by Fiona Harper
Gemma held up the book, effectively cutting her off. Now it was in her hands, she could wield its magic powers. Perhaps it could help Juliet to stop stressing so she could get her out of the house and off to the airport. ‘I won’t forget,’ She said, tapping the book with her fingernail. ‘It’s all in here, remember?’
Juliet nodded. Then she opened her mouth and closed it again, frowning. Gemma knew she wanted to keep spouting instructions, but she could hardly argue with her own divine commandments, could she?
‘Is that the doorbell I hear?’ Gemma smiled and headed for the hallway, even though the only sound she’d heard in the previous seconds was the screaming in her sister’s brain as control was wrenched from her clutches. ‘That must be your lift to the airport.’
She carried on with the charade, flinging the door open wide and looking hopefully down the path, fully prepared to joke about faulty hearing at her age, but she came face-to-face with Mr Stick Up His Butt from next door.
‘Oh, it’s you.’
His eyebrows rose maybe a millimetre. ‘Lovely to see you again too, Gemma.’
They stared at each other and then she stepped back and allowed him access. Juliet had told her that Will had offered to give her a lift to Gatwick. She should have known he’d turn up early. He and her sister were made from the same stuff.
Juliet grinned at him and stopped fussing with her matching suitcases, which were lined up in the hall in height order. Gemma realised she hadn’t seen her sister smile that way in a long time. ‘Thanks so much for this,’ she gushed. ‘You know you really didn’t have to. I could have got a taxi.’
Will shrugged. ‘It’s what friends do.’
Gemma resisted the urge to snort gently. As far as she could tell, Juliet and Will had been ‘friends’ since not long after Greg had moved out. If they were lucky, one of them might make a move sometime before the end of the century.
Not her kind of approach to romance at all. She liked a man who knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to say so. And if he wanted her, so much the better. None of this dancing around, pretending to be friends when you really wanted something else. Still... Whatever floated their boats. It was nothing to do with her.
As Will took the large case out to his waiting car, Juliet leaned in close and said in a low voice, ‘I’ve asked him to...you know...lend a helping hand if you need it.’
Gemma squeezed back, but when they pulled apart to look at each other she said, ‘I’m not an eighteen-year-old left alone at home for the first time, Juliet. And I don’t need some accountant babysitting me...’
‘He’s an architect.’
‘Whatever,’ she muttered. She really didn’t care what Will Truman did for a living and it didn’t make any difference to the point she was trying to make. But she must have sounded more dismissive than she’d intended, because Juliet looked a little hurt as they disentangled themselves. The superior, very Juliet look was back. ‘It’s just that doing Christmas is such hard work. A big responsibility.’
Gemma nodded, trying to look as serious as possible. This was not the time to start another fight.
Juliet looked at her. ‘I know you think I make a production of it...’
Ah. Busted.
‘...but the kids love our little traditions, and it’s important this year, especially as neither Greg nor I are going to be around...’
She paused and glanced over to Will’s car, then looked longingly inside the house. Gemma had the feeling that Juliet was on the verge of wrenching her luggage from her willing chauffeur and putting it all back in the hallway. It was just as well Juliet had said her goodbyes to the kids before they’d packed them all off to school, otherwise Gemma reckoned she’d have had a hard time getting her sister out of the house. Talk about being stuck in your own rut.
But no way was this holiday going to waste. Gemma had paid good money for it, and it was too late to cancel or change details. Also, her kids had been right: Juliet needed this. And Gemma needed to do it for her.
‘You’re going,’ Gemma told her sister firmly and nudged her out of the door and onto the front step.
Juliet grabbed hold of her arm—a little dramatic for her, maybe—pinching the sleeve of her cardigan up in her fist. ‘Promise me you’ll try to do as much of it as you can,’ she said, looking more than a little desperate. ‘Not for me. For them. These little traditions... Keeping them going will make it seem like I haven’t abandoned them.’
Gemma swallowed. ‘Okay. I promise.’
Only then did Juliet start to relax. She kissed Gemma on the cheek then headed off to where Will was holding the passenger door open for her. She waved as she passed him her holdall and got in.
Mr Stick Up His Butt also gave Gemma a little sarcastic salute. She fixed a cheesy grin on her face, just to let him know there was no way he was going to win that game, and waved back. She kept it up until they disappeared out onto the main road and then she went back inside the house.
CHAPTER TEN
JULIET WALKED OFF THE plane and down the steps onto the tarmac of Hewanorra International airport. Her eyes were gritty and her legs were stiff, despite the Premium Economy seat her sister had booked. During the approach, they’d flown down the western edge of the island and she’d sat with her nose pressed to the porthole-like window, her mouth slightly open as a mountainous, volcanic island revealed itself beneath the puffy white clouds that clustered over and around it.
All journey she’d had a fidgety sensation in her stomach, and she hadn’t been sure if what she was feeling was excitement or nerves, but now she’d actually set foot on the ground she felt disconnected from reality, and half-expected to be woken from a dream to find herself back in Tunbridge Wells, refereeing a fight between her children.
She stumbled along after the other passengers, hardly noticing the time spent in the immigration line, or the wait for her cases at the carousel. And then she was out of the cool air of the small terminal and scanning the crowd for her name on a rectangle of cardboard. She finally saw it, held up by a man of about fifty, wearing casual long shorts, a short-sleeved shirt and a wide smile.
‘Welcome to paradise,’ he said in his lilting accent, and reached to take her cases for her. She let him, forgetting all the usual checks and questions she’d have normally asked to make sure he wasn’t a con man about to run off with her belongings. ‘I’m Bradford, and I’ll be your driver this afternoon.’
She climbed in the back of his smart, four-wheel drive and welcomed the moment he closed the door and the air conditioning kicked in. Bradford informed her it would take more than an hour to reach her resort, up on the northern end of the island, and settled into giving her an intermittent running commentary on anything he thought she might find interesting, from identifying the different fruit trees lining the road to the names of towns and fishing villages along the coast.
Juliet listened with interest, her eyes glued to the scenery outside the tinted window of the car. She suddenly realised how entrenched in her own life she’d become, almost believing that there was nothing beyond chilly, middle-class English suburbia. That was all she thought about these days. She’d forgotten there was a big wide world out there, one that her sister travelled with envying regularity.
She hardly saw another flat piece of terrain after she left the airport. As the journey continued they climbed higher and higher, along a road that took them through a pass in the mountains to the other side of the island. There were deep valleys and steep hills and the abundant vegetation seemed to be waging a war to fill every available space, even the places that humankind had conquered and occupied. She’d thought Kent was green and pleasant, but this...this was something else.
Lush, green foliage was everywhere. Mangoes hung over the edges of the roads in their thousands, as well as cashews, breadfruit and dates. There were palms of ever
y size, every shape, some squat and wide, some tall and skinny, some with yellow coconuts huddling underneath the umbrella of frilly branches for shade. And bananas... Bananas were everywhere.
The houses were just as fascinating, most painted in colours such as cobalt, canary, mint or watermelon. Most were typical Caribbean style with shallow, tiled roofs and balconies. They perched on the steep terrain attached to the ground at one end, but lifted on pillars where the land fell away beneath them.
There were a few grand houses with stone balustrades and large gardens, but most were compact and had a higgledy-piggledy look about them. Many dwellings were little more than concrete shells or sheds, sometimes patched with corrugated iron. She was surprised more weren’t in tatters, given the tales Bradford had to tell about the last hurricane to hit the island, and how it had caused massive mudslides and was responsible for the large sections nibbled out of the road they were travelling on.
She looked nervously up at the searing blue sky dotted with clouds. ‘There aren’t any hurricanes forecast for Christmas, are there?’
Bradford just laughed. ‘No, ma’am, you’re safe. The rainy season is from June to November.’
Juliet slumped back against the comfy seats and exhaled. Normally she wouldn’t have to ask these kinds of questions, feeling stupid and unsophisticated. Normally she researched a place intensively before picking it as a holiday destination, and then she carried on doing her homework, right down to every type of room offered by every hotel she was interested in—which had the best views and whether there were balconies, air conditioning, Wi-Fi...
She realised she didn’t know anything about the place Gemma had booked, except its name: Pelican’s Reach. A cold feeling shot through her as she considered that her sister might never have given up her backpacking ways and that she might be spending the next fortnight in a tin hut on the sand.
Eventually Bradford turned off the main road onto a narrow track that headed through some shallow hills—well, shallow compared to the volcanic peaks in the centre of the island. After a short drive, they pulled up at a whitewashed gatehouse and were waved through after Bradford and the security guards had exchanged enquiries about each other’s families.
They continued down over the lip of a hill into what seemed like a perfect and exclusive little village. No hulking hotel blocks here, only low structures. The larger ones looked like plantation houses and different-sized villas were clustered in groups on a steep hillside overlooking a secluded bay.
Bradford parked in front of a large building and helped her out of the car. Bellboys rushed to collect her luggage and a uniformed hotel employee welcomed her to Pelican’s Reach, then took her into a reception area with terracotta tiled floors and high ceilings with whirring fans. She was led to one of the many groups of dark wood and wicker sofas with pristine white cushions.
A woman appeared beside her. ‘Hello, Mrs Taylor, my name is Cordelia and I’m your personal ambassador. I’m here to help you with anything you need during your stay.’ She paused to smile and carried on. ‘Let’s get you checked in first, then the shuttle can take your bags to your villa. Would you like a rum punch while you’re waiting?’
Juliet nodded and perched on the edge of one of the sofas, still peering around.
This was definitely not a tin hut.
Juliet wasn’t quite sure whether to be relieved that Gemma had obviously acquired a taste for luxury in her old age, or affronted that she’d booked this place for herself, fully intending to leave her sister to the purgatory of the family Christmas at home.
Someone appeared with a squat glass filled with cubes of ice and a dusky pink cocktail. She sipped it tentatively, not really being one for rum, but the sweetness of the fruit juice and a hint of spices in the ice-cold liquid meant it went down rather well. Too well, maybe. By the time Cordelia had returned with her room key her glass was practically empty.
‘You’re in one of our premium villas,’ the woman told her. ‘They’re set just a little way away from the main resort, in their own private bay.’
Juliet glanced at her suitcases, still sitting near the reception desk. ‘I hope it’s not a long walk.’ The clock above the reception desk said it was five forty in Pelican’s Reach, which meant it was closer to ten back home, and Juliet wasn’t sure she had the energy to leave the reception building, let alone trek to her villa.
Cordelia smiled brightly at her. ‘Don’t you worry about walking, Mrs Taylor. Peter here is going to take you to your room.’
A lad who didn’t seem much older than Violet appeared and ushered her back outside. Bradford’s car was gone and in its place something that looked like a bigger, sleeker version of a golf cart. Her driver indicated she should sit next to him and then they were off through the resort, down narrow brick-paved paths.
They left the main hotel buildings behind, which occupied the flatter area near the beach, and headed up the hillside. The shuttle climbed a short hill that took them past the end of the main beach and onto a road that ran above a little cove on the same bay. Here, only a handful of villas were dotted near the edge of a low cliff.
Peter stopped the buggy at the penultimate villa on the track. Juliet climbed out and stared at it. Was this all for her? All she’d been expecting was a hotel room. She must have really underestimated how much Gemma got paid to do that job of hers.
Peter insisted on escorting her through the small garden that led to the front door of her villa. She wandered behind him up a path fringed with beautiful shrubs, and when he reached the door he ushered her inside with a grand arm gesture.
She didn’t notice when her driver left, because all she could do when she walked inside was stand and stare. Outside vibrant colours were everywhere, intensified by the bright overhead sun into almost painful richness, but in here it was an oasis of white.
She was standing in a vaulted bedroom, the pale painted beams and slats of the ceiling showing. Neutral tiles covered the floor and wispy curtains billowed slightly at the windows, disturbed by the artificial breeze purring from an air-conditioning unit. The furniture was simple and stylish, all white wicker and wood. Dominating it all was a four-poster bed draped in mosquito nets, the only concession to colour some stone-coloured cushions nestling against the puffy pillows and a matching runner at the bottom of the light quilt.
The room was big enough to also house a comfy-looking white sofa and coffee table, and a writing desk up against the wall. Behind her was a walk-in wardrobe and a door through which she could spy spacious en-suite bathroom. But it was the windows she couldn’t a tear her eyes from. They ran from floor to ceiling with arches at the top, and in the central arch was a pair of French windows leading out onto a balcony with a criss-crossed railing.
She didn’t make a decision to unfasten the catch and walk outside, she just did it. The sun was lower in the sky now, but still golden and warm. She guessed that sunset was still maybe an hour or two away. She walked forward, rested her palms on the railing and stared out at the view below her. Underneath the balcony was a terrace fringed with low tropical vegetation, and beyond that she could see the pale yellow sand of the small cove.
If she looked to her right—northward, she guessed—the small headland she’d passed over blocked part of the view of the main resort, but beyond she could see the land as it flattened out towards the shore, seeming to sharpen to a point where the curving beach jutted into the ocean. A lone tree swayed in the breeze at the end of the long strip of sand.
She realised that she’d been holding her breath for the longest time. Not just the few minutes that she’d been exploring her villa, but for months. Maybe even years. It was as if she’d been hanging onto it because she’d never had the proper time or room to expel it, and she did it now, letting it all out in one long, satisfying sigh.
And when she was finished, she stood completely still, just breathing
in and out and listening to the birds and insects singing their different yet harmonious songs and feeling the soft tease of the salty breeze on her skin.
Juliet wasn’t sure if she believed in love any more, not after the way things had turned out with Greg, but if she ever could consider falling in love again, she thought Pelican’s Reach would be the top of her list.
* * *
WHEN JULIET WANDERED BACK inside she found her cases had been delivered, so she set about unpacking them, stuffing T-shirts into drawers and throwing sandals into the walk-in wardrobe. More than once as she emptied a case she looked longingly at the four-poster, with its dreamy nets hanging down. She’d dearly love to sink face first into all that gorgeous white bedding, but she knew she really should try to stay awake as long as possible to beat the jet lag.
Yawning, she reached into the front pocket of her suitcase. Her hands closed around some unfamiliar items, so she pulled them out to get a proper look.
Two bikinis! One crimson and plain, the other ruffled with turquoise polka dots. Upon closer inspection of the same pocket, she found a note and a small, flat box wrapped in Christmas paper. She placed the present on the bedside table and unfolded the scrap of paper, which looked as if it had been hastily torn from a spiral-bound notebook.
J, Since I’m not going to be getting the use out of these, I thought you should. And don’t open the present until Christmas Day. That’s an order! G x
She held the red bikini up by the shoulder straps—what there was of it! —and her eyes popped open wide. Really? At her age! She didn’t think so.
Okay, it wasn’t obscenely skimpy, but it certainly wasn’t the sort of thing she’d ever had the courage to wear. The polka-dot one gave a little more coverage, thank goodness. She thought of the plain black one-piece she’d only just put in the chest of drawers and swiftly stuffed both bikinis back into the pocket and zipped it up tight. The present she tucked into the drawer of her bedside table.