The Return of Mrs. Jones

by Jessica Gilmore

  She shook her head. ‘He really did love me once. And I wanted to love him, I thought I did, but...’ She faltered. ‘Ouch—honesty hurts, doesn’t it? Truth is, I think it was the lifestyle I wanted—the package. He should have someone who doesn’t care about the package, who wants him because he is kind and decent.’ She sniffed. A slight sound that almost broke his heart. ‘I hope he’s found that.’

  ‘That’s big of you. Really.’

  When Lawrie had left him the last thing he’d wished for was her happiness. It shamed him to remember how bitter he had been.

  ‘There was a point when I could happily have castrated him with a spoon,’ she admitted. ‘And strangled her with her own leopard print thong.’

  Jonas’s eyebrows rose at the extraordinary visual and he tried his best to control a smirk. A watery giggle next to him confirmed his failure.

  ‘But I was more unhappy about having to leave the firm than about the infidelity. I think, if he’d offered I would have allowed him to grovel and pretend I hadn’t seen anything. Wow, I’m pitiful.’

  ‘That is a little sad,’ he agreed. ‘But why did you have to be the one to go?’

  ‘Because his grandfather founded the firm. Oh, my payoff will be good, my reference glowing—as it should be!—but it was made clear that they would prefer me to pack up, get out and keep my mouth shut. And I was too embarrassed to fight.’ She sighed. ‘So there you are—the big, ugly truth. The real reason I turned up at the Boat House alone on my thirtieth. Do you hate me?’

  ‘I think you’re amazing,’ Jonas said.

  He honestly did. This woman was strong—a survivor.

  ‘And I’m glad you found your way home to Trengarth. Even if it’s just for the summer.’ He reached over and put his hand on her knee. ‘I’m glad I’ve had this opportunity to know you again. And,’ he added with a teasing smile, ‘you’re a great project manager!’

  *

  ‘So...’ Lawrie lay back on the picnic blanket, looking up at the sky. ‘I did it. Are you proud?’

  ‘Did what?’

  Jonas knew exactly what she was talking about. He still didn’t know what he was going to say—if he could be honest.

  He opted for diversionary tactics. ‘Ate your own body weight? Because I have to say that was a pretty impressive amount of food.’

  ‘I blame the sea air,’ Lawrie said thoughtfully. ‘I never ate like this in London. It’s a good thing I’m off soon—there isn’t enough exercise in the world... But, no, that’s not what I meant. I emailed my mother. Proud?’

  ‘Mmm,’ he said noncommittally. Aware of her sudden keen scrutiny, Jonas tried for more enthusiasm. ‘That’s great. Did she reply?’

  It was Lawrie’s turn to sound less than enthusiastic. ‘Oh, yes—a great long stream of consciousness that was all about her.’ She pulled a face. ‘Not one question about me or what I’m doing.’

  Jonas propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at her. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ Lawrie sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees and staring out to sea. ‘Of course she is monumentally self-centred—I knew that. What kind of woman ditches her teenage daughter to go trekking? Doesn’t come to her own mother’s funeral? Truth is, I’ve spent my whole life hating her and at the same time wanting her to put me first, you know? But reading that email I just felt sorry for her. Which is an improvement, I guess. And I know she isn’t capable of more. I just have to accept that.’

  She turned to him, her face alight with interest.

  ‘So...?’

  ‘So?’

  Here it was. And he still didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Did you go?’

  The sand suddenly felt lumpy, hard beneath his elbow, and Jonas lay down. It was his turn to look up at the clear blue sky, the wisps of cloud lazily bobbing overhead. The weight of his newly acquired burden pressed down on him. Maybe sharing would help.

  If anything could.

  And Lawrie would be going soon. She wouldn’t be there to constantly remind him, asking him how he felt, looking at him with sympathy or pity. And if she recoiled from him in disgust—well, maybe he deserved it.

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘I went.’

  ‘And...?’

  She seemed to sense the turmoil in him, was looking down at him in concern.

  ‘Jonas, what is it? What did they say?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘I asked them why they had no photos of me—not one anywhere.’ The words were almost dragged out of him, yet the very act of saying them relieved some of the almost unbearable load his father had bequeathed to him.

  Lawrie was utterly still, her concentration all fixed on him. ‘And...?’

  ‘At first? Nothing. Then finally my father admitted they couldn’t bear to—couldn’t bear to have pictures of their only son. It was too painful a reminder.’ He exhaled noisily. ‘My presence, my existence, is too painful a reminder.’

  He turned his head to look at her, to see her reaction as he finally said the words.

  ‘There were two of us, Law. I had a twin—a sister. But we were early...too early. I was a lot bigger than her, so when we were born I had a better chance. She was too small.’ He paused, remembering the utter look of desolation, of loss, on his father’s face as he’d stumbled through the family secret.

  ‘The doctors said if I hadn’t taken up so much of the blood supply things could have been different—they might have saved us both. But as it was I killed her, Law. I killed my twin sister.’

  For an agonisingly long time Lawrie didn’t say anything. Was she horrified at him? By him? By what he had done? Because he was. This explained everything, and suddenly he couldn’t blame his parents at all.

  She was bolt upright, one hand covering her mouth, tears swimming in her eyes. One was falling and rolling unheeded down her cheek. With a muffled sob she turned to him, her arms reaching out, enfolding him, pulling him close, pulling him in.

  ‘You poor boy,’ she whispered, her tears soaking into his hair. ‘It wasn’t your fault—you hear me? Don’t let anyone put this horrible thing onto you. It wasn’t your fault.’

  Jonas knew he should pull away, that the temptation to sink into her and never let go was too strong right now—that letting her go might be the hardest thing he had ever had to do. But the relief of another person’s touch, another person’s warmth, was too much, too intoxicating for a long, blissful moment, and he bathed in her warmth, in her understanding, before pulling back, reaching for her hand, lacing her fingers into his.

  ‘If I had been a different kind of boy it might all have been easier,’ he said after a while, caressing the soft smoothness of her hand. ‘If I had been more like them...quieter...maybe they could have accepted me. But I was so boisterous, so energetic—always wanting to be different. I was always showing them how strong I was, how healthy. A constant reminder that if I had been a little less strong then she might have made it too.’

  ‘No.’

  The strength in her voice surprised him, her conviction ringing true.

  ‘No. You mustn’t ever think that. What happened was horrible—horrible. Your poor parents...I can’t even imagine...’ She shuddered. ‘But it was no one’s fault. Especially not yours.’ She shook her head. ‘And although I feel desperately sorry for your parents I could also shake them. Pushing you away, rather than thanking God every moment that they were blessed with one healthy, amazing boy? That’s their tragedy. And they have to live with it. But you...’ Her fingers tightened on his. ‘You let this go.’

  They sat, hands entwined, staring out to sea, neither of them speaking, and gradually, slowly, Jonas felt some of the darkness lift. He would always have to carry this knowledge, this loss, with him, but Lawrie was right. He didn’t have to let it define him—even if his parents had allowed it to define their lives, their relationship with him.

  There was nothing he could do about that. His card had been marked from the moment of his birth. He just had to
live with that and move on—properly this time.

  ‘At least...’ he said slowly. ‘At least I know it wasn’t me—some terrible defect in me. I used to wonder, you know...wonder why they couldn’t love me...why I was so damn unlovable.’

  ‘Lots of people love you.’ Lawrie leant in close, her hair soft on his cheek. ‘Gran loved you—she adored you. When I left—when we split up—she told me I was a fool, that there was no finer man out there. Who knows? Maybe she was right.’

  ‘She was definitely right,’ he said, and was rewarded with a low laugh. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For listening.’

  She turned to him, eyes serious. ‘You know, I thought coming back here was going to be the most humiliating experience—facing you again, no job, no Hugo.’ She shook her head. ‘And it was pretty awful at first, but in a way I’m glad. That we got the chance to reconnect. To be friends again.’

  ‘Is that what the kids call it nowadays?’

  She smiled, moving her hand up to push the hair from his eyes in an old, intimate gesture. ‘I believe the phrase says “with benefits”.’

  He stared deep into her eyes, watched her pupils darken, grow, heard her breath quicken. His hand caressed hers, moving down to circle the delicate skin at her wrist. Right now all he wanted, needed, was to lose himself in this person who believed in him, who had once needed him.

  ‘I, for one,’ he said, ‘am a great fan of benefits. I think they should be explored in much greater detail.’

  Her pulse leapt at his touch. ‘How great?’

  ‘Let’s go home,’ he said. ‘And I’ll show you.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  DAMN, SHE WAS daydreaming again.

  It was this office. Too much space, too many large windows with far too beautiful views. It just wasn’t conducive to concentration. She’d choose her old windowless, airless, tiny internal office over this spacious luxury any day. At least she’d never been distracted there.

  And it was the view, the sun, the come-hitherness of the summer’s day that was the problem. It was not—most certainly not—the last few days.

  Lawrie gazed unseeingly at the complicated document in front of her, detailing band schedules, riders, accommodation, entourage lists, her mind churning.

  After the initial awful shock, the sudden grief and guilt, Jonas had seemed freed, unburdened. And hellbent on getting as much benefit out of their newfound friendship as he possibly could.

  And she was matching him every step of the way.

  She told herself it was because she was worried about him, because he seemed to be coping too well, because she could still see the hurt behind the playboy smile, but the selfish truth was that the benefits were working both ways.

  Working really well.

  It was no good. For once work was letting her down. Maybe she needed to take a break.

  Sitting up, she grabbed her phone and flicked to her personal emails—belated birthday greetings from friends who didn’t even know she’d left London, the usual deluge of sales emails offering her shoes, spa days, holidays, clothes. None of it mattered. Not any more.

  ‘That’s rather a scary grimace. Planning some street theatre?’

  She looked up with a start. ‘Some warning would be nice. You shouldn’t sneak in like that.’ It was the shock that had made her heart leap—not the sight of Jonas, immaculate in tennis whites, legs bronzed and muscular, hair damp with exertion pushed back off his forehead.

  After all, any passable man looked good in tennis clothes.

  Still, despite herself, she let her gaze travel from the dark blond tip of his head down over broad shoulders to his chest, clearly outlined through the fine white material, down past the shorts that clung to his narrow hips far too comfortably for her peace of mind and down those rather magnificent legs.

  Lawrie swallowed, desperate to moisten her suddenly dry mouth as a jolt of desire pulsed through her, as a sweet, persistent ache settled in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘You look like you’ve been busy.’

  ‘Got to make sure all the facilities are in perfect working order.’ He grinned at her boyishly. ‘It’s a hard job, but someone has to do it.’

  Sauntering across the room, Jonas perched next to her on the edge of her desk.

  Lawrie swallowed, the spreadsheet, her emails all forgotten. There was so much of him, and it was all so close. So much toned, tanned flesh, perfectly set off by the white fabric. Too much of the overwhelmingly male scent evoking grass, sun and sea. She licked her lips nervously, unsure whether she wanted to push the self-assured interloper off the desk or push him back and straddle him.

  ‘And are they? In working order?’

  Goodness, why did everything sound like a double entendre?

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled at her, slow and sweet. ‘Want to find out?’

  ‘No, I haven’t played in years.’ And she looked away from his knowing grin, feeling the heat spreading downwards, pooling in the pit of her belly. She tried again. ‘I don’t really have time to play. I watch a little, though. The firm had a corporate box at Wimbledon.’

  He pulled a face. ‘Wining and dining clients, hospitality boxes—it’s all right for some, I suppose. It’s not the real deal, though, is it?’

  ‘It’s different,’ she said, ruthlessly pushing aside memories of being trapped in conversation with CEOs who knew nothing and cared less about the top-quality tennis being played out before them, who were there solely because it showed that they were somebody.

  ‘But not better?’ He was still sitting by her, disconcertingly close, one trainer-clad foot swinging. ‘Although I hear the queuing facilities are much better now, and people have proper tents and loos and everything.’ He put on a quavery voice. ‘People today don’t know they’re born. In my day a couple of fold-up chairs and a sleeping bag did us.’

  ‘Men’s quarter-finals day,’ she remembered. The sound of the racket hitting the ball, the smell of grass mingling with traffic fumes and sun cream, the taste of sweet, succulent strawberries, rich cream, and Pimm’s fizzing on her tongue. ‘Seems so long ago. We saw Agassi!’

  He laughed. ‘You can keep your Seychelles and your Maldives. A dusty pavement and top-quality tennis is the perfect honeymoon destination in my book. You wanted me to buy you an Agassi T-shirt!’

  She laughed with him, couldn’t help it. ‘Well, I was eighteen,’ she defended herself. ‘Have you been since?’

  He shook his head. ‘June and July are such busy times for me. Pete, our pro, usually goes—takes some of the local kids he coaches—but I haven’t joined them yet. One day.’

  She nodded her agreement and tried to think of something else to say. Hard to think with him so close, so casual, so overpowering, so very male. Her mouth was dry, her mind suddenly empty. Say something, damn it, she thought. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

  ‘I was going to go for a swim,’ Jonas said, seemingly unaware of her awkwardness.

  Didn’t he feel the uncomfortable silence? The weight of their past happiness?

  ‘Fancy it?’

  ‘Oh, I...well...’ She fumbled desperately for the right words. If she was finding Jonas hard to cope with when he was semi-respectably clad in tennis whites then how would she manage with him wearing nothing but swim shorts? ‘I haven’t brought anything suitable to swim in,’ she finished.

  ‘Good thing we have a shop,’ he said, and his eyes took on a disconcerting gleam. ‘Or you could just wear nothing at all...’

  For a long second Lawrie couldn’t breathe. All she could do was stare at him, hypnotised by the heat in his eyes, the way the blue deepened until she was drowning in their azure depths. The ache in her stomach intensified, moved even lower, and for one hot, blazing moment all she was aware of was him.

  Zzzzzzzz.

  Lawrie jumped. The buzz of her phone as it signalled the arrival of a text message broke the spell. Blinking her way slowly into reality, she realised in one mortifying moment that she was leaning
forward, moving closer to him. With an effort she wrenched her gaze away, leaning back and looking intently at her computer as if all the answers were to be found there.

  She summoned up a light, amused tone. ‘I thought this was a respectable family hotel?’

  Jonas still looked ridiculously at ease, seemingly unaware of her struggle to stay focused. ‘It is—and I have something a bit more refreshing in mind than a pool full of overtired toddlers and harassed parents. Ready?’

  Sensible Lawrie, clipboard-touting, plan-making Lawrie, knew it was a bad idea. She glanced at the spreadsheets still open on her desk. The safe, easy option. The right option.

  But not the only option.

  Just a couple of weeks left. A short while to be someone else. Someone less measured, less careful, less controlled. Someone free.

  And then she would go to New York, Sydney, Toronto—wherever—and this summer would be a dream, a memory.

  Someone else.

  A smile curved her lips. She took a deep breath, kicked the chair back, away from the desk, and swivelled it towards Jonas, still sitting there on the desk, one bare leg idly swinging, watching her with an impenetrable gaze.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said.

  *

  Lawrie felt like a schoolgirl playing hooky as Jonas led her across a field at the back of the hotel garden towards the path that led down to the cove bordering the hotel property. It wasn’t a private beach, but as there was no public right of way to it, it was used solely by hotel guests and anyone with access to a boat.

  ‘Feels good doesn’t it?’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘Being outside when you should be at work.’

  ‘But you’re my boss,’ she pointed out as they slowed to a jog. ‘And as I’m not being paid I’m not sure this technically counts as skiving.’

  He shook his head, a mischievous smile playing around the sensual lips. ‘Admit it—you still feel half guilty, though, I bet this is the first time you’ve ever bunked off work.’

  She didn’t answer, increasing her pace so that she sprinted past him, enjoying the sun on her face, the slight breeze ruffling her hair, the unusually giddy feeling of being free. Jonas gave a startled shout as she raced ahead, before also breaking into a fast run, catching her up with long-legged strides, elbowing his way past her to reach the stile first.