Shadows of the Heart

by Lorena McCourtney

  “There is much you do not know,” he said finally, still disapproving. “Perhaps Edith would care to explain. I’m sure you would like to freshen up before dinner, however.”

  Trish agreed and practically raced down the hall to her room. She quickly washed up, applied a light touch of makeup, and slipped into a draped dress of silky nylon jersey in a pink that flattered her blond coloring. She was hungry, she realized, but she was almost as anxious to get to the dinner table to hear what Edith might have to say as she was to eat.

  It wasn’t until she made her way back through the main living room to the dining room that she stopped short in a rather startling discovery. The two houses were not merely similar in construction; they were exact duplicates of each other, or at least as much of them as she had seen—the same beamed ceilings, same size and shape, and arrangement of the rooms, same tile floors, same massive fireplace. The furnishings were different, of course, the Hepler house reflecting Edith’s feminine touch, but the basic layout was the same. How peculiar.

  Edith was already in the dining room fussing with wineglasses when Trish arrived. Trish apologized again.

  “It’s not your fault,” Edith said quickly. “I should have told you where the property line is. I just didn’t realize you would be up and wandering around so quickly.”

  “I guess I’m the curious type, but it’s not a mistake I’ll make again,” Trish admitted, thinking of her almost violent encounter with Marcantonio de la Barca.

  She hoped Edith would explain whatever there was to explain immediately, but Armando came in then and seemed to have dismissed the incident completely. He was jovial and pleasant at dinner, affectionate with Edith, bringing more than one flush of pleasure to her face. The food was marvelous: a flaky, tender fish, fresh vegetables, and the best coffee Trish had ever tasted, which seemed fitting here in coffee country. Over the fresh fruit compote for dessert Trish finally could hold her curiosity no longer.

  “Would it be prying if I asked for a little more explanation of the situation with Marcantonio de la Barca?” she asked tentatively. “I don’t want to make any more embarrassing blunders.”

  Edith sighed. “It’s something that goes back a long way, something that we weren’t even a part of in the beginning, and it should have been settled long ago.”

  “There is no way it can be settled now,” Armando interjected grimly.

  “You see, at one time years ago, this was all one large cafetal. There was just the one house then, the one Marc now lives in,” Edith began. “Marc’s grandfather owned it all. Then he died and his two sons operated the place together. But then they both fell in love with the same girl and the cooperation changed to jealousy and hatred. The girl married the older son, Victoriano. The younger son, Jacinto, was furious. Insanely jealous. Vindictive. They split the property in two pieces then. Jacinto got this half and for some reason known only to himself built this house as an exact duplicate of the other place. Perhaps he thought to entice the woman he loved to it in some way. Who knows? She never came, of course, and Jacinto never married. Then Marc was born and I guess that really set Jacinto off. He swore neither his brother nor his brother’s offspring, Marc, would ever get this half of the place. In fact, he became almost obsessed with that fear. He was so afraid he would die and Marc would somehow get the property anyway that eventually he sold it to my father. At a very bargain price, I must add,” Edith admitted, “or we would never have been able to buy it.”

  “But I don’t understand the enmity,” Trish said slowly. Her wineglass was empty and Armando leaned over and refilled it. She declined his offer of a cigarette. “I mean, it isn’t your fault Jacinto sold the place to you. Surely Marc can’t blame you.”

  “That would be true if Marcantonio de la Barca were a reasonable man,” Armando said grimly. “Unfortunately he appears to have inherited his uncle’s predilection for strange obsessions.”

  Trish lifted her eyebrows. “Obsessions?”

  “One obsession,” Edith corrected, sighing. “He has always wanted to see the property as one cafetal again, with himself as owner, of course.”

  “He would do anything, anything,” Armando repeated emphatically, leaning forward to further emphasize the point, “to accomplish this. Behind that facade of aristocracy, that smooth surface of sophistication, he is utterly and totally ruthless. But he will not succeed,” he said, leaning back and smiling grimly.

  “Then the offer he mentioned had something to do with this property?” Trish asked.

  “An offer!” Armando spat out the word. “He had in mind stealing the place for a pittance from a sick old man and a helpless girl, after he couldn’t marry his way into possessing it for free,” he added contemptuously.

  Trish looked at Edith. She was flushed, her eyes agitated.

  Armando reached out and put a possessive arm around Edith’s shoulders. “He was in love with Edith.” His fingers played with the nape of her neck and his voice softened as he looked at her face turned toward him. “I cannot blame him for that, of course. But Edith would never have him, nor the others who desired her equally as much.” He took a sip of wine and offered her one from the same glass.

  Trish suddenly felt that she was intruding on something very private. She felt something else too. Envy, she decided guiltily. It would take the deepest of loves for a man to believe that plain Edith was the object of the powerful passions of a man like Marcantonio de la Barca, plus numerous others. Because Edith was plain, Trish admitted, if you took away the glow of love. But Armando saw her through his own eyes of love and believed that any man who looked on her must feel the same tenderness and passion that he felt. But if Marc was as ruthless and obsessed as they said, and Trish could certainly believe that he was, she had no doubt but that he had tried to marry Edith to obtain the property that way. It was to Edith’s credit and good sense that she hadn’t been taken in.

  Trish sighed inwardly. She had been the object of a fair amount of male attention in her twenty years of life, but none to match Armando’s feelings for Edith.

  Armando glanced at Trish as if just then remembering that he and Edith were not alone. He removed his arm from Edith’s shoulders. “Then, after Edith’s father’s health began to fail,” he continued, “Marcantonio thought he had another chance. Edith could never manage the cafetal alone. Marcantonio ingratiated himself with Edith’s father and began to make his offers.” Armando’s lip curled in a sneer. “At one time he almost had Edith’s father convinced to sell, in fact. And Edith had so many problems running the cafetal almost alone that she was ready to let it go too.”

  “But that was when I found Armando,” Edith interjected simply.

  “And so now all of Marcantonio de la Barca’s hopes and plans have been smashed and he’s sulking,” Trish mused. But the word did not fit Marc, of course, she realized. He might be furious. He might engage in ruthless action, violence even. But sulk in a corner? Never.

  “So now you know all our little family skeletons.” Edith laughed. “And Marc’s too.”

  “Oh, I imagine he has more than anyone suspects,” Trish observed, thinking of his references to the endearing names offered him by willing women.

  “Well, enough of Marcantonio de la Barca,” Armando said briskly. “Would you like some music, Trish?”

  They went into the living room then and Armando played the guitar. Edith joined him in singing some of the Spanish songs, her voice husky and sweet. Trish listened until he swung into the lively strains of a tune with which she was familiar, “La Cucaracha.” Then she joined in and they all wound up laughing and stomping in an impromptu dance.

  Edith finally broke up the little party, her laughter ending almost abruptly. She said she must go and spend a few minutes with her father before bedtime. Trish and Armando had another glass of wine and talked about Edith and her marvelous good qualities, generally steering away from the subject of Marcantonio de la Barca and his obsession. Armando was an entertaining host, amusing Tri
sh with anecdotes about the cafetal, and describing interesting sights in Costa Rica that she might enjoy seeing.

  When Trish finally went to her room, she was surprised to find how late it was. She wasn’t tired or sleepy. The afternoon nap must have done it. She unpacked, shook the wrinkles out of her clothes, hung her dresses in the closet, and made neat piles of undies and sport clothes in the bureau drawers.

  Still wide awake, she poked around looking for something to read but she didn’t find anything. She took a leisurely bath, hoping that would make her sleepy, but that didn’t work either, though it did ease the soreness from her twisted foot. Finally there was nothing else to do but go to bed. She had closed the heavy velvet drapes over the filmy curtains when she came into the room, and now she opened them again, deciding to open the window a crack for her usual nighttime whiff of fresh air. But now the window was stuck and wouldn’t budge and she finally gave up on it, thinking she would have to ask Edith to get one of the servants to unstick it tomorrow.

  When she lay down then, she was not only wide awake but the room felt closed-in and stuffy besides. She got up, prowled around the room, stuck her nose out the hall door to see if the air was any fresher there, and tried the window again. Then, looking out at the pool, she had an inspiration. A midnight swim! Why not? She wouldn’t bother anyone. No one would even know.

  She quickly dug her blue-and-white bikini out of the drawer and slipped into the skimpy outfit. She wished she had brought her terry cloth beach cover-up, but she hadn’t really thought there would be much opportunity for swimming, since the coffee plantation lay well inland from both of Costa Rica’s coasts. She draped a towel around her shoulders and padded silently on bare feet down the dimly lit hall and out the door she had used earlier.

  Another dim light burned somewhere in the rear of the two-story section of the house, but there was no sound of activity. The air at this high altitude was somewhat cool and she shivered as she crossed the cement walk bordering the pool and draped her towel over the arm of a lounge chair. By then she was covered with prickly goose bumps and the water felt warmer than the surrounding air to her testing foot.

  She slipped silently into the water and sidestroked to the far end, her smooth strokes and underwater kicks barely rippling the surface. She swam underwater, her body warming with the invigorating movement, did a smooth underwater somersault, finally breaking to the surface with scarcely a splash. And then, in what seemed a perfect complement to an already magical scene, the moon peeked over the tile roof and sent a glitter of silver spinning across the water. She floated silently on her back, looking up at Monte Deception and thinking that now even that towering monster seemed less threatening, more protective than ominous.

  Her thoughts drifted back to Marcantonio de la Barca and some puzzling contradictions about him. He could probably be charming, she thought grudgingly, though he had not chosen to honor her with much of that facet of his character. Charming but arrogant, she decided. And ruthless. What would he do now that it was obvious he would never get this half of the plantation he so deeply coveted? Well, he could always console himself in the charms of that Ramona whatever-her-name-was, Trish sniffed to herself. The woman hadn’t looked like the type who would enjoy wrestling matches on the ground, but you could never tell. Remembering the way he had held her down, the way their bodies had touched, and the wicked gleam in his eyes, she felt an unexpected warmth rising deep within her.

  She did not pursue nor inspect that feeling. She pushed herself away from the wall of the pool with an energetic shove and swam rapidly to the far end with an efficient crawl, not bothering to maintain silence. Then, the burst of energy gone, as well as that disquieting warmth inside her, she floated on her back again.

  And then, in the same unpleasant way that it had happened in the restaurant, she became aware that someone was watching her. She tried to tell herself that was ridiculous. You couldn’t actually feel someone watching you. Eyes didn’t send out vibrations.

  Yet the feeling persisted. She put a hand on the edge of the pool and rested, her eyes searching along the rows of blank windows on either side and to the rear of the house, lifting to the second story, darting around to inspect the iron gate. She saw no sign of movement, heard nothing, and yet the feeling intensified.

  The air was motionless, the only sound the faint barking of dogs in the village some distance away. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing threatening, and yet suddenly Trish shivered almost violently. She was merely getting chilled from the cold air and water, she tried to tell herself reassuringly, but she knew that wasn’t true. The tremor of her body came from a puzzling fear and apprehension, the almost uncanny feeling that the invisible eyes watched her with evil intent.

  Swiftly she pulled her slim body out of the water, drying herself hurriedly as she walked to the door, suddenly anxious to be back in the security of her own room. Her wet feet left dark prints on the concrete, like some presence following behind her from which she could not escape. She swung the heavy door open and gasped as she caught a glimpse of shadowy movement. She slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream, trying not to panic. It wasn’t movement, just a shadow caused by the closing door… wasn’t it?

  The door closed, and still the shadow moved again. It was a man, tall but with narrow, drooping shoulders. Trish could see him in silhouette, his long arms dangling, his large hands opening and closing convulsively. Trish stood frozen, like some wild creature caught in a blinding beam of light. He took a step toward her, lifted one hand.

  “Carole,” he breathed. “Carole Ann!”

  Carole Ann… her mother’s name!

  Trish took a step backward, her breathing fast and shallow. This must be Robert Hepler then, Edith’s father. Another step, another hoarse whisper. Trish looked around wildly. The hallway to her left, to her room and safety, was between her and the man. She edged along the wall, her hands behind her feeling the way, her eyes never leaving the menacing figure. His head turned slightly, following her movement, and she saw gray hair, uncombed, shadowy eye sockets, a caricature of a nose. She almost screamed, but she gritted her teeth, sensing that a scream, a noise, anything, might galvanize those groping hands into action.

  Then she felt it, the end of the wall, the corner turning into the other hallway. With one last terrified look at the man she turned and fled, racing down the hall with pounding feet, not knowing if he was inches behind her. Her panicked flight took her beyond her door, all the way to the darkened living room, and she hid there, panting, her heart throbbing through her body, until she dared peer down the hallway again.

  It was empty. Cautiously, alternately looking before and then behind her, she made her way back to her room. By then she was shivering, her teeth chattering. Somewhere she had lost the towel, evidently near the door when she first encountered the man, because she did not see it in the hallway.

  She opened the bedroom door, and started to flick on the light but decided against it. She felt around for a lock on the door but found only an old-fashioned keyhole that required a key she did not have. She fumbled around the darkened room, searching for something to brace against the door, trying to remember what furniture the room contained, but everything was solid, heavy, almost unmovable. Finally she pulled the only thing she could move, her luggage, and piled it against the door. The slight protection was not reassuring.

  She slipped into bed without even removing the damp bikini and, in a sitting position, pulled the covers up around her neck, her eyes fastened on the door. She couldn’t actually see the door in the dark room, but any movement to open it would reveal a crack of light that she would be able to see.

  She sat there tensely, her heart and mind racing. Edith had suggested that if she accidentally ran into Robert Hepler, she get away as quickly as possible. Trish had interpreted this to mean merely the avoidance of an unpleasant scene that might upset a sick man. But maybe it was more than that. Maybe Edith had been subtly warning her that the man was
dangerous, that his bitterness toward her mother might take the form of harm to her. But the encounter had been even worse than that, Trish thought shakily. Robert Hepler thought she was the woman who had betrayed and abandoned him, the woman he hated.

  Trish’s eyes ached with the intensity of staring into the darkness, and occasionally she glanced through the filmy curtains at the courtyard pool outside. The scene was sharp with contrasts, pitch-black shadows along the far wall, moon-silvered water, the walkway as bright as day. Trish thought she would never sleep and certainly did not intend to let her vigilant watch slip into unwary slumber.

  But sleep she did, restlessly jerking awake once to find her neck cramped and stiff, half-waking another time to move away from the damp spot left in the bed by the bikini. She dreamed strange, frightening, disconnected sequences, hands reaching, groping for her, choking tighter and tighter around her throat…

  She woke gasping and choking. She lay back dizzily, trying to dispell the frightening dream, only to feel acrid smoke clog her nose, throat, and lungs. She coughed and gasped, felt her senses reel dizzily and realized that she was close to being overcome by the smoke, close to unconsciousness. She flung her arms out, groping for the bedside lamp, and dimly felt it crash to the floor.

  She floundered out of bed, stumbling in the tangle of sheets and blankets. Smoke, smoke everywhere. No flame, just that acrid, choking smoke, but her lungs felt as if they were on fire. Her chest heaved, fighting for oxygen that was not there. The smoke was so thick, she almost seemed to claw her way through it.

  The door… the door… she must get to the door. She had to clutch the bed to keep her balance. Her lungs were bursting. She stumbled over scattered luggage… fumbled desperately for the door… clutched the doorknob with failing strength.

  She turned the doorknob. Nothing happened. She tried again. Still nothing. And then in pure panic she frantically pulled, yanked, twisted.