‘Give him time to himself,’ Greco had advised during their walk back, wearing his man-of-the-world expression. But how long? Her son had been just behind her on the beach but now there was no sign of him. Where was he?
Part of her wanted to run upstairs and see if Jack was all right, but if they didn’t get a move on, the meal would never be ready. It was the Greek-themed evening, too, with dancers from the village.
She’d give him ten more minutes and then go and find him. But a few seconds later, she heard his footsteps coming down the stairs.
Rosie’s heart fell as she took in her son’s red, blotchy face. She’d hardly ever known Jack to cry before. Even as a baby, he had simply sung to himself in the morning while lying in the crib, until she’d picked him up. When, at around the age of four or so, she had explained that his father had died in a tragic motorbike accident before his birth, he’d accepted it in such a calm way that she wondered if he had actually taken it in.
‘One day,’ Cara used to say sternly, waggling a dark finger at her, ‘you will have to tell him the truth. Otherwise, if he finds out, he will never trust you again.’
Rosie had just shrugged, silently telling herself there was no way Jack could find out. It wasn’t as though she was ever going to go back to England, not after those terrible things that her father had said. It had been clear too that he had really meant them, otherwise he would have got in touch.
Now, as she looked with dismay at her son’s tear-stained face, she felt a sharp chill pass through her. Maybe there was more to it than that horrible scene with the girl. Had Greco gone after him and, out of spite for Winston, seen fit to spill the beans about Jack’s parentage, even though he had sworn not to?
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, looking up at him and wondering when it was exactly that he had suddenly got so much taller than her. Children did that to you. They fooled you into thinking that you were the adult and then suddenly, they not only shot up in height, but arrogantly assumed they knew so much more than you did.
‘Yes.’ Jack moved away to the sink but not before she’d noticed something.
Her voice was sharp with suspicion. ‘Why is your shirt inside out?’
He was turning the tap on full and washing his hands with deliberation: standard practice when you were about to work in the kitchen, although Rosie had a definite feeling that this was more to defer the moment.
She nodded at Yannis to suggest that he might like to step outside for a minute and give them some time on their own. To his credit, the man got the message.
‘Jack,’ she said softly, taking his hands which were so much bigger than hers. ‘Tell me what really happened with Alice?’
He hugged her. A big bear hug that sent enormous waves of relief running through her. So he still loved her, despite everything. Thank God!
‘I like her,’ he said in words that sounded muffled against her shoulder. ‘I really like her.’
Rosie felt another chill pass through her. ‘You didn’t do anything, did you? I mean, nothing serious. She’s underage, for a start.’
‘’Course we didn’t do anything, Mum!’ Her son’s furiously indignant voice made her realise she’d pried too far. Yet she had a responsibility, as both a parent and a hotelier.
‘Didn’t you have a boyfriend at my age?’ Jack was glaring at her, as though all this was her fault.
‘Actually, no, I didn’t. Your grandfather wouldn’t allow it.’
He was chopping figs for the fruit salad now with short, sharp angry actions. Don’t slice your fingers off, Rosie wanted to say.
‘But you met Dad when you were seventeen.’
Rosie’s mouth went dry. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘That’s not much older than I am now.’ Jack’s voice had a catch in it. ‘Did you know he was the one immediately?’
Rosie’s voice came out in a squeak. ‘I thought he was.’ Suddenly, without warning, a hot tear slid down her cheek at the memory of Charlie abandoning her.
Instantly, Jack put his arm around her. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to upset you about Dad. Can we just forget this?’
She nodded, grateful for the reprieve, but livid with herself for letting her emotions get the better of her. She had loved Charlie/Winston, dammit. And even though she kept telling herself that he meant nothing to her now, she still felt a strange pang every time she saw him kiss his new wife.
After all, he’d been hers first.
‘The thing is,’ said Jack, slicing the last fig with such force that one half skidded off the table and onto the floor, ‘Alice won’t speak to me. She thinks I only showed interest because Winston offered to pay me.’
He looked down on her, his expression clearly saying Help me, Mum. Tell me what to do.
This was exactly why boys needed fathers! Every now and then, she’d had to face male transitional stages, like the time Jack got his bits stuck in a zip when he was ten. But each time, she’d got through it. Until now.
He needed a man around. The irony of his real father’s unexpected presence was so sharp as to be almost comic.
‘If I were you,’ Rosie said slowly, ‘I would go and find Alice after dinner tonight and tell her how you feel.’
Jack made an unsure sound. ‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ said Rosie firmly. ‘The truth is always best.’
Hypocrite, she told herself as she opened the door for Yannis (who had clearly been listening in, judging from the way he fell back). But it was so hard! Didn’t all parents want to make sure that their children didn’t make the same mistakes they had?
To Rosie’s relief, all the guests came to the Greek evening, as well as a group of other tourists who’d been staying at a small taverna at the other end of town. They certainly needed the custom. Takings were down considerably on previous years and they needed a certain number to pay for tonight’s buffet and the band.
‘We heard your Greek evenings are really good,’ said one woman excitedly.
Rosie only hoped that the new blood might help to lighten the atmosphere. She hadn’t been at all sure that Winston and Melissa would turn up, and when they did, it was clear they weren’t talking.
It was equally clear that Alice wasn’t talking to Jack, either, from the way she turned her head away when he approached her at the buffet table. Rosie had to stop herself from rushing over to the stupid girl and asking if she realised what a fine boy her son was.
‘We wouldn’t have come,’ said Melissa meaningfully when she floated up to the buffet table for some salad, ‘but we didn’t want to let you down. I don’t hold you responsible, Rosie, but I do hope you’ve had a word with your son.’
Rosie felt her cheeks burn. ‘Jack has done nothing wrong. They’re just kids, Melissa.’ She paused, remembering that although most of her guests asked her to call them by their first name, this was the first time she’d addressed Winston’s wife like that. ‘Don’t you remember what it was like when you were a teenager?’
Melissa nodded slowly, artfully brushing aside a strand of dark hair. ‘I was only nineteen when I met my first husband.’
There you are then, Rosie wanted to say triumphantly. ‘My son really likes your daughter, you know.’ She gave Melissa a little nudge. ‘Looks like she feels the same way.’
It did, too. The pair were now talking earnestly on the little ledge that ran along the patio, looking down on the beach below. ‘Sweet, don’t you think?’ said Rosie wistfully.
Melissa shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’
‘He’s a good boy, you know,’ added Rosie defensively. ‘He wouldn’t do anything wrong.’
The woman’s voice was low. ‘It’s Alice I’m worried about. She can be a bit strong-minded.’
Maybe because she was allowed to get away with so much, Rosie thought. She had heard the way those children spoke to their mother. Jack would never be so rude. Perhaps that’s what came of a loving community like Siphalonia, where the young respected their elders.
The band
struck up, interrupting her thoughts.
‘Greek music,’ called out the plump blonde excitedly, clapping her hands at the other side of the terrace. ‘How exciting.’
‘Still no husband?’ asked Rosie, raising her eyebrows, glad to change the subject from her son and his new girlfriend.
Melissa shook her head. ‘Emma says he’s feeling better but that he doesn’t like the sun or dancing. Sounds like a real bundle of fun, doesn’t he? Here he comes.’
For a minute, Rosie thought Melissa meant Tom Walker, but then she spotted Winston getting up from the table by the edge of the patio. Her heart began to pound although it was clear she might as well not be there. Winston only had eyes for his wife. But when he touched Melissa’s arm in an affectionate greeting, she appeared to ignore it.
Interesting.
‘Shall we dance,’ he murmured.
Rosie’s heart almost stopped. Those were almost exactly the words he’d used all those years ago at the disco where they’d met. They’d been engraved on her heart ever since.
‘You can dance on your own or with someone else if you wish,’ Melissa replied coolly. ‘I’m going to dance with my son.’
‘Actually,’ ventured Rosie lightly, ‘it’s the kind of dance where everyone joins in.’
It was true. The leader of the band was encouraging them all to join hands in a circle. Reluctantly – or so it appeared – Melissa linked fingers with her husband. Somehow, Rosie found herself standing next to Winston.
He gave her a friendly smile and then his eyes travelled to her clothes. Her lavender dress still fitted after all these years. Too late, Rosie wished she hadn’t put it on. What are you playing at? she asked herself. Do you want him to recognise you?
Yes.
No.
Don’t be daft. Why would he remember a small detail like that?
Everyone in the circle was holding hands now. It would have looked odd if she and Winston didn’t. As if reading her mind, he reached out.
A shock shot through her as his fingers closed over her knuckles. This was the hand of the boy she had loved when she’d been not much older than her own son. This was the father of her child. A man who was now married to someone else.
‘I’m sorry,’ Rosie heard herself saying, letting go. Suddenly, the sense of loss was so overwhelming that if she didn’t go now, she knew she might confess everything on the spot. ‘I have to tidy up first.’
Before he could say anything, she rushed through the doorway with its curtain of hanging beads and sat down at the huge scrubbed kitchen table, gasping for air. Breathe, she told herself fiercely. Breathe.
After a while, her heart stopped pounding. Through the window, she could see the children who had come with the non-resident couples, dancing along with the adults.
Emma was bending down, talking to one of the little ones. She was missing her kids dreadfully, as she’d told Rosie and anyone else who would listen endlessly.
Uh-oh. Briefly, Rosie forgot her own problems as she observed Yannis walking up to Emma, holding out his hand and swinging her round in time to the loud music, with his eyes firmly fixed on her low-cut top, which was revealing rather more than it should.
Was Emma in control? She’d had rather a lot to drink at dinner, Rosie had noticed. She wouldn’t be the first tourist to have underestimated the strength of the local wine and ouzo.
‘So, you are here! Hiding from me!’
Rosie gave a little gasp as a warm pair of arms encircled her from behind. Greco laughed delightedly: a deep, throaty laugh that made her tingle. ‘You hide like your English Cinderella in the kitchen. Well, no more. Come!’
Despite her protests, he pulled her outside onto the terrace, where the music was just beginning to change. Unable to stop herself, Rosie searched the floor for Winston. He was sitting next to his wife, glumly staring out over the olive groves.
‘It has strains of Chopin, do you not think?’ said Greco as he put his arms around her.
He was right. It did. Sometimes Greco surprised her, and not just with his bottom smacking. When she’d first gone to his cottage on the shore, she’d been taken aback by the rows of well-thumbed books and alphabetically ordered CDs.
And yet, ever since Charlie had pitched up, she’d felt uncertain about Greco all over again …
Meanwhile, Melissa was still pointedly ignoring her husband. It was obvious that she cared for him. Of course she did! She was simply cross that Winston had tried to ‘sell’ her daughter.
Rosie would have felt the same herself.
‘You know,’ whispered Greco into her ear, ‘I have a surprise for you.’
Please don’t let it be a ring! Ever since they’d got back from the mainland, Greco had been strutting around like a cockerel round the island, making it clear to all and sundry that he and the Englishwoman were a couple. Did he really want to make it official? If so, he should have spoken to her first. Besides, she wasn’t ready.
‘My surprise, she is sitting in the kitchen,’ continued Greco with a glint in his eye.
She?
‘It was why I had to remove you just now. But we will go back, yes?’
Rosie gasped. Greco was sweeping her off her feet, literally; carrying her through the whooping and clapping, ducking and diving of the Greek dance. Through the beaded curtain into the kitchen with its copper pans hanging from the ceiling.
There at the table sat a small woman with bright, bird-like eyes. Her face was tanned and lined; thanks to the sun, she looked older than she really was. Her arms, as she held them out to Rosie, had sagged with age and she seemed frailer than before.
‘Cara!’ Rosie gasped delightedly. ‘What a lovely surprise!’
Greco stood there; his grin had gone and in its place was a serious expression. ‘I call her,’ he announced. ‘I tell her you are in trouble and that you need her.’
Rosie gave a scared little laugh. ‘What do you mean?’
Cara took both her hands and gripped them with a strength that belied her appearance. ‘It’s all right, my child. I am here now. Greco has told me about this man who has come back into your life. I always told you that the time would come. But do not worry. I will help you to break the news.’
Her hands tightened round Rosie’s even more firmly. ‘To both father and son.’
HONEYMOON – IN DIFFERENT LANGUAGES
French: lune de miel
Spanish: luna de miel
Portuguese: lua de mel
Italian: luna di miele
Welsh: mis mêl
Polish: miesiąc miodowy
Russian: mедовый месяц
Arabic: (shahr el ’assal)
Greek: μήνας του μέλιτος
Hebrew: (yerach d’vash)
Persian: (mā-h-e asal)
Turkish: balayı
Hungarian: mézeshetek
Chapter Twenty-Two
EMMA
This time tomorrow, they’d be on their way home! Emma’s tummy was abuzz with excited butterflies. She simply couldn’t wait to see the children. But at the same time she’d almost got used to them not being there.
It seemed more normal now to sleep through the night, instead of keeping one ear cocked, in case Gawain or Willow woke. She’d fallen into the habit of meaningful conversation with people she’d only just met, instead of always watching the children while she spoke. And she’d really enjoyed the painting and yoga classes, which had permitted her time to be herself.
Did that make her a bad mother?
There was something else that really worried her, too. Without the children, she and Tom had hardly anything to talk about.
‘Fancy a walk?’ he suggested after breakfast, which they’d had in their room (her idea, as Emma had felt too awkward to face Yannis after the night before). ‘I know I promised yesterday.’
He spoke as though he was doing her a big favour. They started strolling along the beach, but before long, Emma wished she was on her own. He didn’t ev
en hold her hand! Instead he just moaned about the stones that were cutting his feet through his sandals and how hot it was.
Don’t be so boring, she wanted to say. Can’t you see it’s part of the adventure? Why do you want everything to be the same as England?
Then he started asking her questions about the Greek evening the night before, which made her feel so awkward that she bent down to pick up a shell on the beach, ostensibly to add to her take-home-to-the-children collection. But really it was to hide her confusion.
‘What was it like then?’ he said chattily.
‘OK,’ Emma replied, hoping her voice sounded normal.
Tom cast her a sideways look. ‘Did you talk to the famous Winston King?’
She shrugged, wishing now that she hadn’t told him so much. Hadn’t she made a vow not to tell anyone? Still, Tom was her husband.
‘More to his wife. She’s really nice, although a bit soft with the kids. There was a bit of a barney yesterday, apparently, cos her daughter went off with the owner’s son.’
Tom raised his eyebrows. ‘Went off?’
Emma felt bad about gossiping but grateful at the same time for a chance to steer the conversation away from potentially awkward questions. What if he asked who she had danced with? Then again, it wasn’t as though he was there to care.
‘Not like that. At least, I don’t think so. They just disappeared for a bit. I saw them on my walk, actually, although I didn’t say anything to Melissa.’
‘What were they doing?’
‘Nothing.’ She bent down for another shell. A pretty one with a pink edge. ‘I think it’s rather sweet, actually. At least they know how to show affection.’
The anger slipped out in her voice before she knew it.
‘Hey.’ He took her hand. ‘I know this hasn’t been the most romantic of honeymoons but please don’t be mad at me.’
Guilt over Yannis had made her upset. Still, it was better for Tom to think she was cross over that, than the other. Not that anything had happened during the dancing. She’d drunk rather a lot – again! But it still wasn’t enough to crush that undeniable chemistry: the way her body had literally burned when Yannis had held her hand during the dancing.
After the Honeymoon Page 20
