ISLAND OF LOVE

by Rosemary Hammond

  Slowly she tore it open. It was dated just a month ago.

  Dear Anne,

  I have been thinking of writing this letter to you

  for a long time, but never seemed to get around to

  it. Today I received some news from the doctor that

  impels me to do so while there is still time. What I want to say to you is that I was wrong for the way I treated you that last summer you were here. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t regretted it. When I lost your mother I was a crazy man. There were times I didn’t want to go on living, and you were so much like her that every time I looked at you I was reminded of my loss. I know that’s no excuse, but I ask you to forgive me anyway. As it turned out, you were right to leave, and I’ve been very proud of your success.

  It was signed simply, “Love, Dad.” Short and to the point, just like him. By the time Anne finished reading all her old love for him came flooding back into her heart and head, and the tears were pouring down her cheeks. Her mind was filled with visions of the past, the way he used to be before her mother died, the good man, the devoted husband and caring father he once was.

  She folded up the letter and put it back in its envelope, her last gift from her father, a priceless gift. From the bottom of her heart she forgave him, and she was certain that somehow he knew it.

  She didn’t know how long she sat there, reliving scenes from her childhood, picturing her father in her mind, but when the tears finally stopped and she looked around the room the fire had gone out. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose and looked at her watch. It was almost midnight!

  She dabbed at her eyes again, but her handkerchief was so sodden by now that it was useless. She got up and stumbled down the hall to the bathroom to get a tissue. As she fumbled for the box in the dark, she

  knocked her jar of shampoo off the counter. With a sigh, she got down on her hands and knees, and was groping around on the floor for it, when her hand came upon a small hard object.

  She picked it up, got to her feet and turned on the light, holding it out in the palm of her hand to examine it. It was a man’s cuff link, obviously a good piece, a square-cut onyx with a narrow gold band around the edges. She turned it over. Etched in fine script on the back were the initials J.B.

  She drew in a sharp breath. It had to belong to Jerry. He must have dropped it there when he was staying with her. Funny he had never mentioned that he’d lost it. But then she’d never seen him wear cuff links. Probably it had just been stuck away in his shaving kit, and he never even missed it. She had to smile. It was just like him to carry around one useless cuff link and then lose it.

  She suddenly had an overwhelming urge to hear his voice. She hadn’t seen him or spoken to him since the party. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to call him just to ask how the pictures had turned out. She didn’t have his home number, but she could call directory assistance to get it.

  “Oh, why not?” she said out loud to the empty room. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she ran down the hall to the telephone. Then she realized she didn’t even know his real first name. Everyone called him Jerry, and that’s how he signed all his letters. She snatched up the receiver, called InforŹmation and asked for a number for Jerry Bannister in Seattle. She stood there tapping her foot imŹpatiently until the operator came back on the line.

  “We have a Jeremy Bannister listed.”

  Jeremy! A nice name. “Yes,” Anne said. “That’s it.”

  The operator gave her the number, and Anne dialed it. After eight rings there was still no answer. Of course, she thought, he wouldn’t be home. He wasn’t the home-loving type. He was probably out with one of his blondes. She was just about to hang up when she heard his voice.

  “Hello?” He sounded out of breath.

  A little thrill of excitement ran up and down her spine at the sound of his voice. She opened her mouth, but now that he’d actually answered she didn’t know what to say.

  “Hello?” he said again.

  Slowly, carefully, she replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  From then on, to her utter dismay, Anne began to see reminders of Jerry everywhere in the house—the way he’d screwed the top on the peanut butter jar so that it didn’t quite fit, how he’d thrown silverware into the drawer instead of stacking it neatly.

  She even looked for traces of him in her father’s bedroom. She knew it wasn’t possible, that he’d left nothing behind, but it seemed to her that she could still feel him in the silent room, smell his distinctive scent. He’d filled the house with his presence, and now it seemed empty without him.

  She began to think she was losing her mind. What did Linda know about his feelings? She had no idea what kind of man he was. Well, what kind of man was he? Did she really know him herself? She knew his reputation, but what did that have to do with the way he’d treated her?

  She reminded herself over and over again that, even though his desire for her had been unmistakable, he was a man who didn’t make commitments or promises to women. Still, that desire, all by itself, was highly flattering, something she’d never expected from him.

  And he’d been so complimentary about her work, the story about Ben she’d written, encouraging her to pursue her writing as though her career, her future, was important to him. Unlike Ben, who only seemed to view her as an inspiration for his painting.

  The one thing she was certain of was that before she could marry Ben she had to work the residue of whatever it was she felt for Jerry out of her system.

  She awoke the next morning to the patter of rain against the window. She rose up and stretched widely, refreshed from the soundest sleep she had had in years, still warmed by her father’s lovely letter. She jumped out of bed and ran to the window, pulling aside the curtains.

  It wasn’t raining hard, but she wasn’t thrilled at the idea of going out in it. She regretted her promise to Ben of another sitting today for the portrait. She just didn’t want to go. Two weeks ago she would have jumped at the chance. What had happened in the meantime to change that?

  When she finally did set out for Ben’s a few hours later, it was still raining, and by the time she got there she was thoroughly soaked. As she stood on the porch shaking out her raincoat, the door opened and Ben appeared.

  “Anne,” he said, beaming. “I’m so glad to see you.” He held the door open. “Come on inside where

  it’s warm. Sorry you had to walk through the rain like that.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” she said, moving past him into the warm house. “I finally finished going through my father’s papers yesterday, so there wasn’t much to do at home anyway.”

  “Let’s go into the studio. I’ve got a fire going and you can dry out in front of it.”

  When they got to the studio he made straight for the easel, which was covered with a white cloth. “I want to show you what I’ve done so far on the portrait.”

  She sat down by the fire and watched expectantly as he slowly uncovered the canvas. Ben was one of those artists who would never allow anyone to look at his work until it was finished, and she was anxious to see how it had turned out. He’d been so undemŹonstrative since their engagement that she had no grasp of how he really felt about her, and she was hoping that the portrait would give her a clue. Had he pictured her as a young girl? A femme fatale? His future wife?

  “There,” he said. “What do you think?”

  She rose up and stared at the painting, openmouthed. It was the last thing she had expected to see. There, on the easel, was almost an exact duplicate of the portraits he had done of Victoria after her death. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or disŹmayed. She walked slowly toward the easel. The colors he’d used, the pose, even the expression on her face, were all the same.

  But I’m not Victoria, something inside her screamed. I’m me! He was watching her, obviously waiting for her to say something.

  “Of course,” he said when she remained speechless, “it’s not really finished yet. That�
�s why I need a few more sittings. I’m not quite satisfied with the angle of the jaw.” He put an arm around her shoulder, laughing. “But we’ll have years ahead of us to perfect it, won’t we?”

  Like a flash of lightning, it broke in on her fuddled mind that from the very beginning Ben’s only real concern had been her usefulness to him. She didn’t blame him. He’d said it himself. Without a pretty broad streak of ego, artists couldn’t create at all. He’d needed her to be his Muse, he’d said, his inspiration. Was that all their life together was going to be?

  Automatically she found herself comparing him with Jerry, the man she’d always thought of as so arŹrogant and self-centered, and particularly about their last conversation, the encouragement he’d given her about her writing, offering to help her get published, even though it might mean losing her services on the magazine. He’d been thinking of her work, her future. Was that so selfish and arrogant? And she rememŹbered the little ripple of excitement she’d felt last night just at the sound of his voice.

  She looked over at Ben, who was still waiting for some reaction from her about the portrait, his work, his project, and for the first time he appeared to her as he really was. Nice, safe, solid Ben! But good old Ben cared about as much for her as he did for that portrait sitting on the easel. Less, in fact. To him she was only an adjunct to his deep commitment to his art, and that just wasn’t good enough.

  As she gazed at him now through such different eyes, it seemed to her that he had aged overnight. He looked like an old man, and somehow she connected

  this change in him with the letter from her father. It dawned on her then that Jerry had been right all along with his warning that she was only looking for a father figure.

  She shook herself free of Ben’s encircling arm and stepped back a pace from him. He was looking at her with a puzzled expression on his face.

  “Anne,” he said, alarmed. “What is it?”

  She gazed at him, wide-eyed. “I can’t marry you, Ben,” she said shakily.

  “What?”

  “I can’t marry you!” This time her voice was much firmer. She shook her head. “It just wouldn’t work. Don’t you see? You don’t really want a wife. And even if you did, you certainly don’t want me. I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. It’s just that I was so crazy about you when I was a young girl, and after my

  mother died my father was so awful to me” She

  broke off.

  “Anne, Anne,” he said. “You’re just upset. I think your father’s death has hit you harder than you realized. Here, sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  “No!” she cried. “I don’t want any tea.” She turned from him and started walking away hurriedly. At the door, she turned around. “I’m sorry, Ben. I hope I haven’t hurt you. And I’m sorry to disappoint you about being your inspiration.” She smiled. “But you’ll have to admit you did your best work when you had to do without one anyway.”

  He simply stared at her in disbelief for some time. Then he said quietly, “It’s Jerry Bannister, isn’t it?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  He smiled sadly. “Anne, I’m one of your oldest friends. I know it’s not in you to lie to me, but I think

  you might be lying to yourself. I’ve seen you together.” He laughed. “I’m an artist, remember? I’ve trained myself to pick up on those little nuances of character, emotion, relationships.”

  “You’re wrong, Ben.”

  She stepped back a pace from him, raised her chin and stuck her hands in her pockets. Immediately her fingers curled around a small hard object—Jerry’s cuff link! Why had she put it there? She couldn’t even remember doing so!

  She was so stunned by this discovery that when she realized Ben was still talking to her she had to make an effort to clear her buzzing head and pay attention to him.

  “That first morning I came to your house,” he was saying, “and saw him there, my immediate impresŹsion was that you were lovers.”

  “We weren’t,” she said in a small voice.

  He nodded. “That’s what you said, and I believed you. And when you told me about your feelings for me, I put it out of my mind. He’d left by then anyway. In fact, I thought he’d left the island altogether.” He paused. “Then I saw you together at the party, and I knew.”

  She colored deeply at the memory of what had gone on in Jerry’s room that night. “But if you rememŹber,” she said, “it was that very night that I said I’d marry you.”

  “Anne, do you think I don’t recognize a lovers’ quarrel when I see one?”

  “Then why did you ask me to marry you?” she cried.

  He shrugged. “Because I wanted you.”

  Suddenly she was filled with a certain knowledge of what she had to do. Compared to Ben, Jerry was like quicksilver, with his flashing dark eyes, his wicked grin, his quick decisiveness. He might be feckless and wayward, she certainly had no illusions about any possible future with him, and she knew quite well he wasn’t in love with her. But he did care about her as a person. At least she knew where she stood with Jerry, and if he still wanted her, on whatever terms, she’d go to him.

  Still clutching the cuff link tightly in her hand, she gave Ben one stricken look, then turned and started running toward the front door. She heard him coming after her, and when she reached the door she turned around.

  “Anne,” he said. “Where will you go?”

  “Back to Seattle where I belong,” she said distinctly. She opened the door and darted outside into the rain.

  She ran all the way home, stumbling over the stones and fallen branches that littered the narrow dirt path, as if her life depended on it. She knew now what she wanted, what she’d probably always wanted, ever since the night Jerry had first shown up at her house. She also knew she was taking a terrible risk. He had promised her nothing. He might not even still want her.

  When she reached her house, she burst into the front door and ran straight to the telephone, not even stopping to take off her wet raincoat. She just stood there dripping in the hall while she dialed.

  “Hello, Mr. Pembroke? This is Anne Cameron.”

  “Yes, Anne,” came the lawyer’s voice. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve finished going through my father’s papers and plan to leave today. I’ll stop by your office, if I may, and drop off the things that you need to deal with. Then you can put the house on the market. I’ve deŹcided to sell.”

  “Well, all right, Anne, if you’re sure. I have a court appearance this afternoon, but if I’m not here you can leave everything with my secretary.”

  After they hung up, she dialed Patrick’s number, praying he was home. After a few rings, his gruff voice came on the line.

  “Patrick, this is Anne. Could you take me across to Roche Harbor today?”

  “Well, yes, I guess so. It’s raining, but there’s not much wind. The channel should be calm enough to make it in good time. When do you want to leave?”

  “As soon as you can get here to pick me up.”

  “Half an hour, then?”

  That was calling it close, but if she hurried she could make it, and she had to get across while the weather held. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll be ready.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT SEEMED strange to Anne to be walking down Seneca Street again toward her old office building on the corner, yet it was the same bustling city, the same shops, the same buildings, even the same faces.

  She’d arrived home late the night before, exhausted from the long dismal trip from the island, and had fallen into bed as soon as she could get her clothes off. She’d intended to take the next day off to unpack and get her bearings and to consider what her next move should be.

  That morning, however, she’d awakened at dawn fired with an almost manic sense of urgency. She had to see Jerry again right away, had to find out how he felt about her and what, if anything, the future held in store for them.

  As she rode up in the elevator to the
magazine’s offices on the fifth floor, the determination she’d felt earlier began to waver, and when she stepped inside she was seized with a sudden attack of stage fright. She stopped just inside the door and glanced around the large room. It was only nine o’clock and already humming with activity. Telephones were ringing, typewriters were clacking, voices were raised in the usual panic.

  She took a deep breath and made straight for Jerry’s glass-enclosed office at the far end, waving and smiling vaguely at several of her co-workers on the way. From

  their casual offhand greetings, she might have been gone two hours instead of two weeks.

  Jerry wasn’t in his office, but the moment she stepped inside she felt a strong sense of his presence. It was all so familiar, the raincoat he never bothered to wear even in Seattle’s drizzly climate still hanging on the hook behind the door, the silver cup he’d won a few years ago for excellence in journalism from a prominent literary society, every available surface in the room as cluttered as ever.

  While she waited for him, she glanced idly down at the mess on his desk. It was as bad as her father’s! There were files, manuscripts, art layouts, photoŹgraphs, even private correspondence, all scattered about in an unimaginable litter. Yet she knew from personal experience that he could put his hands on the exact item he needed in a second.

  Then her eye was caught by a familiar sheaf of paper off to one side, just about to fall off the desk, which she instantly recognised as the manuscript of her story on Ben Poole. She leaned over to take a closer look. Scrawled across the title page in Jerry’s distinctive slashing handwriting were the words, “No emendations. Print as is.” She glowed with pleasure. What a tribute! It was unheard of for him to approve a story as written, so rigid were his standards.

  Clipped to the title page was a stack of photographs, which reminded her that there was a partial roll of exposed film still left in the camera that she hadn’t finished shooting. As she flipped through the developed pictures, however, she could see that what they already had would be enough.