Although she hadn’t been quite so sure of that when they’d arrived at the French restaurant where Jude had booked them a table for the evening, having heard of its exclusivity, of course, but never having even contemplated coming here herself; a farmer’s income didn’t stretch to frequenting places like this.
Jude had been chattily polite on the drive here, very solicitous as they’d been seated at their table, consulting her on her preference to wine before ordering. But to May that had all been just delaying the inevitable, and now that they had ordered their food, the wine had been opened and poured, she knew she couldn’t delay any longer.
‘Jude?’ she prompted softly when he didn’t answer her earlier comment. ‘Did you—did you talk to April once I left this morning?’ She couldn’t exactly blame him if he had; from the look of stunned disbelief she had seen on his face this morning he had a lot of questions he needed answers to.
‘Well, of course I talked to April once you had left this morning; it would have been rude not to,’ he drawled dismissively, sipping his wine. ‘What do you think of this?’ He held up his glass. ‘Is it dry enough for you—?’
‘It’s fine,’ May dismissed impatiently, not having even tasted it, but sure that it was going to be as perfect as everything else about this tastefully decorated and efficiently run restaurant. ‘Would you stop avoiding the issue, Jude, and just—?’ She broke off, drawing in a deep breath, closing her eyes briefly before looking across at him. ‘You do know, don’t you, Jude.’ It was a statement this time rather than a question.
He grimaced, leaning forward to put down his wine-glass before answering. ‘I—damn it, May, how can it be possible?’ He frowned darkly. ‘You’re—April is—’ He made an impatient movement with his hand.
‘Yes?’ May prompted softly, almost feeling sorry for him as she sensed his confusion, his disbelief.
He gave an abrupt shake of his head. ‘Even if you hadn’t told me so yourself, Max and Will have both informed me, on separate occasions, that both your parents are dead,’ he said exasperatedly.
‘They are,’ she confirmed abruptly.
Jude gave a decisive shake of his head now. ‘We both know that isn’t true,’ he rasped. ‘May, my eyes weren’t deceiving me this morning—’
‘I never implied for a moment that there is anything wrong with your eyesight,’ May assured him dryly.
‘Then we both know that April is your mo—’
‘She gave up the right to that title twenty-two years ago when she walked out on her husband and three small daughters,’ May cut in harshly.
‘So it is true,’ Jude breathed softly, looking totally stunned now, as if, despite what he had already said, he hadn’t quite been able to believe his own suspicions until that moment of confirmation.
May picked up her glass and took a sip of her wine, giving Jude the time he needed to collect his thoughts, but at the same time giving herself some Dutch courage; this was turning out to be more traumatic than she had even imagined.
‘You didn’t ask April?’ May couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice; the pair seemed to be such friends, it had seemed logical to her that he would have talked to the other woman about his suspicions.
‘Of course I didn’t ask April!’ Jude rasped impatiently, sitting forward to once again pick up his wine-glass and take a much-needed swallow of the white wine. ‘I told you, we don’t have the sort of close friendship that would allow me to intrude on her private life in that way.’
‘But you think we have?’ she derided with a disbelieving smile.
His eyes glittered silver. ‘I didn’t bring the subject up, May—you did,’ he reminded hardly.
She gave a shrug. ‘We could hardly have spent the whole evening together and totally ignored the subject.’
‘Not with any comfort, no,’ he accepted heavily. ‘But if you had chosen not to mention it, I doubt that I would have, either. I’m totally at a loss to understand any of it, May,’ he continued agitatedly as she would have spoken. ‘And, as I’m sure you’re totally aware, that isn’t something I admit to lightly,’ he added self-derisively.
‘No.’ May gave a rueful smile.
‘Do January and March know their mother is still alive?’ he prompted softly.
May’s smile faded. ‘No,’ she said hardly. ‘And I don’t want them to know, either.’ And for that to happen, she now had to ask for this man’s cooperation. Something she wasn’t sure he would give… ‘How do you think they would both feel if they were to be told the truth now? How would you feel?’ she reasoned impatiently.
‘But it isn’t me, May,’ he came back explosively. ‘It isn’t you, either, not really—’
‘Of course it is—’
‘No.’ He gave a slow shake of his head at her angry outburst. ‘If my guess is correct, and from what I’ve observed the last few days, then you’ve always known your mother was still alive, it’s January and March who have lived in ignorance of the fact. And maybe that was the right thing to do at the time, I don’t know.’ He gave a baffled grimace. ‘But do you really think, now that April is here, in England, only ten miles or so away, that you have the right to keep that information from your sisters any longer?’
May bit back her own angry retort as their first courses were delivered to the table, still silent once they had been left alone once again.
Because the truth of the matter was, she wasn’t sure herself any more that she had that right.
Oh, she had never doubted the rightness of what she’d been doing as they’d all been growing up, had known that it was easier for everyone—but especially their father—if questions about the mother the two younger sisters barely remembered were kept to a minimum. Which they wouldn’t have been if either January or March had realised their mother was still alive, was now a successful actress living in America.
But these last few weeks, since May had been offered the role in a film playing the part of April Robine’s daughter, had been something of a strain, made even more so because of David Melton’s persistence in trying to get her to accept the part.
And she didn’t welcome Jude putting into words the question that had been plaguing her the last few weeks, but especially so since April Robine had arrived on the scene.
With Jude, of all people…
Jude watched the emotions flitting across May’s expressive face, knew that he had hit a raw nerve with his last question.
But what else could he do? Now that May had actually confirmed what he had only suspected this morning, he felt he had no choice but to play the devil’s advocate. Which was guaranteed to make May hate him all the more.
If that were possible…
‘She’s the reason you turned down the offer of the film role, isn’t she?’ Jude realised shrewdly. ‘You were trying to avoid something like this happening.’
‘Can you blame me?’ May’s eyes flashed angrily.
She was hurting, he could see she was hurting, and he wanted nothing more at that moment than to take her in his arms, assure her that everything was going to be okay, that it would all work itself out.
But the former he didn’t think she would accept at all, and he wasn’t sure the latter were true.
How did you set about telling two grown women of twenty-six and twenty-five that the mother you had told them was dead was actually very much alive and staying in a hotel ten miles away?
Worse, how was May going to stop April telling January and March the truth, if that was what she chose to do? If they needed any telling after meeting the actress face to face, that was.
He now knew that it was April that May had reminded him of the first day he’d come to the farm. Despite the fact that the women were such a contrast to each other, April always chicly elegant, May dressed in overbig clothes that day, an unattractive woollen hat pulled over her hair, there had still been enough of a likeness between the two women for Jude to have felt a jolt of something. He just hadn’t known what that something wa
s until this morning…
‘I’m not the one you have to worry about blaming you for anything, May,’ he told her gently. ‘It’s January and March you have to convince of that.’
He wished the words unsaid almost as soon as he had said them, May’s face paling dramatically, her eyes huge green pools of pain in that paleness.
He put out a comforting hand, the sudden anger that flared in her eyes stopping him from actually touching her; she was so tense now she looked as if the merest touch might shatter her.
‘I might have known this would be your attitude,’ she snapped scornfully, her hands tightly gripping the napkin spread on her lap. ‘It must be so easy to sit in judgement, in the total security of being an only child of obviously caring parents. But you can have no idea of what it was like when—when April left us the way she did. No idea.’ She was fighting back the tears now, obviously determined to remain in control.
That was May’s problem, Jude realised achingly; she had always been the eldest sister—by one year, for goodness’ sake—the one who took all the problems of the family on board and sorted them out for all of them. But who sorted out May’s problems…?
He shook his head. ‘It’s too big a burden for you to carry alone any more, May—’
‘And who’s going to help me?’ she cut in tauntingly. ‘You? Somehow I don’t think so.’ She looked at him scornfully.
Jude schooled himself not to react to that scorn, knowing that May was hurting very badly at this moment, that, no matter what she might say to the contrary, she must be filled with doubts as to the rightness of her own actions in keeping the truth from her two sisters. Or else she wasn’t the warmly caring woman he thought she was…
He shrugged. ‘I would help, if I could, and if you would let me—which you obviously won’t,’ he accepted dryly before she could speak. ‘But I was thinking more along the lines of April—’
‘Oh, please!’ she cut in scathingly. ‘April is the last person I want help from!’
Once again Jude held back his initial response to this scornful remark; losing his own temper wasn’t going to help this situation at all. Besides, May was agitated enough for both of them.
There was also the factor that they were sitting in a crowded restaurant, the tables not particularly close together, but close enough that several people had already glanced their way when their voices had become slightly louder than was normal; this really wasn’t the place for this conversation to take place.
‘Let’s eat, hmm,’ he suggested softly, picking up his own knife and fork in preparation of eating the gravid lax he had ordered. ‘Most things look better on a full stomach,’ he added as May made no move to do likewise with her garlic prawns.
She continued to look mutinous for several long seconds, but a glance around the restaurant, where several people still seemed to be casting them curious looks, was enough to convince her of the rightness of the action.
Not that there was much chance of May achieving a full stomach on the amount of food she ate, merely picking at the prawns, and pushing uninterestedly about the plate the chicken she had ordered to follow. As for conversation, that was almost nonexistent, Jude wary of introducing any subject that was going to tip May over the edge of the tight control she had over herself, and May herself not in the least conversational.
Not the most successful of evenings, Jude acknowledged as May refused dessert but ordered a cup of strong black coffee to finish off their meal.
‘May—’
‘I don’t wish to discuss this with you any more, Jude,’ she snapped warningly, eyes flashing deeply green.
So like April’s, Jude realised with that dazed feeling that was becoming so familiar to him.
Why hadn’t he seen the likeness between the two women sooner?
What difference did it make when he discovered the likeness? he instantly chided himself. He had realised it now. That was the real problem, wasn’t it…?
What would May have done if he had never seen the similarity between the two women? Would she simply have persuaded April to go away quietly? Or something else? Because he had a feeling, whether May liked it or not, that April’s days of ‘going away quietly’ were over.
He had seen the look of excited anticipation on April’s face this morning just at the mention of January and March, could easily see that, having now met May, April would want to meet her other two daughters, too.
Something May was totally against.
He drew in a deep breath. ‘Whether you like it or not, May, you’re going to have to discuss this situation with someone.’
‘Why am I?’ she challenged hardly.
The uneasy truce they had come to during their meal was obviously at an end, Jude accepted ruefully. ‘Because you are,’ he reasoned softly. ‘May, April isn’t going to disappear just because it’s what you want her to do—’
‘Why isn’t she?’ May put in sharply.
He gave a weary shake of his head. ‘You’re doing it again, May. Answering a question with a question,’ he explained at her enquiring look. ‘No matter how much you might want to do so, May, you can’t keep running away from this situation—’
‘I’m not running away from anything!’ she defended heatedly.
He grimaced. ‘It certainly looks that way from where I’m sitting.’
‘Does it really?’ she bit out scornfully. ‘Well, you’re totally wrong about that. Just as you’re totally wrong about what I can or can’t do,’ she assured him with hard dismissal, throwing her napkin down on the table-top before standing up. ‘And what I want to do right now is walk out of here and go home—’
‘I drove you here,’ he protested impatiently.
‘Then I’ll get a taxi,’ she told him uncaringly, picking up her bag and walking out of the restaurant, glancing neither left nor right as she went, intent only on leaving.
Jude stared after her frustratedly, at the same time aware that several other people in the restaurant had watched May’s obviously stormy departure with interest, watching curiously now to see if he would follow her.
Not that he was in the least interested in what other people thought, about him, or anyone he was with, for that matter. It was May that concerned him now.
And, damn it, he didn’t want to be concerned about her. Didn’t want to be concerned about any woman to the extent that May Calendar had got under his skin.
Because he could no longer deny that she had done that, completely, and, he was very much afraid, irretrievably.
Which left him precisely where?
Following May out of the restaurant, that was where that left him, he acknowledged begrudgingly even as he stood up to pay the bill and hurry outside in pursuit of her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WHY was there never, ever, a taxi around when you wanted one? May wondered emotionally as she stood on the pavement looking up and down the road, tears of frustration blurring her vision.
She should have known Jude wouldn’t help her, should have known that he would take April’s part in all this. She didn’t know what she had been thinking of even considering appealing to his caring instinct—Jude Marshall didn’t have a caring instinct in the whole of his body, had only invited her out this evening at all because he still intended to buy the farm. He—
‘Get in the car, May,’ Jude instructed through the open window of the car he had just parked on the road in front of her.
‘I would rather walk the whole way home than get in a car, or anything else, with you!’ she assured him emotionally, hurriedly wiping away the tell-tale tears with the knuckles of her hands as she turned away with the intention of doing just that.
Jude swung out of the driver’s side of the car, slamming the door behind him before walking round to where May faced him so defiantly. ‘Do all three of you have some sort of death wish?’ Jude rasped angrily even as he grasped her arm and swung her round to face him. ‘First January is involved with some sort of stalker,’ he enlarged at her
outraged expression. ‘And now you’re contemplating walking the ten miles home, at eleven o’clock at night, along roads that are so dark an attacker could be hiding behind every bush.’ He gave a disgusted shake of his head.
May stared up at him in the light from the street-lamp overhead. ‘An attacker behind every bush’? What sort of area did he think this was? This wasn’t London. Or one of the other crowded cities. This was a quiet little backwater in the north of England—
And only weeks ago there had been a stalker in the area, someone who had taken pleasure in beating up women.
But he had been caught, May instantly derided her own thoughts; what were the chances of there being a second person like that in an area this uninhabited?
She shook her head. ‘I’ll find a taxi along the way,’ she assured him dismissively.
Jude’s mouth thinned. ‘Get in the car, May.’ There was no menace in his voice, just flat fury, his eyes glittering silver in the lamplight as he opened the passenger door for her to get in.
She looked up at him frustratedly. ‘You’re overreacting, Jude—’
‘I’m overreacting?’ he repeated explosively. ‘You just walked out on me in the middle of our meal in a crowded restaurant—’
‘The coffee stage is hardly the middle of a meal, Jude,’ May cut in impatiently.
His hand tightened painfully on her arm. ‘May, so far this has been far from the most enjoyable evening of my life, I am not going to add returning to the hotel, only to worry about your safety for the next couple of hours, to the list of things that went wrong with this evening.’
She glared up at him frustratedly, knowing him well enough to realise that if she did start to walk home, he was quite capable of following slowly along beside her in his car all the way back to the farm. Put like that, she might as well be warm and comfortable inside the car…
‘All right,’ she conceded forcefully. ‘But I do not want to discuss April Robine any more tonight.’
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