by Paula Martin
“This room’s different, too,” she said.
He closed his laptop and laughed. “Soulless, isn’t it, without all the family photos and knick-knacks? Most of those were in the boxes we moved on Sunday.”
She sank down into one of the dark green brocade armchairs. “I suppose it’s what you have to do when you rent out a house. Will you be renting it out again when you leave here?”
He sat on the couch and gave her a wry grin. “Is that a loaded question?”
“No—no, I wondered—”
“You wondered how long I’ll be here?”
She flashed the amused smile he remembered so well. “It had crossed my mind.”
“What would you say if I said I was leaving tomorrow?”
* * * * *
A bolt of alarm shot through Abbey. Leaving tomorrow? A couple of weeks ago she’d hoped Jack wouldn’t be staying in Rusthwaite for very long. Now she didn’t know what to think. Once he left, her life would return to its normal predictable course, but was that what she wanted?
“Are you?”
He grinned. “Nope.”
She pouted in mock exasperation. “That’s the kind of thing you did when we were kids.”
“Did I?”
His wide-eyed innocence made her laugh. “You know very well you used to wind me up by saying something and letting me believe it for ages before you retracted it. You told me the valley road was going to be closed for three months, and once you said Johnny Depp was coming up to Windermere to make a movie.”
Jack laughed, the deep rich laugh she remembered, which now sent a rush of warmth through her. “We had some crazy times, didn’t we?”
“We had crazy conversations, too,” she replied, relaxing now her tension had started to subside. “Remember when we had a long discussion about whether spiders got frustrated or annoyed when people swept away their webs, after they’d spent hours making them?”
“And the time we talked about whether butterflies remembered they’d once been caterpillars.”
“I don’t remember that one.”
“Ah. Sorry, no, that was a silly conversation I had with Rachel.”
Something stirred inside her that she’d never felt before, but she recognised it. Jealousy of this unknown woman who had shared Jack’s life. “What was she like, Jack?”
“Rachel?” He hesitated. “When I first met her, she reminded me of you.”
Abbey didn’t know if her heart had stopped beating or if it was pounding so fast that everything became numb inside her. “M-me?” Hastily she recovered herself. “Why?”
“Because she was lively and had a real zest for life, but she also knew what she wanted. She was determined and straightforward and uncomplicated—”
“And you think that applies to me?”
“Of course it does. Think back to all the fun we had. You bubbled over with enthusiasm and you knew what you wanted.”
“And uncomplicated?”
“Yes, in the sense of being single-minded about becoming an actress.”
“Not in any other sense, though.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Oh, come on, Jack, I was the most screwed-up teenager you could ever meet.”
“Because of your father?”
“Yes.” She looked away from his searching eyes.
“Are you still screwed up about him?”
She gave a small shrug. “I don’t think I’ll ever forgive what he did to Mum, or to Louise and Ellie and me.”
“Plenty of men leave their wives and their children. It’s a sad fact of life these days.”
“Yes, I know it happens everywhere, and everyone has to find their own way of dealing with it. At the time, and afterwards, too.”
“Hey, stop getting prickly. This is me, remember?”
Abbey managed a small smile. She’d spoken more sharply than she intended. “Sorry, I don’t like talking about him. I don’t even want to think about him.”
“And that’s how you deal with it? Now, I mean?”
“Perhaps a part of me still thinks it was my fault, just as I did when he first left us.”
“I thought you got over that feeling?”
“Yes, of course I realised he didn’t leave because I told Mum about the phone call. It’s the things we found out later that I can’t forgive. His affairs with other women, and the problems Mum had with child support payments from him, and all the excuses he made when we were supposed to visit him.” She stopped as the memories returned in a painful rush.
“Especially over the New York trip.”
“Yes.” She shuddered as she remembered the ghastly debacle when she was fifteen. Her father had called out of the blue and said he wanted to take her to New York for a week. She’d been giddy with excitement. Broadway theatres and all the shops on Fifth Avenue, as well as the posh hotels and restaurants her father could well afford.
Two days before they were due to go, he called and said he was sorry, but he had to attend some meetings in Berlin. She was bitterly disappointed, but tried to accept it as part of his job.
The following week, one of her school friends pointed to a photograph in a celebrity magazine. “Hey, Abbey, isn’t this your Dad?”
Abbey stared at the photo of her father with a glamorous auburn-haired woman, and read the caption: French model Chantelle Garnier with her new escort, London stockbroker Marcus Seton, at the New York Metropolitan Opera last week.
At first she couldn’t believe it, but anger soon replaced her incredulity. She bought a copy of the magazine and held her cold fury in a tight ball inside her until a couple of weeks later, when her father sent her a letter. He apologised for the New York trip, and said his meetings in Berlin had been very successful.
She tore up the letter, and the tight ball exploded into a million icy shards.
“My father’s a liar,” she sobbed against Jack’s shoulder. “A bare-faced liar. He lied about this trip, and he’s probably lied whenever he’s made excuses about why he couldn’t see us.”
Jack was the only person she ever told. To her mother, she said, “I’m fed up of Dad’s excuses. I’m not going to see or speak to him again.”
And she hadn’t. Not even when he phoned from Japan on her eighteenth birthday, and she returned the large cheque he sent her on her twenty-first.
“I still have the magazine,” she said now. “The one with the photo of him and the French model. If I ever feel myself weakening toward him, wondering how he is or what he’s doing, I look at that picture.”
“And remind yourself of the day you decided men would cause you nothing but grief?”
Abbey heard his ironic tone. At the same time, she recalled the words of the husky-voiced woman on the phone: Men are all the same, they can’t be trusted. “No,” she said, with more certainty than she felt. “Of course I realise not all men are like that, but at the time I was devastated.”
“You were fifteen, an emotional adolescent.”
“Are you telling me I haven’t grown up?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”
Abbey stiffened, not only because she’d been reminded of feelings she preferred not to think about, but also because she sensed a hint of criticism in what Jack said.
“What he did over the years has affected us all,” she snapped. “Louise married a man twenty years older, went through her own bitter divorce, but she’s still searching for a substitute father figure. And Ellie, although she was much younger when he left, seems to be trying to prove she’s as good as any man, with her engineering degree at university and now her backpacking and mountaineering.”
“And you?”
“I’ve concentrated on my career.”
Jack acknowledged her reply with a small tilt of his head but said nothing.
Abbey’s mind seethed with contradictions. Half of her was annoyed by his questioning which in turn had resurrected her deep-seated resentment. The other half regretted the turn in what had been a relaxed conversation
.
She made a conscious effort to recover her composure. The last thing she wanted was for him to tell her she was overreacting, and she forced a note of levity into her tone. “I thought you were about to psychoanalyse me, Jack. To tell me it’s time I got over my adolescent reactions and moved on.”
He gave a small shrug. “I’m the last person in the world to tell you to move on. You have to find your own way. So have I, and I know how hard it is.”
“Yes, I understand that. At least, I do in your case, although I can’t even begin to imagine how it feels to lose someone you love.”
“You don’t have to imagine. You know what it’s like.”
“No, I don’t. I’ve never—”
“You lost your father when you were nine, and again when you were fifteen.”
“That was different.”
“Yes, in one sense, but desertion can be even more difficult to come to terms with than death. In both cases, though, someone you love disappears from your life. You probably went through all the stages of bereavement—the disbelief, the denial, the guilt, the anger. Oh yes, definitely the anger.”
“You mean my anger?”
“I’ve gone through it, too, if it’s any consolation.”
Abbey stared at him. “You’ve been angry with Rachel?”
He nodded. “With Rachel for storming out of the apartment and getting herself killed, with myself for provoking our fight, and for a lot of other things.”
“Are you still angry?”
“No, I think I’m past that now, but you aren’t, are you?”
“I used to be furious about the way he treated my mother, and the three of us, but not so much now.”
“And can you think of the positives rather than the negatives?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you ever think of the good experiences with him before he left? Or can you only think about the bad times?”
“I suppose I do remember the bad times, especially all those excuses that turned out to be lies.”
Jack nodded. “Yeah, I understand that, but the final stage of bereavement is acceptance which means you’re ready to move on with your life. Not forgetting, of course, because you can’t ever do that, but picking up the pieces and realising you still have your own life to live. A life which isn’t dominated by what happened in the past.”
Abbey arched her eyebrows. “And you think my life is still dominated?”
“Only you can answer that.”
“You are psychoanalysing me.”
“Maybe I’m trying to analyse myself.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I said we weren’t going to talk about the past. Want some more coffee?”
“No, it’s okay, thanks. I should go home now.”
“I’ll walk down to the village with you.”
“Jack, that’s not necessary. You know it’s perfectly safe walking anywhere around here.”
“I know, but if we hurry, I can get to the pub in time for last orders.”
Abbey laughed, relieved at the easing of tension. “Okay.”
They walked down the narrow lane toward the main road and chatted about the Old School. When they reached Eagle Croft, they stopped.
“Sure you don’t want to come to the pub?” Jack asked.
She shook her head. “No, not tonight. Mum will be wondering where I am.”
“I’ve enjoyed this evening, you know.”
“Yes, me too.”
It was true, despite the way their conversation had veered to her father. Not only because it reminded her about how they used to talk and even argue, but because every word he said, every move he made, every smile, every laugh, everything about him stirred something deep inside her.
“May I call you?” he said. “Later this week?”
She nodded. “Yes, I’d like that.”
Her eyes met his, and electricity sizzled between them. For a crazy moment, she wanted to reach up to kiss him. Shock rushed through her as she longed to feel his arms around her, his lips meeting hers.
She stopped her thoughts. This was stupid. She broke the magnetic link between them by looking away, and took a small step back before the fire inside her blazed into an inferno, raging out of her control.
“Night, Jack.”
“Night.”
He turned away and she watched him walk toward the centre of the village. For a few seconds, she imagined how it would feel to kiss him, and a hot pulse of arousal throbbed through her veins.
* * * * *
Jack forced himself not to glance back as he strode along the road to the pub. If he’d stayed one second longer, looking into those bewitching green eyes, he would have kissed her, and ruined everything between them again.
CHAPTER 10
Two days later, Abbey was in the storeroom at the shop when she heard Dolly Garside’s voice.
“Seven-thirty tomorrow evening,” Dolly was saying. “We’re meeting in the church, it’s the only place big enough. You will be there, won’t you, Edwina?”
“Yes, of course,” her mother replied, “but I never thought Tom Williams would turn traitor. That’s shocked me.”
“He was always the world’s worst pessimist, you know. He once said it would take at least twenty years to raise enough money to restore the gatehouse.”
“What’s happened?” Abbey asked as she went into the shop and joined her mother behind the counter.
“There’s to be a village meeting to discuss the problem of the Old School,” her mother explained.
“What is there to discuss? The roof needs replacing, end of story.”
“That’s the whole point, it isn’t the end of the story,” Dolly snapped.
“Oh? Why?”
Dolly adopted her most patronising tone. “Because our so-called friend Tom Williams thinks eighty thousand for the roof is too much. He says we should cut our losses here and now.”
Abbey’s forehead creased. “And do what? We need the Old School.”
“He’s suggested using whatever grants we can obtain for a modern purpose-built community centre, instead of throwing money non-stop into repairing the school.”
“But you think differently, Mrs. Garside?”
“Of course I do. The school is over a hundred years old and is part of this village’s heritage.”
Abbey had to press her lips together so as not to smirk. She could have predicted Dolly Garside’s reply almost word for word. “And this meeting tomorrow? Who called it?”
“When the trustees were divided on the issue, I insisted we should call a village meeting.”
I bet you did, Abbey thought. “And now you’re canvassing support?”
“I’m inviting people to come and give their views.” Mrs. Garside cast a malevolent glare in Abbey’s direction. “However, I hope that friend of yours doesn’t show his face.”
“And which friend do you mean?” Abbey asked, even though she knew exactly who the old harridan meant.
“Jack Tremayne, of course.”
“Oh, I see. You mean you’re only inviting people who share your viewpoint?” She ignored her mother’s nudge against her hip below the counter and gave Mrs. Garside her sweetest smile.
“All the villagers are welcome,” Dolly declared, and added, “As long as they have the best interests of the village at heart, of course.”
“So the fact that Jack’s offered his barn for youth meetings doesn’t count?”
“Well, yes, we’re very grateful to him, but we still don’t want him at the meeting, spouting all his fine talk. Not after the way he let this village down over the gatehouse. Anyway, I can’t stand here talking all day. I have other visits to make. I’ll see you tomorrow evening, Edwina.”
Pointedly ignoring Abbey, Mrs. Garside stalked out of the shop.
“Abbey, you shouldn’t wind her up like that,” Edwina said.
“Sorry, Mum, but she brings out the worst in me. She’s so superior, and so intolerant of anyone who dares to
disagree with her.”
“Are you going to tell Jack about the meeting?”
“I’m sure he’ll hear about it from someone.” Abbey averted her eyes from her mother’s curious gaze. “I’ll go and finish pricing the slate plaques.”
She went back into the storeroom and sat down at the small table again. Instead of continuing with the job she’d been doing, she twisted a strand of her hair with her fingers as she stared unseeingly at the wall. Should she ring Jack to tell him? Or should she wait for him to call her, as he said he would?
“Abbey!” Her mother’s voice broke into her thoughts ten minutes later. “Louise is here.”
Abbey jumped up and returned to the shop. “Hey, Lou!” She hugged her sister and admired Louise’s long tan coat trimmed in faux fur. “Mmm, nice coat, and you’ve changed your hair. Again.”
Louise laughed and ran her hand through her straight pageboy styled dark hair. “More sophisticated, don’t you think?”
“More than mine, you mean?”
“Yours, as usual, is—um—stylishly casual.”
Abbey grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Where’s Farnley?”
“You mean Farrell. He has a couple of meetings with his authors this afternoon, so I’ve left him to it. But how about coming for dinner with us at our hotel tonight? We’re at Briar Lodge near Kendal. You too, Mum,” she added.
“Sorry, you’ll have to count me out,” Edwina said. “I’m doing a talk about Rusthwaite Church at Grasmere this evening.”
Abbey turned to Louise. “Mum’s in demand these days as a speaker. She’s become quite an authority on local history.”
“Hardly an authority,” Edwina said with a smile. “It’s only a talk to the Women’s Institute. Anyway, why don’t you two go for a pub lunch? I can hold the fort here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll ring you if a hundred buses arrive in the car park. Go on, both of you. I’m sure you have a lot to catch up on.”
Abbey walked with Louise along the main street toward the White Lion. It was a cold and windy day, and she had to keep pushing her hair back from her face, unlike Louise whose new hair-style stayed immaculate. “Come on, tell me about Farrell,” she said.
“He’s a sweetie, and treats me like a princess, but never mind about me. How about you and Jack?”
