Tomorrow...Come Soon

by Steele, Jessica

  `Don't all fathers think their daughters perfect?' she heard herself retort sharply.

  But she was to have the answer she wanted, as he flicked a glance to his watch and moved to the door. 'Far be it from me to shatter his illusions,' he barked. And he had gone.

  But he did not telephone her father. For the rest of the day, after Charles Johnston returned from the library, and both of them attempted to eat something of the lunch she

  had prepared, Devon was jumpy for the sound of the phone. Endlessly the day dragged on. He had given his word he would phone, she thought, when teatime came and went and the phone had stayed silent.

  She went over again her lack of response when he had kissed her. She should have been awake to what she should do and not what she wanted to do. That sharp pain in her hip had thrown her, she admitted. Just as she admitted, having been free of pain ever since, that she was still too much in fear of something having gone wrong with her hip, when she knew very well she had nothing to worry about on that score.

  Tea was over and done with, and she was thinking of starting on dinner, when she recalled again the 'his illusions' Grant Harrington had barked at her. She had suspected before a hurt in him that her father had cheated him, and 'his illusions' served to underline that the comfortable illusions Grant had held about her father's integrity had been violently shattered, his faith broken—no wonder he didn't believe her!

  A ringing at the door bell when dinner, for all she had tried to make it as appetising as possible, had gone for the main part uneaten by both of them, alerted Devon to the fact that, with their lack of visitors, it might be Grant!

  `I'll get it,' said her father from habit. And since he was half way to the door, Devon had to let him.

  But she was too keyed up by that time to wait passively in the sitting room for him to come back to tell her it was only someone with a charity envelope. And she was out in the hall too, by the time he had the front door open and was exclaiming:

  `Grant!'

  She was by now more than familiar with the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. But she made her face composed as she heard him being invited in. Though she could do

  nothing about the beseeching look in her eyes when the tall figure of Grant Harrington entered the hall, and he flicked a glance at her, then addressed her father.

  `I'd like a private word with you, Charles, if it's convenient.'

  Having thought she knew all about anxiety, and then some, Devon ran through a gamut of emotions in the age it took for Grant to have his private word.

  Desperately she wanted to know what was being said in the dining room where her father had taken Grant. It even crossed her mind to go in with a tray of coffee, to interrupt so that she could judge from their faces how the conversation was going. With difficulty she quelled, the impulse.

  Her father would not breathe a word to Grant about her operation, she knew that for a fact. Just as she knew things had gone too far for Grant at this stage to ask him if there were any mitigating circumstances for doing what he had. In all probability, that question had most likely been put before and her father had stayed mum.

  More minutes dragged by, with Devon becoming more and more worked up, knowing that while she could guarantee what her father would not say, she had to sweat it out in fear of what Grant would say.

  When finally that dining room door did open, there was not a cat in hell's chance that Devon would be sitting composedly in the sitting room. She was out in the hall, her quick ears having picked up the sound. And one look at her father's face was all she needed to know that Grant Harrington had not let her down!

  That her father had in thirty minutes shed an unbearable burden caused her nothing but happiness. Anxiety instantly left her to see that look of joy in the eyes that sought her out. Such joy and pleasure were there that she just had to know that, whatever Grant had told him, her name had not come into it.

  `I'll see Mr Harrington out, Dad,' she said, as both men started to walk towards her.

  Charles Johnston hesitated. Then he beamed a smile at her, and she guessed, he was again thinking of the many bogeys she had nursed in the past, one of them being that, not liking that strangers should see her walk, never had she shown anyone to the door before.

  `I'll leave you to it,' he said, his beam of a smile still there as he shook hands with Grant before disappearing into the sitting room.

  The joy in her father transmitted to her, Devon was not even thinking of the price she was going to be made to pay for putting that joy there as she pulled back the front door, words of heartfelt thanks hovering somewhere near the surface. But it was Grant who spoke first.

  `Have you managed yet to come up with a reason to explain your absence from home?' he enquired, a silky edge there.

  `Er—no,' she replied, coming rapidly down to earth— only to go sailing skywards again, when, his voice silky still, Grant mystified her by saying:

  `I think you'll find an excuse won't be necessary.'

  Again Devon found herself slow off the mark. But then the only thing he could be meaning presented itself to her. And suddenly she was beaming a smile at him that was very similar to the smile her father had sent her way.

  `Oh, thank you, Grant,' she said, her lips curving into a beautiful smile, her eyes alight with joy and gratitude.

  `You can say "thank you" more warmly than that, can't you?' he said, his voice holding a hint of mockery, but his eyes fixed on the animated look of her.

  Devon rather thought she moved first. But when Grant's arms closed around her and she raised her face to kiss him, she knew that this was what he had meant. And

  there was no need then for him to complain about her lack of co-operation. For willingly, if inexpertly, she kissed him, finding she rather liked the way his mouth gently teased her lips apart.

  She was quite breathless when at last he let her go. But she was ready to say thank you again. For to her mind, his, `I think you'll find an excuse won't be necessary,' could only mean one thing—that Grant Harrington had not only let her father off the hook, but that clearly he had reconsidered, and was cancelling the debt completely— what he was telling her was that she had no need to go to live with him.

  `That,' said Grant, his arms falling away, one hand going into his trousers pocket, 'was a decided improvement.' Still Devon smiled. 'Though I'm sure you'll be able to do better.'

  Her smile started to dip.

  `I—er . . she said, with a feeling of being a non-swimmer thrown in at the deep end, `I'm—er—not sure

  ' It couldn't be his kiss that had clouded her thinking, she thought, floundering in confusion, as heady as his kiss had been. 'You don't mean . . .' she began, starting to see she had made a monumental mistake somewhere, when that arrogant expression appeared on his face as he rocked back on his heels as he waited for her to get it together. 'I thought,' she said, her voice gone husky again as it always did whenever emotion got to her, 'that you were meaning that—that—the deal we made was—was void.' He made no move to help her out. 'That,' she struggled, 'I wouldn't have to come to—to live with you.'

  It was his turn to smile, and she didn't like it. For there was no sincerity in his smile as his hand came out of his pocket, and he held out a door key.

  `That philanthropic,' he told her charmingly, 'I ain't.' And he was short and to the point then, as he went on to

  .

  issue his instructions. 'Business calls me away for a few days, which should,' he told her bluntly, 'give you ample time to pack.' And while she just stood staring, not believing it, he was ordering, 'I shall return on Friday—be there!'

  'Be there?' she echoed—and heard he had one last thing to say to her before he departed.

  `You go back on your word to me, Devon Johnston, and I shall feel no compunction in going back on what I've just told your father.'

  Slowly Devon returned to where her father was waiting, two glasses of sherry already poured. 'This calls for a celebration,' he said, a
nd looked so happy, she just had to rise over her trauma. This was Tuesday—she was in fear and trembling for what Friday would bring!

  As it turned out, the days before she had to go with her cases to that elite end of town to stay for what she hoped would be a minimum amount of time were so completely filled that she had little time to dwell on the fate she was committed to. For what her father had to tell her of his conversation with Grant Harrington left her gasping at the ingenuity of the man, and made clear his remark which she had so idiotically misunderstood.

  For a start her father had explained that Grant had been giving serious thought to prosecuting him, but had then been swayed against that course when thinking of his years of loyal service to the firm, plus what his father would have thought of him prosecuting his old friend. He had realised he could just not do it. For her father's sake, she had smiled at him as she thought, not much he couldn't!

  But, jubilantly, he had gone on to tell her that while Grant had stated that he needed to think further on the advisability of giving him his old job back—there was a job he could do for him, which would mean he was still on

  the payroll should anyone get the notion that he had left the firm under a cloud.

  Naturally her father had grabbed at the chance—and had then been told of a feasibility study Grant wanted carrying out in a remote part of Scotland, the idea being that after costing and so forth had been completed, consideration be given to setting up a plant there. Grant had apparently thought of him for the job because of his brilliance with figures.

  `It's all top secret, of course,' Charles Johnston said, and Devon had to smile again when he beamed at her, because it was so good to see him happy again. Even if she knew, where he didn't, just why it was so 'top secret'. She knew that whatever figures her father came up with, and he would do his job well, Grant Harrington would not be opening up a plant in the remote township of Invercardine.

  Her father then went on about what he would have to take with him, and it impinged on her that she would have a bit of sorting out to do with regard to warmer clothes for him. But even as she listened to all he was saying, part of her mind was preoccupied with the thought, why was Grant Harrington bothering to get him out of the way?

  She could see now that it all tied in with her going to live with him. That was why he had said she wouldn't need an excuse—he had made sure she wouldn't need one, as he had said. But why would he bother? It couldn't have anything to do with her telling him her father had respected him—he had shot round to see her this morning uncaring whether or not her father had been at home. And it couldn't by any stretch of the imagination be because he had seen she was having trouble trying to think up some good reason to give for why she was leaving, bearing in mind that living in the same town her father might get to hear that she was not a million miles away. Grant Har-

  rington was sure her powers of invention were masterly anyway—she had his belief that she had invented an operation to show her that.

  Realising her father had just finished speaking, asking her if she would have time to rinse through his favourite sweater, one which he, seldom had off his back, but one which he considered might be a birthday in the circumstances, Devon left trying to fathom Grant Harrington' s motives, and replied yes, of course, before seeking confirmation that all was as she suspected, by asking:

  `How long will you be away? Did Mr Harrington say?'

  `Grant reckons the job should be over and done within a month.' Devious swine, she thought, all the confirmation she could want in that reply. 'It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if you could come with me,' he continued, making her wonder as she smiled bravely how on earth Grant would have refused such a request. Though on the evidence so far, it would have presented nothing of a problem to him. 'Only he mentioned then a possibility of my needing to stay longer, and with your final,' he smiled, `and most important visit to Mr McAllen coming "up, I decided against asking him.'

  `You didn't mention my appointment with Mr McAllen?' she asked quickly, and saw his look become reassuring, as he replied:

  `What do you take me for?'

  She smiled again because it was important that he didn't suspect all was far from right with her world. And she listened as he told her how hard he was going to work, so that if at all possible, he would be back to go with her to keep that appointment.

  He had been.. to every other appointment with her, it seemed only right that he should accompany her on this last one when, for a change, what Mr McAllen had to say could only be good. Ali that he had done for her rose up in

  her then, so that she was having her work cut out to check tears. And nothing seemed too much to do for him in that moment. For some minutes more she let him talk on, to enjoy the tremendous relief that was his. But at the end of those minutes, Devon had only one question left to ask him.

  `If I have to start sorting out your warmer clothes, you'd better give me some idea when you have to be ready.'

  `I'm to start out on Friday morning,' he replied—and she wasn't surprised. 'Though lord knows when I'll get there. By the sound of it, it's somewhere out in the wilds.'

  When her father's train pulled out of the station on Friday morning, and Devon had assured him she would be fine on her own, she could not help but rejoice that her last sight of him was to see how, since Tuesday, those bags had disappeared from under his eyes.

  But mutiny had entered her heart when she let herself back into her home, and she went straight to pack the things she would need to take with her. She knew it was a futile mutiny, just as she knew with an honesty—given his one lapse—she had inherited from her father, that she wouldn't run away from keeping her side of that terrible bargain Grant Harrington had forced her to make.

  And anyway, she thought as she slammed the lid down hard on the second of the two cases she was taking with her, how could she run away even had she been so minded? She didn't need to think back further than that threatened, 'You go back on your word to me and I shall have no compunction in going back on what I have just told your father,' to know she wouldn't be packing any running shoes.

  Swine, she thought, damning-him and his clever brain, not thinking to be grateful for the easy way he had got her father out of the way. Harrington's, she didn't doubt, had

  experts they employed to do the type of feasibility study he had sent her father on.

  It was after lunch when, thinking she could delay no longer, Devon checked to see she had the key Grant had given her, and set off with her cases with about as much enthusiasm as a cat viewed a water well.

  That there wasn't a taxi to be had, and that she had to make her journey by bus and struggle the final a quarter of a mile with her cases, seemed a further sign that the fates were frowning darkly on her.

  She felt exhausted when she reached The Limes, and chose to set her cases down while she rang the bell. That no one came to let her in was much as she expected, but as she used her key, it felt eerie going into the house, only one room of which was familiar to her.

  A stubbornness in her made her ignore her feeling of exhaustion. That same stubbornness made her turn her back on the sitting room. With a set look on her face, she trundled her cases upstairs, a determination in her not to think, as she investigated several of the bedrooms.

  The room that was obviously his was large, high-ceilinged, and housed the largest double bed she had ever seen! Still trying to shut out thought, she backed out of that room and concentrated her mind on the thought that, the size he was, he would need a huge bed, but that she wasn't going to sleep—sleep in it with him.

  The room next to his, close enough, she thought, if not too close, but with its single bed, was much more to her liking. It was to this room that she took her cases.

  For the next hour she was fully occupied with finding linen to make up the single bed, and with emptying her cases of their belongings. This done, the small easy chair in the room beckoned for her to take a few moments' respite. Her hip was beginning to
nag—hardly surprising, she thought, since from Wednesday morning onwards she

  had not had time to take those periods of rest Dr Henekssen had advised she frequently had. And she had done herself no favours by lugging her cases around.

  An unexpected sob caught her out, and suddenly she could not bear to be in the alien house any longer. In minutes she had picked up her bag and was slamming the front door behind her.

  As if trying to escape the devil, Devon walked quickly the good mile to the outskirts of Marchworth proper. And it was there, in the first cafe she came to, that she found rest from the toothache in her hip, and a semblance of calm from what she now realised had been panic that had been in her ever since she had waved her father off—time afterwards to think only of herself.

  By the time she had disposed of her second cup of tea, she had given herself a stern lecture on outstanding debts to be paid, accounts to be met. And she was then ready to return to The Limes, if not looking forward to living with Grant Harrington, then at least calmer in the knowledge that by her doing so, her father should know a future that was untroubled.

  She made it to the bus stop, to find that she had just missed a bus that would have taken her three parts of the way to her destination. But that semblance of calm was still with her, so she was able to reason that since Grant Harrington had given no specific time when he would reach his home, and since it was only a quarter to five—and if he was back early from wherever he had been, he would most likely go to his office--then she couldn't expect his arrival to be before, say, five-thirty.

  Buses to that part of town were not plentiful, though expecting another one to come along any minute, but getting tangled up with the rush hour, it was nearer six when Devon turned her feet up the drive of The Limes.