Fern and Ken rose from their table and walked into the inn, still without noticing Mrs. Hammond. Ken was laughing at Fern because she was insisting on paying her own overnight bill. "You're still as independent as ever, aren't you?" he chuckled. "Anyway, I'll settle up here and you can get tough with me in the cab."
Their cab had arrived, the receptionist told Ken, handing him a couple of receipts and some change. He pocketed both and was about to take hold of Fern's arm when a bellhop came into the lobby, paging the recent occupant of Room 104.
"That was my room," Ken exclaimed. "Here, boy !"
The uniformed bellhop came running over. "Did you drop this, sir?" He held out a shining chain strung with silver charms and there was a cheeky grin on his face. "The chambermaid just found it—down by the bed, sir.
Ken's expression was quizzical as he accepted the bracelet. "Lucky you caught me, son. Here," he handed the boy a tip, then dropped the bracelet into Fern's hand. "It must have slipped out of my blazer pocket," he remarked. "I forgot I still had it."
They walked out of the inn, unaware that Gladys Hammond watched them from beside the magazine stand. She had decided to speak to them, then had come that exchange with the bellhop. His boyish treble had carried across the lobby, but Ken's remark to Fern had been too quietly spoken to be overheard. Gladys Hammond stood putting her own interpretation upon that remark... and upon the presence of a piece of Fern Kingdom's jewellery in Ken McVicar's hotel bedroom.
"Excuse us, ma'am." A couple of brawny young men crowded in beside Mrs. Hammond at the magazine stand. They were exuberant youths with deep, gay voices, wearing plaid shirts outside rumpled slacks that looked as though they had only recently dried out from a thorough soaking in yesterday's rain.
"Say, Tony, that swell-looking blonde has just left," one of them remarked. "She smiled... he didn't. Bit high hat, some of those British guys."
"He was hanging on to his baby last night, did you notice?" Tony grinned and flicked open a movie pictorial. "I go for real platinum blondes with big lavender eyes myself. Quite dashed my hopes last night, finding out they were married."
"Anyway, she may be the faithful sort," his companion quipped. They laughed, made their purchases and strolled away.
"Hi, Glad." Walt Hammond came up to his wife, vaguely noticing that she looked a bit boiled about the cheeks. "What's up?" "N-nothing."
"Oh." He shrugged heavy shoulders clothed in loud check. "The greens are in a pretty hopeless mess, Glad. The gang have decided to cancel the rest of the week here and they're flying to Miami. D'you want to go?"
"We might as well, Walt."
He frowned at her lack of enthusiasm. She had wanted to go to Miami all along, now he agreed to go she couldn't even be bothered to smile. Women! Biggest puzzle ever invented.
His wife, as it happened, was thinking the same thing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
KEN offered to bring Fern right to the door of the bungalow, but she had some shopping to do, so he dropped her off in town. "We may not meet again before I leave for England," he said, "but I'd like to wish you all the very best."
"Thanks, Ken. I wish the same for you."
Their hands clung for a moment. "Oh, Fern," he sighed, "if only one's wrongfully used time could be redeemed ! Be careful, my dear. Learn from me, mistakes are not always redeemable and regret is a very cold companion." He squeezed her hand, swung in again behind the wheel of his sleek two-seater and drove away.
Fern stood gazing after the rapidly diminishing car. Ken had guessed that she wasn't going to tell Ross about Marina. He believed it was her happiness she was risking; he little knew that she was making a bid for a few more weeks of just being with her husband. Inevitably they must part, for Ross had willed it that way and his will was a thing of steel, hard and unbreakable. But let their parting not be tonight or tomorrow. Let it be held in abeyance like a drugged pain. Let her, somehow, find the courage to deceive him.
She entered a supermarket where she purchased a chicken cut into sections, fresh vegetables and a carton of cream, then she caught a bus to the avenue on which she lived.
The quietness of the bungalow fell upon her like a spell as she walked through to the kitchen. Everything was as usual. Neat plastic curtains at the windows. Ger-
aniums in a couple of blue pots. A piggy bank on a shelf for spare nickels and dimes. She put her purchases in the fridge, then spooned coffee into the percolator. While coffee was brewing she went and changed into slacks and a blouse.
Mm, that felt better!
Fern eyed her crumpled, rain-stained dress; decided to launder it after she'd fixed herself a light lunch. Then she examined the contents of the handbag she'd taken to Marina and destroyed the return half of her unused bus ticket. If she was going to play a game of deception she must ensure that it was a thorough one, for though she and Ross were not in close touch as far as their personal relationship went, he did pop into her bedroom now and again.
If he needed some small change he'd plunder the purse in which she kept the housekeeping money. Sometimes he felt in the mood for a spot of the light reading on her bedside table. Occasionally he just came in for wandering chat; then he would tinker with the pots and jars on her dressing-table, slide a large brown hand down a silken garment, laugh at her flimsy fripperies as he called them.
Perhaps her feminine aura was a casual pleasure he saw no harm in indulging himself, as she indulged momentary contacts with his clothing, imbued with the tang of cheroot smoke; or caught her breath on the clean spiciness of his after-shave lotion if he happened to come close.
From these had she cut out small stars and scattered the vault of her precarious heaven with them.
She filled in the afternoon with small tasks, even did some weeding in the garden, for ragged growths had sprung up overnight in that flood of rain. Indoors again and a little spent all of a sudden, she switched on the radio and stretched out on the low-built couch. Ethel Merman's vibrant voice issued from the radio. She was singing the hit song from a Broadway show which Fern and Ross had gone to see while they had been in New York.
Fern sank her head against a cushion and closed her eyes. She willed a return of the happiness of that evening. Ross in a dark tuxedo and very white shirt, looking far handsomer than the actors on the stage. Herself in lemon organza, his orchids twining against her shoulder. It had been a gay, colourful show, and after a meal at a supper-club they had taken a ferryboat trip to Staten Island and the stars had seemed to sit upon the rooftops of New York's fantastic buildings, while the Statue of Liberty had been bathed in green fights.
The song ended and Fern came back to the present with the reflection that Ross should arrive home between seven and eight o'clock. He had not caught the early train, otherwise he would be here by now. She wondered if he had phoned the bungalow. If he'd done so last night he would wonder a little about an unanswered call. If this morning, he'd assume she was out shopping.
She glanced at a sunburst clock on the wall. It was just after five. She would remain here listening to the radio until half-past, then start dinner. Ross's appetite had been a bit poor of late, so she decided to try her hand at a savoury chicken dish which Delilah had recently shown her. Something savoury might tempt his palate.
Her heart lurched with anxiety, and this too was part of love.
Love, she thought, held every emotion trapped in its sphere; like the snow in one of those globular glass paperweights. Anxiety, pain, longing... always in motion, tumbling through the body.
Fern had the evening meal in the oven by six-thirty. For dessert she made a raspberry mousse. The chocolate sauce could wait until later, for she liked it poured on the mousse nice and hot. She put the mousse in the fridge to keep firm, then ran herself a bath.
She soaked in foamy water, dusted down with her favourite talcum, slipped into wisps of nylon playing at underwear. Her wardrobe held a bright selection of rustling silks and filmy chiffons, but her hand moved involuntarily to a virgin
al white lace gown she had never
worn. She put it on, and one glance in a mirror told her why she had never worn it, why she couldn't wear it this evening. It made her look like a bride; overtaken by sudden panic she wrenched down the side zip, was about to wriggle out of the gown when she heard a vehicle sweep to a halt in front of the bungalow. The door of it opened, then slammed. A key grated in the lock of the bungalow and footsteps came along the hallway.
Fern stood transfixed in front of her dressing-table mirror, every scrap of colour receding from beneath her suntan. Her heart, like an imprisoned thing, fought to escape out of her body... then Ross walked into her room.
"Hullo... I'm back."
"H-hullo."
"Having zip trouble?" He was beside her now, half smiling, fastening up the zip she had wrenched down.
"How—how did you find Professor Brunhill?" she asked.
"Weak, but taking it like a trouper. He was pleased to see me. Both he and Clare sent you their love." His hands remained on her waist. "Has everything been all right here ? I phoned last night, or rather I tried to, but I couldn't make contact owing to the storm you were having this end. I was relieved to think Diana was here keeping you company. From all accounts the storm was a rough one, huh?"
Oh, if only he were not touching her, or smiling and looking so unbearably dear! How could she wipe away that smile by saying: "I wasn't here with Diana. I was at Marina Beach with Ken McVicar. We stayed overnight at a hotel and his room was only a few doors away from mine"?
Then something about her, a hint of wildness in her eyes, her lack of colour, sharpened his voice. "What's the matter... Diana spent the night here with you, didn't she?"
"Diana's over in Santa Clara—"
"You were alone?"
His anxiety shattered the truth that was building to a climax within her. "Yes, I—I was alone."
Ross stared at the tears on her cheeks. She hadn't felt them leave her eyes. She hardly knew she was crying. 'You were lonely, and frightened, is that it?" His voice .. . oh, his voice, deep and concerned.
"Honey, I'm sorry!" He bent his head. He meant to brush her cheek, but suddenly it was her mouth his lips touched. Her mouth, tremulous, with the salt of teardrops on it. For the space of a heartbeat it seemed as though he wanted to tear his lips away, and then the slender stem of her body was bent over his arm and there was in his kiss a driving urgency that could not be denied in those first few seconds. Then, as though he cared about hurting her, his lips grew caressing, seductive honey-bees settling here, there and everywhere on the soft coral curves of her mouth.
She lay in his embrace, and there was peace and yet war in her heart. This was sweet and yet bitter-sweet. This was just a man with a woman; this was all she might have, and she couldn't refuse it.
Their lips parted. Her lashes fluttered and her eyes opened.
"We must have missed one another," he bantered. Then he lifted his head. "D'you know, I think I smell something burning."
"My chicken risotto!" She broke out of his embrace, caught up her lace skirts and fled in the direction of the kitchen.
The evening that followed held a dreamlike quality for Fern. She knew herself becalmed in waters that held dangerous currents, but for the moment it was only important that her ship rocked quietly; that the eyes of its captain dwelt on her and smiled.
They dined by candlelight. Made hungry by his train journey, Ross did almost full justice to the chicken risotto, luckily only slightly crimped about the edges. They talked about the Professor and Clare. The candlelight emphasized the delicate modelling of Fern's cheekbones and halfway through their meal Ross suddenly re-
marked that he had bought her something in San Francisco. He went to get the gift out of his overnight bag.
Not jewellery, she thought, and played with her dessert fork. She pushed a section of mousse into a drift of sauce and watched Ross from beneath her lashes as he came back into the dining-room carrying a gift-wrapped box.
"Shall I open it?" he asked. "Please."
The wrapping-paper fell away, he opened the box and lifted out an exquisite crystal scent-bottle the size of his hand. "I had it filled with your favourite perfume," he smiled, " 'April Violets.' "
"Oh, Ross!" She accepted the scent-bottle, utterly enchanted by it, and that he should remember the kind of perfume she always used. "You dear, it's perfectly lovely!"
"I thought you'd like it." He resumed his seat at the table and a little whimsical quirk to his mouth told her he hadn't forgotten what she had said the previous Saturday evening, that jewellery should only be given as a token of love.
After dinner he offered to help with the washing up, but Fern refused to let him. She told him to stretch out in a chair in, the lounge and smoke. She had noticed the taut etching of his scar, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, and she feared the onset of one of his painful headaches. Train journeys were inclined to bring them on.
"I must admit I feel like being coddled." He stood stretching his arms, his gold-decked eyes dwelling on Fern in her white lace. The tiny cap sleeves and gendy scooped neck made her look very young—yet bridal. "I don't remember seeing you in that gown before, Fern. I kind of like it."
"Do you?" She didn't look at him as she piled dishes on to the serving trolley and quickly wheeled it out of the room.
They had coffee, then played records in the lounge.
Ross had brought back an album of Clare Brunhill's haunting songs and Fern listened entranced, curled among cushions in one of the fireside nooks. Ross lay like a sprawled tiger on the couch, the lamplight in his bronze hair, cheroot smoke curling from his lips . .. lips that wore their own particular smile as Clare sang :
'But I had wist before I kiss'd That love had been so ill to win,
I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold, And pinned it with a silver pin.'
Fern saw that small twist of a smile on Ross's mouth; she watched him lift his cheroot, puff out a smoke ring, lazily follow its flight and slow disintegration.
"Wonderful voice," he murmured, when the music had died away.
"Mm."
"Want any more?"
"No." She uncurled herself and stood up. "It's been lovely, but now I'm sleepy. Do you want a sandwich with your milk drink?"
He shook a lazy head. "Let's skip a milk drink and have a glass of bubbly."
"Now?" She looked almost shocked.
"Why not?" He was laughing as he strolled behind the cocktail-bar and poured sparkling champagne into a couple of glasses. He came back across the lounge and put one of the glasses into Fern's hand. "It will make us both sleep .. . drink up. It's a Heidsieck and an excellent year."
His mood teased her and she escaped from his eyes by hiding her nose in the champagne bubbles. It was that final song of Clare Brunhill's that made him look cynical and unquiet. He had, Fern thought, locked up his heart with his old love still in it.
Fern fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillows of her bed, but in a while she began to dream. She was standing alone on a cold seashore. She could hear the roar of the sea and feel the wind combing her hair. All at once she felt afraid and knew a compulsion
to run. The sand on the seashore dragged at her feet as she ran, while overhead the moon watched her from behind a cloud like a staring face. She cast a frightened glanced over her shoulder and saw something pursuing her. It made no noise as it ate up the distance between them and its eyes glowed golden in the moonlight. A sob of terror broke from her. She must escape ... she must... for the creature with the golden eyes pursued her with anger.
It drew suddenly closer, silent and swift, and she screamed.
"Fern, honey, whatever's the matter?" The voice woke her, the nightmare fled away and she became aware that the bedside lamp was glowing mutedly and Ross was bending over her, holding her shoulders with hard, warm hands. "Damnation, baby," his voice shook slightly, "that scream gave me quite a scare. I thought a burglar had got in."
The window
s of Fern's room looked on to the avenue and in view of the fact that these bungalows were spaced rather far apart, the danger of burglary did exist.
"D-did I scream?" She blinked up at him in the lilac glow of the lamp, vaguely noticing that his bronze curls were sleep-ruffled and that the cream-coloured coat of his pyjamas gaped wide open as though he had hastily scrambled into it before coming to her. "I was having a nightmare. I used to have them sometimes as a child."
She looked little more than a child to Ross at the moment in her demure nightie with one lacy strap slipping off her shoulder. Her silver hair, having escaped the confines of its braid, tumbled molten about the delicate heart of her face. Ross gently pushed a strand of it away from her eyes. "Poor baby, you're nervy after that storm last night and having to face it alone. I had no right leaving you."
Her heart thumped and she wanted to call back the lie to which she had committed herself. She wanted to, desperately, but Ross's eyes in the lamplight glow were the golden eyes in her dream and she knew now that she had been subconsciously running away from
his anger. If she suddenly told him the truth he would think only one thing, that a feeling of guilt had made her deceive him in the first place.
"Fern, you're trembling!" He spoke with concern. "Here, let me hold you for a minute." He sat down on the side of her bed and took her into his arms, but she wasn't the child she had looked a moment ago. She was a woman ... and Ross was a man.
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