by Sara Craven
‘In other words you plan to keep a cool head this evening.’ He sounded amused, but not put out.
‘I usually do.’ She noticed he hadn’t tried to talk her out of it. She also noticed Buster sitting in the doorway. ‘Is he coming with us?’
‘No, I thought I’d leave him here, if that’s all right with you.’
‘You’d better ask Melusine,’ she retorted.
‘Oh, I think the truce is holding.’ He pointed Buster in the direction of the kitchen, and the dog trotted off obediently. ‘Have you locked the back door?’
Tara tutted. ‘How did silly little me manage till you came along?’ she sighed. ‘Yes, it’s locked, and bolted too. And I’ve checked the windows.’
‘Leaving me to check my words for any hint of male chauvinism,’ he said drily. ‘Shall we go?’
‘We’d better. The pub gets very busy at holiday times.’
But when they got there she found he’d booked a table.
‘How did you manage this?’ Tara slid into her seat, noting that the bar was already filling up.
‘I found a phone box when I was out with Buster. I hope you haven’t eaten already.’
‘No, I haven’t, and I’m starving.’ Tara took the menu he was handing her with a thankful heart.
Adam’s lips twitched. ‘You’re amazing. You look as if a breath of wind could blow you away, yet you really enjoy your food.’
She laughed back at him. ‘That’s—’ Then stopped dead, as she realised what she’d been about to say. That’s what Jack used to say.
Only, ‘You eat like a horse and never put on a pound,’ had been his actual, faintly carping comment.
‘That’s what?’ Adam prompted.
“That‘s—not a very fashionable way to be,’ Tara said swiftly. ‘Everyone seems to be on some kind of diet these days.’
“That’s true,’ he said. ‘But not what you really started out to say. Is it?’
She buried her nose in the menu, hoping her faint flush wouldn’t be noticed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I’d like the spiced chicken, with sauté potatoes and a green salad, please.’
‘I’ll have the beef and Guinness casserole,’ Adam decided. He looked at her. ‘Are you going to permit yourself one unit of alcohol, or are you scared it might make your tongue run away with you?’ he added silkily.
‘Not at all.’ She handed her menu back. ‘A dry white wine spritzer, please.’
His absence at the bar gave her a chance to recover her composure. Keep the conversation general, she adjured herself silently. Don’t let this man under your guard, or he could be there, in your heart, for the rest of your life.
Perhaps she was one of those women always doomed to choose men with whom there was no future, she thought bleakly.
The folk band arrived at this juncture, and began to set up, so when Adam returned to their table it was easy to dive into a discussion about musical preferences—on which they seemed far too closely attuned for comfort, Tara decided uneasily.
The Black Horse was known for the quality of its cooking, so the food, when it came, provided another safe topic.
Her confused emotional state notwithstanding, Tara ate every scrap, including the excellent pear tart that both she and Adam chose for dessert.
And once the music started it wasn’t possible to talk much at all. The lead singers, a girl in a broad-brimmed black hat and a tall man with a ponytail and a crimson brocade waistcoat, had good voices, and excellent backing from traditional Irish instruments. They also had a beguiling way at the microphone, so that Tara found, almost in spite of herself, she was joining in the communal efforts with everyone else, conscious of Adam’s pleasant baritone beside her.
And when the girl sang, unaccompanied, ‘The Londonderry Air’, dedicating it to the cause of peace in Northern Ireland, a pin could have been heard to drop.
The time seemed to ny past.
‘It’s over too soon,’ Tara sighed, as the band, vociferously applauded, sang their last encore.
‘It doesn’t have to be,’ Adam said. ‘May I offer you a nightcap on Caroline?’
She could hardly plead tiredness after her previous remark, she realised vexedly. Besides, she had to admit to a certain curiosity. No doubt there would be pictures of his fiancée and other clues to his life she could pick up, so that when he went, he wouldn’t linger in her mind like an enigma.
Once I’ve solved his mystery, she thought, I can be at peace again.
It was a quiet drive back to Silver Creek. Adam seemed lost in thought, and she was reluctant to disturb his reverie. In any case, she had plenty to think about herself.
As she drew up she could hear Buster barking, a lonely, almost frantic sound which made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.
As she unlocked the front door a terrified Melusine appeared from the darkness like a bullet from a gun, leaping on to Tara’s shoulder and wrapping herself round her neck like a trembling scarf.
‘Sweetheart, what is it?’ Tara tried to detach her pet’s claws from her jacket, but Melusine clung like a burr. ‘Buster must have frightened her.’ She turned angrily on Adam. ‘I knew we shouldn’t have left them together.’
‘Then why isn’t he chasing her now?’ Adam went past her and into the kitchen. Buster, still barking, was lying with his muzzle pressed against the back door.
‘Something’s upset them both,’ Adam said, frowning. ‘Have you got a flashlight?’
‘It’s on a hook inside the pantry door.’
He found it, and, coaxing Buster away from his vigil, unfastened the back door and let himself out.
‘Dogs and cats simply don’t get on,’ she insisted stubbornly, shivering in the sudden draught of cool night air. ‘And that’s all there is to it’
‘Is it?’ His voice came to her grimly out of the darkness. ‘Come and have a look at this.’
Still wearing Melusine, she joined him, Buster leaping excitedly beside her until Adam quietened him with a word.
‘What am I supposed to be seeing?’ she began, then gasped as she saw the deep gouges in the stout old wooden frame, and in the edge of the door itself. ‘What’s that?’
‘I’d say someone had been trying to jemmy it open.’ Adam’s voice was harsh. ‘Fortunately it’s a good, strong door, and there was the added disincentive of a dog in the house.’
Tara’s heart seemed to stop. She put out a hand, touching the splintered wood, then recoiled.
‘God,’ she said huskily. ‘I feel sick.’
His arm was round her like an iron bar. ‘Breathe deeply,’ he ordered. ‘Nothing happened. Everything’s fine.’
The breath was rasping in her chest. She turned, beating at him with clenched fists. ‘What are you talking about? Someone tried to break in. That’s nothing?’
‘It could have been much worse,’ he said curtly.
‘That’s easy for you to say.’ She dragged herself free and confronted him, her breasts rising and falling stormily. ‘It’s not your place that’s been under attack. Although you have a pretty casual attitude to other people’s property anyway. You seem prepared to stroll in and help yourself to anything that suits you.’
He was very still. ‘Are you still wound up about that bloody door chain?’
‘I think I’ve a right to be.’ Her voice rose. ‘Just look at the facts. You arrive from nowhere—take over a private mooring—behave as if you own the place—inveigle yourself into my house—and within a matter of days someone tries to break in.’
‘After I’ve cleared the way by taking you out for the evening, of course.’ His tone was icy with contempt. ‘You forgot to mention that bit.’
‘I haven’t forgotten a bloody thing, believe me,’ she said thickly.
There was a silence, then he sighed. ‘Tara—you’re upset, and you have every reason to be so, but you’re not thinking rationally. If I was setting you up, why would I leave Buster on guard?’
‘A smokescree
n,’ she flared back at him defiantly.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he said wearily. ‘That’s crazy, and you know it.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘And especially I don’t know anything about you, Adam—who you are—where you come from.’ She took a breath. ‘All I do know is you’re here—and everything’s different suddenly—and I don’t want it to be,’ she added on a little wail. ‘I want you away from here. Away from me.’
‘Then I’ll try not to distress you any more than necessary.’ His voice was terse. ‘Are you going to tell the police?’
‘Tomorrow—perhaps—I don’t know.’ Her hands twisted together. ‘After all, nothing really did happen.’
He nodded. ‘Will you be all right? If it’s any comfort, I doubt if your unwanted visitor will come back.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ She detached Melusine from her shoulder, holding the cat in front of her like a shield.
‘Then I’ll go.’ He paused. ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Tara. It will all seem better in daylight, I promise.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think it will change a thing.’ She held out a hand. ‘May I have my flashlight, please?’
He surrendered it without a word and she stepped backwards into the kitchen, leaving him alone in the darkness. She heard Buster’s puzzled whimper as she pushed the door shut with her foot.
She put Melusine down while she relocked the door and manoeuvred the heavy bolts into place. Not easy when her hands—her whole body—were trembling so much.
This house had always been her sanctuary—her place of safety. Now, suddenly, all security seemed to have flown, and there was danger instead. Not least the danger posed by the man whom she knew, with total certainty, was still standing silently outside.
Because although she might have been able to exclude him physically from the house, it would not be so easy to banish him from her heart and mind. As long as night followed day he would be there in her consciousness, irrevocably and for ever.
Yet how could she trust him when instinct told her she was only seeing half the man?
She sank down on the rocking chair, lifting Melusine on to her lap.
‘Oh, baby,’ she whispered, burying her face in the silky fur. ‘What am I going to do?’
In spite of her rejection of him, she half expected to find Adam on the doorstep next morning. He would not, she thought, take his dismissal easily.
But there was no sign of him. In fact, Caroline looked deserted in the morning sunshine.
Breakfast finished, she drove to the village and reported the attempted break-in. The police were kind, but made it clear there was little they could do, as it was unlikely the would-be burglar would have left fingerprints or other clues. They were rather more interested when she mentioned the visit from the supposed antiques dealer, but overall she was made to feel she’d had a lucky escape and should count her blessings.
One pertinent point she’d failed to mention, of course, as she realised on her way home, was Adam’s presence.
A night’s rest and reflection had convinced her that he’d had nothing to do with the break-in and her accusations had been prompted by shock. But all the unanswered questions still remained.
The previous evening he’d been a relaxed and amusing companion, attentive to her enjoyment but without fuss. She’d felt warmed to her soul. Happier than she’d been since...
Her mind closed off. Perhaps the would-be burglar had done her a favour, she thought. Because if she’d gone for that nightcap on Caroline heaven knew what might have happened. But it could have been something to regret as long as she lived.
And I already have enough regrets, she told herself bleakly.
There was no easel on the jetty when she got back. No music floating across the water, or wistful dog with a message tucked into his collar either.
She supposed she ought to finish painting the dining room, but the plan held little appeal.
It was a Bank Holiday, after all, so why shouldn’t she take some time off along with the rest of the nation? Enjoy the fine weather and her unexpected privacy all at the same time?
She’d come across one of her old bikinis while she’d been rooting through her wardrobe the night before.
She changed, looking with disfavour at the pallor of her skin, and slid her feet into faded espadrilles. Then she collected a lounger from the shed at the rear and took it to a sheltered spot at the side of the house furthest from Dean’s Mooring.
Luxury, she told herself as she stretched out, relishing the sun’s warmth. This is definitely my best idea of the day.
But somehow she couldn’t settle. The book she’d chosen—a much-hyped bestseller-failed to engage her attention, and there seemed nothing on the radio worth listening to either. The trouble was she was constantly on the alert, she realised unhappily. Waiting—listening for Adam’s return.
Eventually she said, ‘Oh, this is ridiculous,’ and stood up, reaching for the filmy white shirt she wore as a cover-up and looking speculatively across at Caroline.
Of course, Adam could be right there on board, maybe sleeping off a post-tiff hangover.
I’m flattering myself, she thought. Why should he get blasted because he and I have a row?
Nevertheless, she owed him some kind of an apology for last night, and she knew it And it was quite easy. All she had to do was go on board and say, Hi, is it too late for that nightcap? Or one of a dozen or so other little speeches which explained that the attempted break-in had sent her head temporarily into orbit and her tongue had gone with it. Or something.
She would also mention that she was going home the following day and had come to say goodbye. Because that, she had come to see, was the only sane and sensible course of action.
She walked down the jetty and paused, cupping her hands to her mouth.
‘Hi, there, on Caroline. Permission to come aboard?’
But there was no answer. Not even a welcoming bark from Buster.
She moved closer, called again, but her words fell into the silence.
It wasn’t a conscious decision, but somehow she was on Caroline’s deck and opening the door which led to the companionway. She descended, and stood looking around her. Compared to poor little Naiad this was a floating palace. There were two cabins, both for double occupation, a beautifully fitted galley, and a saloon panelled in some pale wood.
It was such a waste for this lovely boat to be moored here. She could imagine sailing downstream to the estuary, and out into the open sea. Could hear the splash of real waves against the bow and breathe the clean, salt-laden wind.
She could imagine cooking meals in the galley and taking her turn in the wheelhouse. At night, dropping anchor in some sheltered bay and sleeping in the wide, comfortable bunk in the main cabin, with Adam’s arms around her.
Dream on, she thought, biting her lip. That was someone else’s perquisite.
She trailed back to the saloon. There was cushioned seating round the bulkheads, as well as a couple of easy chairs, a chart locker and a large fold-down table, currently covered in big sheets of paper.
More sketches, she realised. Adam might have been wasting his sailing opportunities, but certainly not his time.
She wandered over and had a look. Not Silver Creek House this time, she saw, but a very different subject. A row of terraced cottages, almost like a mews development, with window boxes, gables, and neatly parked cars.
Tara wrinkled her nose. It was impeccably, even brilliantly drawn, but it didn’t have a fraction of the flair and imagination of his watercolour. Yet at the same time it seemed oddly familiar.
She looked at the next sheet. An alternative view of the same thing—a side elevation, she supposed. And, on a third sheet, no sketches at all, but a detailed plan drawn to scale. Not simply one row of houses, but three, built round an open square to the rear. And in one corner of the paper, plainly printed, the legend ‘Dean’s Mooring Development’.
/> Tara stared at it until the letters began to blur and dance. She was gripping the edge of the table so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
He’d called himself a draughtsman, she thought dazedly. But that wasn’t the half of it. Adam Barnard was an architect, and one who’d come to Silver Creek for a very definite purpose.
She dropped the plan back on the table as if it was contaminated.
If he bought Dean’s Mooring and converted it into holiday cottages then Silver Creek would be ruined. Its whole character and ambience would change disastrously. There’d be constant traffic noise, she thought, staring with loathing at the parked cars on the first drawing. Not to mention more and more boats on the river. Landing facilities would have to be improved, and the access road widened.
And, quite apart from losing its peace and privacy, her parents’ house would nosedive in value. Although that, she knew, wouldn’t matter to them as much as the loss of their seclusion.
It would be the end of an era, she thought numbly.
There was a portfolio under the table. Maybe there were more drawings in there. More clues to exactly what he was planning—and how far those plans were advanced.
She knelt, pulling at the strings with clumsy fingers. But there were no plans, simply watercolours. Local scenes and, on top, the most recent. His painting of Silver Creek House.
Tara took it out and looked at it. How could he paint the fragile beauty of its environment with such sensitivity when he was planning to destroy it? she wondered, her throat tightening painfully.
But perhaps that was why he’d wanted it, as a souvenir, she thought—then paused, staring down at it, her eyes widening. Because this was not the painting she’d seen at the quay, she realised in shocked disbelief. It had been changed...
The house was still shrouded in golden light, but at an upstairs window the veil had parted to reveal the naked figure of a girl—slender and pagan, her face lifted to the sun and her hands cupping her breasts. A study in warm, uninhibited sexuality. Her study.
My God, she thought. He saw me that morning. He actually saw me.
