Sara found Jenny where she had met her the first day, the wheelchair perched on a rise that overlooked the sea; yet not beneath the shade of the jacaranda this time, for it was not as warm as it had been earlier in the day. Jenny did not see Sara approach. An open book lay on her lap, but she was not reading. She was gazing across the dip of the lawn to the sea. The expression on a face that seemed even tinier than when Sara had seen it last was wistful. In Jenny's huge eyes was a look of knowledge and acceptance far beyond her years. Seeing it, Sara felt a stab of pain, and wished she had not taken so long to make this visit.
'Hello, Jenny,' she said as cheerfully as she could.
As recognition set in the near-adult sadness vanished and Jenny was a child once more. 'Mrs Burod!'
'How've you been, honey?'
'Okay.' The little girl looked around her. 'Dr Clyde didn't say you were coming.'
'He doesn't know I'm here.'
'Oh…?' The child was puzzled.
'I didn't come to see Dr Clyde. I came to see you.'
'Me?' The little face took on sudden radiance. 'Oh, Mrs Burod! I never have visitors.'
'Don't you have any family, Jenny?' asked Sara gently.
'Dad died when I was three, and Mom had an accident two years ago.'
'I'm so sorry,' Sara said gently, hiding a compassion that threatened to overwhelm her. 'I'd like to come more often, Jenny. Honey, I brought something for you.'
Dropping on to her knees beside the chair, she gave Jenny the bag, then watched as she took out the books. Cheeks that had been too white took on a flush of excitement as Jenny looked at the titles.
'Ballet stories!' Her voice was high with excitement. 'You remember!'
She began to turn the pages, pausing here and there to study a picture. Evidently she knew the names of all the well-known dancers, and had her own favourites amongst them. Sara sat quietly watching her.
At their first meeting she had been struck by the little girl's frailness, and that frailness seemed to have increased since then. The look of transparency had been heightened, and with it the air of weakness. Sick at heart, Sara wondered whether it was only in her imagination that Jenny appeared to have declined very rapidly.
Clyde had told her the child might not have long to live; he had gone into some detail. Sara wondered if Jenny knew the extent of her illness. Remembering the sad acceptance in the big eyes she understood that she did.
'Mrs Burod, what super books!' For the moment Jenny was like any other ten-year-old, enthralled with a new present.
Sara forced a smile. 'Shall we look at them together?'
Soon they were absorbed in a discussion about Coppelia. It was a ballet Jenny knew only vaguely, and she listened entranced as Sara told her the story of the clockwork doll made by an old toymaker. She was even more entranced when she heard how the ballet was danced, how the ballerina, pretending to be the doll come to life, would first portray her with stiff clockwork movements, her dancing only becoming more fluid as the story progressed.
'Something like this,' Sara said, moving her head and her arms in short wooden movements.
'I love that!' Jenny's laughter rang out, high and joyous. 'Oh, I'm so glad you came, Mrs Burod.'
'So am I,' a voice said from behind them.
'Dr Clyde!' Jenny exclaimed as Sara jerked upwards to stare into the blue eyes of the man towering above her.
'Mrs Burod brought me these super books,' Jenny said happily, oblivious of the tension suddenly filling the air. 'It was such a surprise.'
'A surprise indeed,' Clyde agreed, then added, 'But a nice one.'
Absurdly Sara was swept with a sudden rush of pleasure. His words were more than just a statement made for Jenny's benefit. The look in his eyes told her that he was genuinely glad that she had come. Glad that she had come to give Jenny some happiness, not because he himself felt any joy at seeing her, she told herself a moment later. And yet the lovely feeling remained with her.
'Mrs Burod was telling me the story of Coppelia, She was doing the doll dance,' Jenny chattered on.
'So I saw,' came the quiet comment.
Sara's cheeks were suffused with sudden warmth. Had Clyde been watching long? she wondered. She rose to her feet in a lithe movement and put a hand through her windswept hair. Glancing at her watch, she saw that she had been here longer than she had imagined. The patch of sun had been infiltrated by the shadows of a late afternoon.
'Time for Jenny to be going inside,' said Clyde, as if guessing her thoughts. 'I see one of the staff coming to fetch her.'
'Mrs Burod…' The little girl's voice was hesitant. 'Won't you change your mind about dancing at the concert?'
She should have been prepared, of course, but oddly she wasn't. They were both watching her— Clyde, his eyes narrowed and intent, Jenny almost pathetically eager. Fingers digging into the palms of her hands, Sara said, 'No, Jenny.'
'You'll come to see me again soon?'
'Of course I will. Very soon.' She bent to drop a kiss on a cheek that felt dry and a little too cool. 'Goodbye, honey.' And then, turning to the man who had been silent throughout the interchange, 'Goodbye, Clyde.'
'I'll walk with you to your car,' he said.
No doubt he meant to question her once more about what he saw as her stubbornness.. After seeing Jenny's decline she would find it even harder than the last time to convince him that she did not want to dance. And yet, even while she braced herself to meet his scathing remarks, Sara's senses leaped at his closeness.
Last time she had seen him had been in the Antique Den, he had been dressed in casual clothes. Now, in the white safari suit he wore for work, he looked just as attractive. His arms and throat emerged long and tanned and muscled from the short-sleeved open-collared jacket. His eyes held a distant brooding look, so that she wondered what he was thinking. His stride, though it was slowed to match hers, was lithe and easy. He had been working all day, Sara knew, and yet there was nothing tired in his face. He looked as fresh as if he had just returned from a swim in the surf.
He spoke into the silence. 'Jenny likes you.'
Now it would come, the challenge to dance. Quietly she said, 'I like her too.'
'It was nice of you to come today.'
'I've been wanting to see her again.'
'She'll enjoy the books.'
The conversation was taking a different slant from the one she had expected. 'I hope so,' Sara said. And then, 'You didn't mind me coming here today, Clyde, without letting you know first?'
'Of course not. I only had to look at Jenny's face to see what the visit meant to her. Come whenever you can.'
She wanted to talk about Jenny, to ask more about the little girl's illness, when Clyde said, 'I intended to claim some of your time too.'
She looked up at him. 'Oh?'
'I'm driving in to Cape Town at the weekend, and I want you to come with me. We'll be joining up with another couple for the evening.' He grinned down at her. 'Bring a pretty dress.'
Statements, not questions. As if Clyde took it for granted that people would automatically fall in with his wishes. She should be off-putting, Sara knew, but found it impossible. Just the thought of spending a day with Clyde sent the blood singing in her veins. Through an excitement which drove out all but the most pressing questions she asked, 'What about Andrea?'
'Stop worrying about Andrea. I'll pick you up just after nine.'
Sara's mind was a whirl as she drove back to Morning Glow. Clyde's unexpected invitation had filled her with joy. She had given up telling herself that she did not love him, or that the loving was a condition she would grow out of. She would always love Clyde. Once she had married a man while loving another, and the marriage had been a success only because Peter Burod had been an exceptional man, but it was unlikely that she would marry again. It was just as unlikely that the paths of her life and Clyde's could converge indefinitely. That being the case, she might as well make the most of their infrequent times together.
&nbs
p; The thought of Andrea did not trouble her as much as it had done at the start. She knew by now that the Montgomerys' marriage was unusual. Andrea, it seemed, was a woman who led her own life, even if that meant long stretches away from her husband. If Clyde minded the separation he was able to conceal it.
There was of course the matter that Clyde should not be going out with another woman. But he seemed to see nothing wrong with it, and he had intimated that Andrea felt the same way. Sara knew that if she was in Andrea's position she would want to scratch out the eyes of any woman who went out with her husband. But then if she was in Andrea's position she would not spend more time away from her husband than she could possibly help. Impatiently she shook her head; she could not have reached the age of twenty-four without knowing that one could not judge another person's values by one's own.
What mattered was that she would be spending a day with Clyde, one whole day to add to her reservoir of memories. She had refused his last invitation because she did not want to see ballet, but this invitation was another matter, and Sara meant to enjoy the day to the fullest.
Her thoughts turned to Jenny, and now she was troubled. Her intention to ask Clyde about the child had been forgotten with the unexpectedness of his invitation. Jenny's joy at the visit had been as warming as her increased weakness had been disturbing. Sara knew that she must go to see the little girl as often as possible.
Clyde fetched her early. The first light of dawn was just creeping over the horizon when they left Morning Glow.
'Brought everything you need?' he had asked, as he had put her overnight bag in the boot of the car.
'I certainly hope so.' She had smiled up at him. 'If there's something I've forgotten I can always get it in Cape Town.'
An early morning chill was in the air, a damp coldness that was inside the car as well as outside. It took a while for Sara to register it, for her excitement had dulled her feelings to anything else. They were some miles from Morning Glow when she realised that she had forgotten to bring a thick sweater. In her case in the boot of the car was an evening shawl, a lovely thing of silver and white thread, but that delicate garment was hardly appropriate now. She shivered.
'Feeling cold?' Clyde asked.
'A little.'
'A lot,' he corrected her cheerfully. 'Your teeth are rattling. Didn't you bring a sweater?'
'I forgot,' she acknowledged ruefully.
'There's one way of keeping warm.'
She looked at him with relief. 'You have a car-heater?'
'I do, but it will make the air stuffy.' He turned and grinned at her, white teeth glinting wickedly in the tanned face. 'We both know a better way to keep warm.'
Her heart skittered inside her. 'I'll be fine.'
'For one small girl you are surprisingly stubborn.' His voice was lazy, so that Sara was unprepared for the hand that left the wheel and scooped her to him.
She lay against him a moment, the virile smell of him filling her nostrils and dizzying her mind. Then she struggled up. It took surprising effort to make herself rigid, even more effort to infuse her limbs with the strength they needed to move away from him.
The arm around her shoulders tightened, defying her to move. 'Relax, little one,' Clyde commanded.
'I t-told you, I'll be fine.'
'You'd sound more convincing if you weren't so breathless.' She heard him laugh, the sound soft, seductive, and the shiver that went through her body had nothing to do with the cold.
'We… we'll have an accident,' she said jerkily.
'We've never had one before.' How could a man's voice be light and amused and yet tantalisingly provocative all at the same time? Sara wondered.
There was a point at which it became too difficult to fight him. Perhaps because to do so she had first to win an impossible victory over herself. With a shudder she relaxed against him, her head resting just below the hard ridge of his shoulder.
'Good, isn't it?' Clyde asked softly.
'Very good,' she agreed, and knew that neither of them were discussing the efficiency of shared bodily warmth.
Savour these moments, Sara told herself as she rested against him. Enjoy this harmony, for there was no knowing when she would experience anything quite like it again.
She made no effort at small talk and was glad that Clyde was silent too. All thought of pulling herself away from him, to sit in dignified and shivering isolation at her end of the seat, had fled. If anything, she wished only that this drive could go on and on.
Against her cheek was Clyde's sweater, rough and warm. She could feel the rippled muscles of his chest and arm, and against her soft thigh the hardness of his. Every one of her senses was alert to him, aware and excited. Even now, when he was concentrating on the driving, there emanated from him an aura of sensuousness and virility which was overpowering. To his patients his professional aspect might appear dominant; to Sara, it was his maleness which made the greater impact, a basic animal-like quality to which every core of her femininity had to respond.
The forests were dark and brooding, and through Clyde's half-opened window the air was fresh and sweet. The mountains were great dark shapes silhouetted against the lightening sky. Mist hung over the sea and if there were any ships on the water they could not be seen.
Later, when the sun was high in the sky and colours were vivid, traffic would be heavy. So spectacular was the loveliness of the Garden Route that tourists in their thousands came to pay homage. But this early morning mystery had its own beauty.
Usually Sara was enchanted with the sight of brooding lagoons and lonely beaches, of rugged headlands where in centuries past many a ship had come to grief, and of forests where the trees were so thick and tall that no light entered. This morning her mind, her senses, were centred only on the man who stirred her beyond anything she had ever known.
His throat rose above the line of the sweater. Sara could feel the strong thrust of it from where she lay. A longing swept her to feel the bare skin. She pulled herself up an inch or two, then let her lips rest unashamedly against the rough pulsating flesh. Still Clyde said nothing, but the beat of his heart had increased. It gave Sara joy to know that he was not entirely indifferent to her.
A little later he spoke into the silence. 'Hungry?'
'No,' Sara said.
'I am.' There was nothing remotely romantic in his tone. 'You'll find a bag of food under my seat.'
Sara bent forward. As she reached towards the paper bag her arm made contact with one long leg. The calf was flexed and hard. The breath jerked in her lungs, so that for a moment she could not move. Then she lifted the bag and sat upright. As she turned to face Clyde she knew that her cheeks were flushed.
'Help yourself,' she said, holding the open bag toward him.
'I don't have a spare hand.' The arm which had returned to her shoulder increased its pressure, as if to reinforce the fact.
'No…' The lovely closeness had meant nothing to him then, she thought dully.
'Where are you going?' he asked, as she made to move away.
'I'm giving you back your hand. You can't eat like this.'
'Can't I?' His tone was lazy, tantalising.
'How will you manage?'
A low husky laugh, then Clyde said, 'For a girl who can snuggle up to a man as you did just now you show amazingly little imagination.' Turning his eyes from the road, he subjected her to a long amused stared that missed nothing of her appearance, noting cheeks which had grown even redder and lips that trembled just slightly and eyes that were big and wide and luminous.
'You have your hands,' he said very softly.
His meaning was clear; she did not need to have it put into words. Despite the trembling inside her she managed to meet his lazy amusement with a glance almost as steady as his own. Well, and why not! she thought. Giving what she hoped was a nonchalant shrug, she opened the paper bag, took out a sandwich and held it near to his mouth.
'Which is it?' he wanted to know. 'Chicken or egg?'
Two could play at this game. 'Taste,' she said.
Clyde laughed appreciatively. Then she saw his tongue approach the bread, felt it curl around the fingers that held it, the feel of it sensuous and slow. Flame licked her fingers, her hand, shot towards her spine and along it. Only with an effort of will did she maintain a steady hand and a calm exterior.
'Good,' he said, and once more she knew he was referring to something other than the obvious.
'Sure you can manage?' She wondered later how she was able to keep her voice so cool.
'As long as you can.'
He saw through her effort to appear composed, knew the effect he was having on her. Damn him, she thought, he had always known how she felt, always would. Only one set of facts was secret from him, and that would always remain secret.
He bit into the bread and his teeth grazed the side of her fingers. Sara could have sworn he did it deliberately, but the knowledge did nothing to stop a torrent of desire from flooding her system. It hit her unexpectedly and hard, so that she was overcome with the desire to go into his arms.
'How is the silver tea-set?' she asked, for something to say.
'Just fine.' A hint of amusement, indicating that he knew her need to make small-talk.
'You've used it?' she asked with grim determination.
Another bite. She felt the strong teeth nibble, just for a moment, at the soft inner part of one finger.
'I'm waiting for the right occasion,' he answered, when he had swallowed. 'Don't take that away, Sara. I haven't had breakfast.'
She held the bread to his mouth and felt the curl of his tongue against her palm as he took another bite. At the same time the hand on her shoulder flattened, curved. She could feel every one of his long fingers through the thin fabric of her blouse.
'You must keep it polished,' she said shakily.
'Regularly,' he promised her solemnly. 'Mm, this chicken is good. You really should try some.'
She jerked around. 'Haven't you damn well had enough yourself?'
'I've just begun,' he said lazily, and she saw his eyes gleam.
Another Life Page 12