by Anne Mather
Thinking of tourists, and Jon, brought his mind back to his son’s projected visit, and his arrival the following afternoon. It was six months since he had seen his son, and while Victoria might consider that of little importance, Reed still felt a reluctant responsibility for the boy. Only he wasn’t a boy any more, he reminded himself. Jon was twenty-two now, a year older than Reed had been when he married his mother. And for the past four years he had been making a creditable living in England, as lead guitarist with a marginally successful rock group called Cookie Fortune.
Victoria had been worried when Jon left school at sixteen, and announced his intention of trying to make a living in popular music. The years since Reed had joined the firm of Jensen Lockwood had seen many changes in their lives, not least her brother’s rise from a very junior actuary to the bank’s senior partner, and the idea of his son, and her nephew, making his name as a rock musician had filled her with dismay.
Actually, Jon had proved to be a good musician, and although he didn’t make enough to keep him in the lifestyle to which he was accustomed, he preferred to live in England, where the action was, as he put it—which suited Victoria admirably. He saw his father as often as was necessary to ensure that the generous allowance Reed paid him didn’t dry up, and although this horrified his sister Reed rarely took offence. As far as he was concerned, he was at least in part to blame for Jon’s cavalier outlook on life, and as he had nothing—and no one—else to spend his money on, why not?
It was only when Jon came back to the island that the even tenor of his days was disrupted. Like his mother before him, Jon was apt to scrape nerves otherwise left untarnished. He was brash, and he was careless, and he could be an absolute pain on occasion, but equally he could be charming, and Reed preferred to be tolerant.
The British Airways flight from London had left at eleven-fifteen but, after six and a half hours of flying, it was still early afternoon in mid-Atlantic. Below the huge jet, the vast panorama of blue, blue sea was just occasionally being marred now by tiny specks of darkness, which Jon had told her were part of the hundred and fifty islands that made up the Bermuda archipelago. Although the seven principal islands of the group were linked together to form the main land mass, there were over a hundred uninhabited atolls, and Helen thought how amazing it was that they existed at all.
She had had plenty of time during the journey to think about this and other matters. After lunch had been served, and the shutters in the first-class cabin had been closed to allow the in-flight movie to be shown, Jon had fallen asleep. And, as she wasn’t interested in the film, Helen had hoped that she might sleep, too. But she hadn’t. Her mind was too active to allow her to relax, and she had spent the time worrying about their arrival.
After all, this was a mildly traumatic experience for her. Apart from the fact that she had never flown so far before, she had never been invited home to meet a boyfriend’s parents. Or rather one parent, his father, a rather serious-sounding individual who was something of a financial wizard. She hoped he would like her. Jon was such a frenetic kind of person, it was difficult to imagine what his father might be like.
And then there was Alexa. She had left her daughter with her mother and father in the past, but it was the first time she had left her for so long. Her job, as personal assistant to the managing director of an engineering company, often entailed her being away overnight in Paris, or Munich, or Brussels, and Alexa was used to staying with her grandparents in Chiswick. But that didn’t stop Helen from worrying about her, or wondering if she had done the right thing.
Not that Alexa seemed to mind. She was a happy child, bright and well-balanced, and the fact that she had never known her father didn’t seem to trouble her. There were several children from one-parent families in Alexa’s school, so perhaps that was why she took the situation so philosophically.
Even so, Helen knew that she would miss her daughter. They had always been very close, despite the fact that Helen had always had to go out to work, and at the end of the day she enjoyed the time they spent together. Which was probably why there had been so few men in her life, she acknowledged wryly. Those who were prepared to tolerate a lively nine-year-old were usually very boring.
Jon, however, had proved the exception, which was remarkable really, considering he was four years younger than she was, and a musician into the bargain. Helen still found it incredibly difficult to assimilate the Jon Roberts she knew with the public’s image of a rock star. Not that Jon was really a rock star. The group with whom he played had never quite achieved that status. But nevertheless he did have his own following of loyal fans, and, until she had actually got to know him, she would have put him down as just another wild performer. Certainly, that was the image the newspapers chose to promote. But then, who wanted to read about a talented but law-abiding instrumentalist?
Helen supposed she might have got a different impression if she had attended one of the group’s concerts before meeting Jon. But she hadn’t. She had been sitting in the bar of a hotel in Munich, waiting for her boss to come back from a meeting, when a dark, good-looking young man, wearing jeans and a leather jacket, had edged on to the stool beside her.
Even then, they might never have struck up a conversation. Helen was wary of speaking to strangers, particularly in foreign bars. But when she’d got up to leave she dropped her handbag, and Jon’s head had bumped hers when they both bent to pick it up together.
‘God, I’m sorry,’ Jon had begun, and then, as if suspecting she didn’t understand him, he’d added in hesitant German, ‘Es tut mir leid—’
‘It’s all right. I’m English,’ Helen had interrupted him quickly, and the resulting laughter they had shared had broken the ice between them.
Surprisingly, for Helen, she had found Jon amazingly easy to talk to, and by the time her boss had come to join them the attraction between them had already taken root. In some ways he seemed a lot older than she was, but in others his youth and immaturity complemented her tendency to be too serious. He reminded her of someone, although she had never been able to decide who, but it had been obvious from the beginning that they intended to see one another again.
And they had. In spite of the demands of Cookie Fortune’s German tour and Helen’s own job in London, they had managed to see one another at least once a week for the next couple of months, and eventually Helen had invited him home to meet Alexa.
He had known about her daughter, of course. At the beginning of their relationship, Helen had told him she was a single parent, and that she and Alexa were very close. But Jon hadn’t seemed to mind. Unlike some of the other men she had dated from time to time, he had shown no hesitation in being presented to an inquisitive nine-year-old, and, from the first, he and Alexa had become firm friends. It helped, naturally, that his image as a pop star raised Alexa’s kudos among her schoolfriends, but, that aside, they shared an easy camaraderie. They liked many of the same things; they had a similar sense of humour; and, when they were together, Helen often thought that Alexa treated Jon like a favourite older brother.
Which was good for her association with Jon, too. It meant there was no tension when they were together, no incipient jealousy to spoil their growing affection for one another. Indeed, if Helen had any doubts at all about Jon, they were that she might be confusing the relief she felt that Alexa didn’t feel threatened with her own uncertain emotions. For the first time in her life, she had found a man who could deal positively with her daughter. But was that a significant part of their relationship, or did she genuinely care for Jon?
It was a problem that she had yet to resolve, and this holiday—this visit to Jon’s home in Bermuda—was in the nature of a sabbatical for both of them. She knew Jon had spent very little time at home during the past four years. She had wondered if his relationship with his father was not all it should be, but when she asked him Jon had denied any rift between them. Nevertheless, he had admitted that in recent years his vagrant lifestyle had caused some fr
iction in the household, not least because his aunt, who lived with his father and acted as his housekeeper, looked upon his occupation as a blatant corruption of his musical talent.
‘Aunt Vee would like me to play classical guitar,’ Jon had told Helen once, when they were discussing his aunt’s artistic leanings. ‘Or Gilbert and Sullivan, at the very least,’ he added, his blue eyes sparkling roguishly. And Helen, who suspected she knew him rather better than his aunt, guessed that he was not averse to being deliberately provocative when it suited him.
Even so, it was not his aunt—however daunting she might be—who caused Helen the most trepidation, as the aircraft that had brought them from London began its descent towards the islands. It was Jon’s father who presented the most immediate problem, and whether he would consider that the fact that, as well as being four years older than Jon, she had a nine-year-old daughter created an insurmountable barrier to any serious relationship with his son.
CHAPTER TWO
HELEN DIDN’T QUITE know what she had expected Jon’s Aunt Vee to look like, but certainly any preconceptions she had had were far from the truth. In all honesty, she hadn’t known what to expect of a middle-aged lady who had devoted the latter half of her adult years to caring for her brother and her nephew. She supposed the twin ideas of an angular harridan or an apple-cheeked motherly individual had been closest to any estimate she had made, but Victoria Roberts defied description.
For one thing, she looked anything but angular, or middle-aged. On the contrary, in spite of being at least forty pounds overweight, Jon’s aunt looked as exotic as her surroundings. She wobbled into the reception area, as they were clearing their luggage through Customs, on heels at least four inches in height. Helen doubted she could have stood up in the shoes, let alone walked in them, but Jon’s aunt was not very tall, and she evidently felt she needed the extra inches. To add to this incongruity, she was wearing a flowing gown in colours of sun-streaked chiffon, and a wide-brimmed straw hat with matching ribbons that floated behind her like a flag.
Helen didn’t immediately know who she was, of course. But her attention was caught, like that of the other disembarking travellers. However, it was Jon who swiftly enlightened her, his disrespectful wolf-whistle causing an irritated blush to colour the lady’s cheeks.
‘Hey—Queen Vee!’ he greeted her wickedly, abandoning their suitcases to a grinning porter and sweeping his aunt into an all-enveloping hug that took her off her feet. ‘You came to meet us. Isn’t that nice? I didn’t realise you’d be so keen to see me.’
‘I’m not,’ retorted the fat little woman shortly, and Helen knew a moment’s anxiety until she met Jon’s laughing eyes. ‘Oh, let go of me, Jonathan, do. You’re messing up my hair. Your father asked me to come and meet you, if you must know. He’s tied up in a business meeting until later, and, unlike me, he felt one of the family ought to be here to welcome you and your—friend.’
The way she said the word ‘friend’ caused another frisson of alarm to slide along Helen’s spine, but Jon appeared to have no such misgivings. ‘If I didn’t know I was your favourite nephew, I’d take that to heart, Auntie Vee,’ he declared, setting her on her feet again. ‘But as I know you’re only teasing, let me introduce you to Helen.’
‘Don’t call me Auntie Vee,’ Victoria fussed unnecessarily, as Jon drew Helen forward. Then using one hand to straighten the wide-brimmed straw on outrageously yellow curls, Victoria extended a white-gloved hand in Helen’s direction.
Feeling a little as if she were in the presence of royalty, Helen shook hands politely. ‘Miss Roberts,’ she murmured, hoping there were no threads of lint on her rather crumpled navy trousers. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’
‘Roberts?’ echoed Victoria, frowning. ‘My name’s not Roberts, Miss—er—Helen.’
Helen was momentarily nonplussed. ‘Oh—but I thought—’ Had Jon only been teasing when he said his aunt had never married?
‘It’s my fault,’ Jon broke in now, grimacing at both of them. ‘I should have told you, Helen. Roberts is only a stage name. My real name is Jonathan Robert Wyatt. I’m sorry. I should have explained.’
‘Wyatt!’ Helen had to concentrate hard to prevent her voice from betraying her. But whenever she heard that name, a wave of panic swept over her. No matter how many years it was since that night, she still felt the same thrill of apprehension when she heard it.
‘Yes, Wyatt,’ said Jon, looking at her strangely. ‘Are you all right? You look a little pale.’
‘I expect it’s the heat. It affects people like that sometimes,’ declared Victoria Wyatt crisply. She looked around. ‘Is this all your luggage? Have the porter fetch it out to the car.’
The ‘car’ turned out to be an air-conditioned limousine, hired from a livery service in the capital. Victoria ensconced herself in the front seat of the car, beside the elderly driver, while Helen and Jon got into the back for the journey from St George’s to Hamilton.
Helen was relieved that in the bustle of hiring a porter, and getting their bags installed in the boot of the car, her own momentary start of agitation had been forgotten. Besides which, it had given her time to recover her equilibrium, and by the time Victoria turned to ask her what she thought of the island she could answer quite truthfully that she found it enchanting.
And it was. As they bumped over the causeway that linked the airport with the North Shore Road, she had her first glimpse of Castle Harbour, the blue-green waters quite transparent as they lapped against the rocks. Beyond, the road climbed between clusters of flowering shrubs, bending and twisting to accommodate the shoreline. There were houses and churches that reminded her of England, and tiny piers and inlets, where sailing boats and other pleasure craft bobbed at anchor.
‘You live in London, I believe,’ Victoria added now and Jon pulled a wry face at his aunt’s obvious attempt to categorise her visitor. ‘Are—er—are you in the music business too, Miss—er—Helen?’
‘Her name’s Helen Caldwell, and she’s not in the music business,’ he replied smoothly, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘At least, not directly,’ he added, to Helen’s surprise, shaking a cigarette out of the packet and catching it expertly between his teeth. ‘She’s a go-go dancer in a strip club actually.’ He paused, al lowing this to sink in, and then went on, ‘Say, do you have a match? I never use lighters. They say they’re awfully bad for your health.’
His aunt’s face was the picture of outrage, and while she guessed there was more to this than simply Jon’s perverted sense of humour, Helen could not allow it to continue.
‘Actually,’ she said, using his word, ‘I work with the managing director of an engineering company, Miss—Wyatt.’ She forced herself to use the name without flinching. She gave Jon a reproving look, and ignored a latent desire to share his shameless grin. ‘And, yes, I do live in London. In Hammersmith. Not far from Earl’s Court, if you’ve heard of it.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard of it,’ replied Victoria, rather stiffly. ‘I know London very well, as a matter of fact. I have excellent contacts with galleries there.’
‘Really?’ For a moment Helen was nonplussed, and Jon chose once again to intervene.
‘My aunt is an angel, aren’t you, Auntie Vee?’ he asked mockingly. And then, to Helen, ‘She plays fairy godmother to struggling artists, both here and in the States.’
‘They’re painters, Jonathan,’ his aunt corrected him irritably. ‘And I’m not an angel. I just do what I can to see that the island’s talent is recognised.’
‘And you do it so well,’ Jon assured her, though his eyes were dancing, and Victoria turned away with a not inaudible snort of disapproval.
‘You’re very lucky to live here,’ Helen put in quickly, realising that antagonising Jon’s aunt was hardly the best way to begin her holiday, but she had obviously said the wrong thing because the look Victoria turned on her then was far from friendly.
‘What do you mean?’ she demanded, swinging roun
d so swiftly that the ribbons of her hat caught the chauffeur a stinging swipe across his cheek. ‘Why shouldn’t I live here? This is my home.’
‘Well, of course—’ began Helen helplessly, turning to Jon now for assistance, and for a moment he met her imploring gaze with the same indifference he had shown to his aunt.
But then, as if relenting, he took pity on her, and, shifting his arm so that it lay possessively across her shoulders, he said, ‘Helen didn’t mean anything, Vee. She just thinks you’re lucky to live in such idyllic surroundings. And you are. Surely you’d be the first to agree?’
‘Oh—well, yes. If you put it like that…’ Victoria’s animosity drained away. ‘It’s just that—well, let’s say I’m a little tired, hmm? I’ve been working very hard recently. What with the opening of the—gallery and everything. Not to mention caring for your father…’
‘Oh, yeah.’ Jon’s fingers moved from Helen’s shoulder to toy with the short, chunky braid she had made of her hair. ‘How is Dad? Is he OK? He said something about you opening your own gallery here in Hamilton in his last letter. I guess he’s had a hand in it, right? Whatever Tori wants, Tori gets, hmm?’
For a moment Helen didn’t understand who he was talking about, but then she put two and two together. Vee; Victoria; Tori; they were all one and the same person. And that person was sitting in front of her looking decidedly put out once again.
‘I don’t think there’s any reason for you to say a thing like that, Jonathan,’ she declared shortly. ‘I’m sure your father has always given you everything you ever wanted, not least a career in London you must know was not his choice for you.’ She sniffed. ‘However, that’s by the by. As it happens, your father is well. Working hard, as usual. Something you know very little about.’
‘Making money, you mean,’ Jon observed, his fingertips massaging the nerve that throbbed in Helen’s nape. ‘And isn’t that lucky for all of us? You, me, and the new gallery.’