Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

by Rachel Lindsay

  "I have not seen you here before, madame," she said in French. "I must compliment you on your roses."

  The woman beamed. "I have never come here before. Until now my son has sold all our flowers to the local chateau. But this week I decided we were not getting enough for them, so I came here instead. It took me three hours to drive, but I hope le bon Dieu will look after me."

  Rose glanced at her watch. It was barely seven o'clock, so the woman must have left home long before dawn. She looked at the roses again. They were as beautiful at close range as they had appeared from the distance. The woman had been right in coming to Cannes; she would certainly get a better price here. Idly Rose wondered what the chateau had paid for them. Very little, probably — merely enough to cover the cost of the growing. They had never thought that so old a woman would have the determination to take her goods elsewhere.

  Rose wished she had not bought all the flowers she required for that day. If it had been Monday she would have taken the roses too, but because it was Sunday tomorrow and the shop was closed, she ran the risk of the flowers remaining unsold.

  "You would like to buy them?" the woman asked eagerly.

  "You are rather late," Rose said gently. "Next time…"

  "I understand. Now, if you will excuse me, mademoiselle, I must try and sell these."

  Rose watched the cart creak away and then turned towards the hotel van. It was empty and she knew that the driver had slipped off for a glass of wine. With a sigh of exasperation, for she knew it meant a delay of another ten minutes, she wandered round the market again. The cartload of roses still remained unsold and the old woman was beginning to look frightened.

  "It is as you say, mademoiselle. I arrive too late."

  "I'm so sorry," Rose said, and as she saw the moisture in the faded eyes her own eyes filled with tears. She turned away and would have stumbled had not an arm reached out to support her.

  "Buying the roses?" said a deep voice.

  Before she looked into his face Rose knew it was Lance Hammond. In white dinner jacket he seemed taller and blonder than ever compared with the swarthy porters and vendors around him.

  "I have already done my buying," she said firmly. "Are you looking for something?"

  "My bed. Enid and I were at the Casino with some friends, and they decided they needed some onion soup to revive them. I couldn't face the thought and said I'd meet them out here." He sniffed. "Although I must say the smell of the flowers is just as sick-making."

  Rose felt the familiar surge of irritation towards him. "I prefer the perfume of flowers to the artificial perfume most women wear."

  "Tut tut," he said and putting his hands in his pocket teetered backwards and forwards in front of her. "What do you use, my little Rose — essence of thorns?"

  She was too annoyed to reply. Behind her the old woman watched and, sensing the electric atmosphere, misinterpreted the reason and ambled forward. "You have been looking for Mademoiselle, hein? A lovers' tiff? Maybe you would like to buy some of my roses?"

  Lance narrowed his eyes and although he looked at the old woman he was speaking to Rose.

  "She must think I'm a pretty soft touch."

  "Her story could touch your heart if you had one," Rose retorted. "She's driven for three hours on a wooden cart that would shake out your bones, let alone hers, just in the hope of selling her roses for a few centimes more per bunch than she could get in her village."

  "Is that so? Then why don't you buy them?"

  "Unfortunately I've already completed my orders. The shop isn't mine, Mr. Hammond, and I have to account for what I spend."

  "The mademoiselle is most kind," the old woman interrupted. "She was crying when the monsieur came along — crying for my flowers."

  Lance looked quizzically at Rose, and she bit her lip and turned away. With relief she saw her driver climb into the van and she hurried towards him.

  As usual, Saturday morning was a busy one. Not only was Jacqueline fully occupied but so was the extra assistant whom Rose engaged to give a hand for a few hours during the weekend. It was not until lunch time that she was able to slip away and she decided to lie down for half an hour before going for her usual swim.

  Humming under her breath she went in the lift to the top floor and unlocking the door to her bedroom, walked in. Amazed, she stared around her. On the table, on the window ledge, on the dressing table and in the four corners of the room were vases filled with roses. Lance had bought all the old woman's stock and sent them to her!

  She knew immediately that he had done so out of pique, annoyed that she had the power to irritate him with her sarcasm. "But I don't care why he sent them," she said fiercely as she buried her face in a cluster of blooms. "The main thing is that the old woman sold them!"

  Promptly at ten o'clock the next morning Alan called for her at the hotel in a cream colored Cadillac and as she climbed in she remembered the first time she had ridden in it, when Lance Hammond had taken her to the villa to pick roses.

  They drove along the Croissette until they reached the harbor. A slight breeze had blown up overnight and the water was whipped into little waves. She looked out at the yacht and wondered whether she had been wise to accept the invitation.

  "Afraid of feeling seasick?" Alan asked. "A bit."

  He grinned. "It's nothing to worry about. You won't feel a thing once your're on board."

  Although she doubted this, she made no reply and followed him down the harbor steps and into a motor launch. It belonged to Lance, and she did not need Alan to tell her that his employer was a devotee of speed. Indeed anything suggesting speed appeared to enjoy the man's affection: fast cars, fast boats, fast women. Her thoughts stopped abruptly. Why was she always thinking of Lance? What was the matter with her? She stared straight ahead and as the yacht drew nearer, realized that even though it had looked large when viewed from the shore it was even larger when one went alongside. They stopped directly underneath a ladder and Rose climbed up it and found herself on the deck. Farther along a group of people were lounging in deck- chairs and as she glanced their way one of them stood up and came towards her.

  Even without her seeing the face, the arrogant set of the shoulders told her it was her host. It was the first time she had seen him dressed so informally, the blue shorts and shirt enhancing the blondness of his hair and the brownness of his skin. No wonder all the women from here to the Italian Riviera had fallen under his spell.

  Irrationally shy at meeting him, she looked out over the water, unaware of the enchanting picture she herself made. Her skin was tanned almost as deeply as his, and her usually pale cheeks were heightened by a healthy glow which served to increase the translucent quality of her eyes. She was wearing one of the dresses she had bought in the little shop owned by Madame Henriette, a jade-green dress of silk shantung, its simple lines emphasising the rounded slenderness of her body.

  "Not sorry you've come already?" a voice enquired at her shoulder.

  She swung round, chin held high. "Certainly not. I was just looking at Cannes. I've never seen it from this angle."

  He followed her gaze and looked at the town nestling around the bay and stretching long concrete fingers along a narrow strip of beach, while in the distance loomed the mountains and the olive groves, and the tall dark trees that one came across so unexpectedly everywhere along the coast. A seagull swooped overhead uttering its strange shrill cry, and as Rose followed its flight against the burning blue of the sky she felt a sudden thrill of happiness. It was difficult to analyze and inexplicably, she was afraid even to try. Today was a day torn out of time, a day during which she too was going to pretend to be one of the idle rich.

  "Don't let's stand here," Lance said. "Come over and I'll introduce you to the others."

  From a distance she had thought there were a great number of people on the yacht, but as she followed Lance across the deck she realized there were only four others apart from herself — two men and two women who seemed to know each ot
her very well, if the badinage that passed between them was anything to go by. They were very friendly and tried to include Rose in their conversation, but as their talk ranged from the day that Georgie fell into the water at Cap Ferrat to the afternoon when Gigi had had frightful migraine at the Chateau Madrid, Rose felt out of her depth.

  To her surprise Enid was not present, but Alan, when he joined her after a few moments, seemed to guess her thoughts and told her that Enid did not like the sea. Although she would spend the day on the yacht she refused to sleep aboard and stayed at Mrs. Hammond's villa.

  "Does Tino Barri stay there as well?" Rose asked.

  Alan looked at her curiously. "Yes, he's been a house guest of Mrs. Hammond's for the last month. Why do you ask?"

  "No reason," Rose said quickly. "I — I just wondered."

  Feeling that Alan was not satisfied with her reply she deliberately changed the conversation. Yet she was aware that he was looking at her speculatively, and because of it she moved away from him and talked with unusual animation to the young man on her opposite side.

  The morning passed in idle chatter and sunbathing, and she was surprised when at noon Enid had still not put in an appearance. Indeed, it was not until one of the guests asked what had happened that she learned that the girl did not intend to join the yacht at all that day.

  "Enid's not fond of the sea," Lance said, "and only comes aboard as a great favor to me."

  One of the men grinned. "She won't even do that once she's hooked you."

  There was general laughter at this and Lance grinned. "You wouldn't like to have a little bet on that, would you?" he asked.

  "What sort of bet?"

  "A hundred pounds to a penny that after three months of marriage Enid will be as crazy about the sea as I am."

  The man burst out laughing. "I'll take you on. That's one bet you're going to lose."

  "No, it isn't," Lance said. "You wait and see."

  A steward came round with cocktails and Rose took hers and carried it over to the rail, sipping it as she looked at the blue water. White horses rode astride the sea, and yet there was only a gentle rocking motion beneath her feet. 'I'm loving it,' she thought to herself. 'I'm loving every moment of it and I wish I need never go back to land again.'

  "What are you thinking?" Lance said softly at her side. "I was looking at your face just now and you seemed transformed."

  "I was thinking how much I was enjoying myself. I love the sea."

  "Are you a good sailor?"

  "I don't know. I've never been on a boat till now. Unless you count a shilling ride on the Jolly Jack Tar at

  Margate!"

  He made no comment and she sipped her drink again, ridiculing herself for being so nervous with him.

  "I'd like to thank you for the flowers you sent me," she said quickly. "It was wrong of me not to have written and thanked you, but I — I —" She stopped and then made reckless by the potency of her drink, decided to be truthful. "But I wasn't sure whether or not you were trying to be rude."

  "Rude?" He stared at her in surprise. "I bought those flowers on an impulse and I sent them to you for the same reason. Why on earth should you think I was trying to be rude?"

  She said nothing and he took out a packet of cigarettes and extracted one thoughtfully.

  "Mind you, you're not the first woman to have accused me of that. I know another young girl like you who said exactly the same thing to me."

  "I'm glad I don't stand alone," Rose said.

  He half smiled. "You certainly don't! Now I come to think of it, you're a bit like Susan too. She's younger than you but you're just as unsophisticated as she is."

  Curiosity got the better of Rose's caution. "Was she someone you were in love with?"

  "Good lord, no! Someone I grew up with. Though she's much younger than I am so perhaps I should say someone who grew up with me." He touched her arm. "But this conversation has got a long way from what I actually came over to ask you. I wondered if you'd like to come out in my speedboat after lunch?"

  "I'd love to, provided you don't mind if I suddenly ask you to take me back to terra firma!"

  "I won't mind at all and I'm pretty sure you won't ask me. You've a sea glint in your eyes that bespeaks a real sailor!"

  During lunch Rose told Alan of Lance's invitation and he looked so pleased that she could not help being piqued.

  "Anyone would think you want to get rid of me."

  "Don't be silly," he retorted. "We're friends, Rose, you needn't pretend you'll miss me if you're away for an hour."

  "Maybe not,", she replied, "but you should pretend. You're very ungallant."

  He burst out laughing, and realizing how illogical she was, Rose did the same.

  "Do you mind?" she said softly under cover of the general conversation.

  "As a matter of fact I've a mass of wedding arrangements to catch up with," he went on.

  The words brought Rose back quickly to reality. For the last few hours she had completely forgotten that Lance's fiancee was probably lunching on the terrace of the pink- walled villa only a couple of miles away. She glanced across the deck to where Lance was talking to one of his crew and wondered why, if he knew Enid didn't like the sea, he had arranged to spend a day on board his yacht. She shrugged. There was no questioning Lance Hammond: he was a man who did what he wanted.

  "Come on, Rose," he called impatiently! "Let's go."

  Alan walked over to the rail with her. "Will you come back here, Lance, or will you moor the boat at the villa?"

  "At the villa," came the reply. "Enid and I had a bit of a tiff last night and I guess I'd better go and make my apologies."

  "You needn't bother taking me for a spin," Rose said quickly. "I'm sure you'd like to go straight to the villa."

  "I promised I'd take you out and I will," Lance replied. "Stop arguing, woman, and come on."

  Sitting in the boat beside him, tasting on her lips the salt of the wet spray that hurled itself in her face, Rose could have laughed aloud with the sheer joy of it. The wind pulled roughly against her hair and she clung on tightly to the seat.

  "Not scared, are you?" Lance shouted.

  Her answer was whipped away by the wind but she shook her head and he increased the speed and zoomed over the water so fast that they barely seemed to touch it. They were far out to sea before he turned the nose of the boat towards the shore and Rose, looking at the deserted expanse of water around her, imagined that she and Lance were shipwrecked, sole survivors on a desert island waiting to be picked up by a passing boat. She wondered what he would be like as a desert island companion, and glancing at his strong wrists gripping the wheel of the speedboat, could easily envisage them making a shelter, providing food and doing all the things which her childhood reading of Robinson Crusoe told her would be necessary. How wild he looked with the wind blowing his hair around his face and the spray glistening on his skin.

  Unexpectedly he glanced at her and her cheeks burned as she wondered what he would have said had he been able to read her thoughts.

  As they neared the shore he slackened speed and through the pine trees that fringed the water's edge she was able to glimpse the pink walls of Diana Hammond's villa. Slowly they approached the landing stage and stopped. Lance climbed out and tethered the boat before giving her his hand and not until they were both on firm ground did they look at one another and realise they were completely soaked.

  "I'd better go back to the hotel," she said quickly.

  "There's no need," he replied. "You can borrow one of Enid's dresses."

  "We're not the same size. I'd prefer to go back to the hotel."

  He shrugged and led the way across the jetty and up the roughly hewn steps to the garden. Over the lawns they wended their way and through the rose arbor, skirting the side of the swimming pool to reach the terrace. The two women and the dark haired man sitting between them stopped talking as Lance and Rose approached.

  Diana Hammond jumped up at once and came to
wards her. "My dear! You'll get your death of cold."

  Rose was suddenly aware that her dress was clinging to her figure as if it had been moulded to it, aware too that at his mother's words Lance turned to look at her so intently that her cheeks reddened.

  "She wants to go back to the hotel and change," he said.

  "She can't go like that," his mother answered decisively. "She'll turn blue before she gets there! Come along with me and I'll loan you a pair of shorts or something. Then the chauffeur can drive you back to the hotel. You can be here again in an hour."

  "I didn't think of coming back," Rose said quickly.

  "Of course you must come back, We're having a party tonight."

  "You can't disappoint Alan," Lance called after her as she walked into the house. "I'll tell him you'll be back as soon as you've prettied yourself up again."

  Rose sighed. There was no thrill in the prospect of prettying herself up for Alan—or indeed for any man when all she longed for was to be alone. She lifted her eyes and looked at Lance. His eyes, vivid blue and mocking, seemed to be piercing through her, seeing beyond the social pretences arid barriers to the bare and telling truth. Truth about what? There was danger in question, let alone the answer and hurriedly she followed Mrs. Hammond into the house, not caring what she did so long as she escaped from the presence of a man whom she found to be irritating, annoying and unexpectedly disturbing.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT was just after five o'clock when Rose, returning to the villa found Alan waiting for her on the drive. She had changed into a full skirted grey silk dress, the same color as her eyes, yet as she had looked at herself in the mirror she had been critical of it. It was a dress she had bought shortly before leaving London, but now that her eye had grown used to the beautifully designed clothes of the women she had seen in the hotel, she realized that this one did nothing to enhance her personality. Rather wryly, into a country mouse.

  Alan however did not appear to think so for he beamed with pleasure as she stepped out of the car and led her into the house.

  Tea was being served in the drawing room and Didi Hammond was ensconced behind a silver tea tray, with Tino Barri sitting next to her. She was wearing a creamy beige dress which suited her to perfection, and as she sat on the lemon brocade sofa, the light from the window at her back dimmed by sunblinds, she did not look a day over thirty-five. The Italian was sitting so close to her that her skirt fanned out over his knees and was murmuring in her ear, oblivious of Lance and Enid on the other side of the room. Only as Rose's sandalled feet made a clicking sound on the parquet did he glance up.