to her that she could feel the vibrations of his body, could smell the warm clean male smell of him that was so uniquely his own. Go quickly, she pleaded silently, before I make a fool of myself in some way.
'Why?' he questioned harshly.
So he still did not know all that had happened. In a way she was glad. There were many things she wanted from Clyde Montgomery, even now, but pity was not one of them.
She shrugged. 'Why not?'
'That's not an answer.'
His eyes were hard, speculative, contemptuous. Without volition her own eyes shifted.
'Why?' he asked again. One hand went to her chin, forcing it up, so that she had no choice but to meet his gaze. 'Look at me when you talk.'
He had no right to behave like this, with arrogance and contempt. Their ways had parted. His right to demand answers no longer existed.
'The pay is good,' she said, saying the first thing that came to mind.
'And that's important to you? What about your dancing?'
'It's easier than dancing,' she said, and hoped he did not hear the bumpiness in her tone.
She heard the hiss of his breath. When he spoke his voice was like ice. 'Somehow I never imagined you as avaricious and lazy.'
Through her pain, she managed to match his tone. 'Just as I,' she said, 'didn't take you for tactless. You were asking about Cape silver when you came in…'
'Are you going to show it to me?' His tone was flat.
'What we have is in that part of the shop…'
She gestured. 'When you know what you want tell me and I'll let you know the price.'
'I've always known what I want.' An outrageous drawl. 'I'm just beginning to understand that it could have been had for the right price.'
His meaning was clear. Despite her striving for composure Sara felt herself pale. Clyde's hand was still on her chin. She was jerking away from him when he withdrew his hand of his own accord—as if the touch had been distasteful to him.
'I'm busy, Clyde.' She stared blindly past him. 'I've things to do. If you'd like to look around.
'Thank you, but no,' he said very quietly.
Without another word, not even a goodbye, he walked out of the shop.
It took all of Sara's self-discipline to negotiate the twenty-odd miles back to Morning Glow. Even now, hours later, she was as shaken by the encounter with Clyde as if it had just taken place. The foot that pressed down on the accelerator was like water, and when she looked at the hands that held the wheel she saw they were white-knuckled and taut.
'Something wrong, Miss Sara?' Lettie's face was concerned when her mistress came through the front door.
'Nothing, Lettie.' Sara tried to smile. 'I'm just tired. It's been a long day.'
'I'll bring you up some tea.' Lettie had taken over a nurturing role from the beginning, and had never abandoned it.
'Thank you,' Sara said gratefully. She began to walk towards the stairs, then turned back. 'Oh, and' Lettie, I'
m going to have a sleep. If anyone should call for me, I'm not available.'
An unnecessary remark, she realised as she made her way to the bedroom. Clyde would neither phone her nor make any attempt to see her. He did not know her new name nor where she lived. Even if he did, there was no reason why he should want to see her again.
Andrea… The memory of the willowy blonde brought her up short. Clyde's wife would not tolerate her husband having anything to do with the girl to whom he had once been engaged. All things considered, her instructions to Lettie had been unnecessary.
Her head was throbbing as she lay down on the double bed she had once shared with Peter. Closing her eyes, she wondered if the meeting with Clyde would have been any different if she had been prepared for it. No, she decided, her responses would have been the same. Implacable Clyde might be, arrogant and openly contemptuous of Sara's style of life as he saw it, but nothing had robbed him of the dynamism that made him still the most attractive man she had ever met. Had she been forewarned of his coming, she would have been no less shaken.
There was relief in the thought that tomorrow was Sunday and that the shop would be closed. Though it was unlikely that Clyde would be back to look at the silver, Sara was glad of the respite the weekend would give her. Lynn had accused her of making Morning Glow a retreat; at this moment the emotional safety and privacy the house offered had never seemed more inviting.
When she awoke the next morning the sun was already slanting through the blue sun-filter curtains. For a few moments she lay quite still, savouring the sound of the surf, and letting yesterday's memories wash over her. A night's sleep had gone a long way to restoring her sense of balance. She felt brimful of energy as she swung her feet over the side of the bed and made for the window.
It was a glorious day. The sea was very blue. The tide was coming in, and on the distant horizon a ship was making its way towards the port of Cape Town. The stretch of beach beneath Morning Glow was a dazzling strip of gold. It was ages since she had been on the sands. Since she had started work at the Antique Den not only her working days but also her spare time had been fully occupied. A day out of doors was the very break that she needed.
Another Life Page 6