Jack Riordan's Baby

by Anne Mather

  She was locking the door of the studio when she saw Karen Johnson. The other woman was resting on the low wall that edged the patio area, and although it was a fairly cool August day, Karen’s face was flushed bright red. She stood when Rachel turned towards her, and although she wanted to ignore it, Rachel couldn’t fail to see her bulging stomach tugging her summer dress out of shape.

  ‘Hello, Rachel,’ she said a little breathily. ‘Long time, no see.’

  ‘Not long enough,’ retorted Rachel, dropping the keys to the studio in the pocket of her jeans. ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘Why? Because you’ve got this place locked up like Fort Knox?’ Karen snorted. ‘You forget, I’ve been here before. I noticed the house backed onto the cove. I took a chance that there might be a way to get up to the house from the beach. And I was right.’

  Rachel stared at her. ‘You’ve come up from Foliot Cove?’ No wonder Karen was red-faced. In her condition it must have been quite a climb.

  ‘I had to.’ Karen fanned herself with an unsteady hand. ‘I saw your housekeeper go out, but the gates closed behind her and I knew I couldn’t climb over the wall. So, as I say, I drove back to the village.’ She gave a smirk. ‘Not so secure, are you?’

  Silently, Rachel admitted that she was right. If Karen could climb the steps from the cove, so could anyone else. A thief, for instance—though there was little crime in Market Abbas.

  ‘Anyway, you’ve wasted your time,’ she said now. ‘I’ve got no intention of speaking to you. And if you’re looking for Jack, he’s not here.’

  ‘I know that.’ Karen spoke disparagingly. ‘For heaven’s sake, haven’t I just spent the last few weeks with him in Ballyryan?’ She shook her head, as if amused by Rachel’s expression. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ She fumbled in her bag and brought out a cardboard folder. ‘Here, look at that. It’s the ticket to Dublin I bought just over a week ago. The day you arrived and ruined everything.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘I DON’T BELIEVE you.’

  Rachel’s words were clear and convincing, but deep inside she wondered if she really meant them. For pity’s sake, Karen must know that in a matter of months her lies—if they were lies—would be exposed. There were tests they could do to ascertain if Jack really was the baby’s father. Why was she persisting with this when there was no future in it?

  ‘Look at the ticket! Look at it!’

  Karen was waving the folder in front of her face, and because the woman was getting agitated Rachel complied. Sure enough, the ticket was a single from Wexford to Dublin—the same train she’d used in the opposite direction—and dated the same day she’d arrived in Ballyryan. But what did it actually prove?

  Only that Karen had been there.

  Rachel’s stomach clenched. Why did Karen have a ticket to Dublin? A used ticket at that. How long had she stayed in Ballyryan, and what had she been doing there? Was the reason it was a single ticket because she’d travelled out with Jack in the Aston Martin?

  Oh, God! Rachel felt sick. Karen must have seen Jack. She must have. And, once again, he hadn’t mentioned it to her. What secrets was he keeping from her? Was this the real reason why he hadn’t come home?

  The unwilling memory of him standing outside the cottage when she’d arrived came back to her. He’d looked ill, she remembered. Pale and sweating—and guilty as hell? Why hadn’t she suspected something then? Why had she let him spirit her away for the rest of the morning? He might have seen her coming and left his parents to get Karen out of the house before they got back.

  No!

  Rachel stifled the agonised cry that was rising inside her. She couldn’t believe that the man who’d seemed so delighted to see her, who’d taken her to that enchanted place and made such sweet, passionate love to her, was living a secret life. It wasn’t true. Jack had had nothing on his conscience, she would swear it. And, once again, she was letting Karen call the shots.

  ‘This means nothing,’ she said now, dropping the offending ticket folder onto the teak-topped patio table. ‘You’re wasting your time, Karen. I love Jack and he loves me.’

  ‘You think?’ Karen was contemptuous. ‘I wonder what I have to do to make you believe me? Describe the inside of his parents’ home, perhaps?’ She put a taunting finger to her lips. ‘Let me see: oh, yes, there’s a narrow hall that runs from the front of the cottage through to the kitchen. The parlour’s whitewashed, with lots of little tables covered in knick-knacks. Maggie likes things like that, and she’s got some very pretty ceramic mugs. I liked her a lot, and Jack’s father looks exactly like him, doesn’t he? They both made me feel really welcome.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Somehow Rachel found the courage to answer her. ‘Do you honestly think being able to describe the cottage proves anything?’ She managed a short laugh. ‘Honestly, Karen, a salesperson could learn as much.’

  Karen’s face, already red, darkened alarmingly. ‘You can’t do this,’ she said desperately. ‘You can’t blind yourself to what’s going on.’

  ‘Nothing’s going on,’ said Rachel, hoping against hope that she was right. ‘Now, I want you to leave. I’ll even open the gates for you. I wouldn’t want you to fall down the cliff.’

  Karen moved her head from side to side. Then, with a lightning change of tactics, she sank down onto one of the patio chairs. ‘I feel sick,’ she said. ‘I’m dehydrated after climbing all those steps. Please, I need a drink. Even you couldn’t deny me a glass of water.’

  Rachel shook her head. But it was obvious that Karen was extremely hot. Maybe she was dehydrated. Maybe a woman in her condition perspired more freely. There were certainly areas of darkness beneath her arms and between her breasts.

  ‘All right,’ she said, giving in. ‘Wait here. I’ll get you a glass of water.’

  She used her keys to open the French doors into the garden room. She had no intention of opening the doors into the drawing room and risking Karen taking up residence in there again. Then, evading the urns of plants that were spilling blossom and greenery onto the terracotta tiles, she left the room by the hall door and hurried down the corridor to the kitchen.

  She couldn’t have been more than two minutes, but when she got back there was no one on the patio. Frowning, she looked all about her, but there was no sign of Karen anywhere. Had she gone? Rachel couldn’t believe she’d been that lucky. But the only way she could have left was by the cliff steps, and, putting the glass of water down on the table, she went through the gate that led out onto the cliff.

  Like the patio, the cliff steps were deserted. Surely Karen hadn’t had time to reach the beach? But, apart from a man walking his dog, the beach was empty, too. It was if the woman had disappeared into thin air.

  The first intimation she had that someone was behind her was a rush of air across the back of her bare arms and the sound of laboured breathing in her ear. Then a hand hit her firmly in the small of her back, knocking her instantly off balance, and before she could recover a second punch sent her over the edge.

  She fell, terror causing her to cartwheel her arms and legs in an effort to save herself. Shrubs and gorse bushes punctuated her descent, but although she grabbed at them they weren’t strong enough to hold her. All she got for her pains were scratched and bleeding palms and a sickening blow to her forehead.

  Deliverance came from a totally unexpected source. Rachel had virtually given up hope of saving herself, but her mind refused to countenance the image of her body sprawled on the sand below. Grabbing for the stunted root of a tree growing from a crack in the cliff-face was just an automatic reflex. Her hands felt numb; her brain was closing down, she was preparing herself to die.

  The sudden savage cinching about her waist drove all the breath out of her. But it also kicked her brain into action again. By some miracle, her flight into oblivion had been halted. How, she didn’t yet know. She hadn’t crashed onto the ground. With tears almost blinding her, she realised she was hanging free, some thirty
feet above the beach.

  Gasping for breath, she tried to understand what had happened. It felt as if someone had lassoed her, but she knew that wasn’t the answer. Yet something was digging into her waist, preventing her from falling. She tried to look down, to see what it was, but she didn’t dare move too much in case she started to fall again.

  Then she heard a shout.

  Panic gripped her. Now that her mind was working again, the thought that it might be Karen, climbing down the steps to finish what she’d started, brought a cry of terror to her throat.

  But it was a man’s voice, she realised. A man who advised her not to move an inch until he reached her. He was climbing up from below, and she guessed with relief that he must be the man she’d seen walking his dog on the beach.

  ‘Well, I think you’re mad!’

  Maggie Riordan came into the bedroom where her son was packing a canvas duffel bag and regarded him with dark accusing eyes.

  ‘I know.’

  With a rueful glance in his mother’s direction, Jack continued what he was doing, hoping she’d realise that, whatever either of his parents said, he had to go back. He’d already booked the car onto the next morning’s ferry, and he intended to get up early and drive to Rosslare. He hadn’t heard a word from Rachel since she’d left two weeks ago, all calls to her mobile had been transferred immediately to voicemail, and he was worried.

  He’d considered calling Mrs Grady, but pride—and a certain amount of reluctance to involve the housekeeper—had deterred him from doing so. For all he knew, Rachel might not have told Mrs Grady what had happened when she came to Ireland, and it would have been embarrassing having to explain to the housekeeper that the estrangement that had existed between them for so long was no longer a reality.

  Or was it? Wasn’t that the real reason he’d decided to pack up and go home? Because he couldn’t believe they had heard the last of Karen?

  His father appeared behind his mother then, laying a soothing hand on her shoulder. ‘Leave him, Maggie,’ he said quietly. ‘Jack knows his own business better than we do.’

  ‘But he’s only been here for five weeks,’ protested his wife frustratedly. ‘You know yourself his doctor advised him to take at least six months away from work.’

  ‘Do you mind not talking as if I wasn’t in the room?’ Jack exclaimed tersely. ‘And I haven’t said I’m going back to work, have I? As a matter of fact, I’ve been considering making some changes when I get back. Not the least of them being delegating some of my work so Rachel and I can spend more time together.’

  ‘Well, that’s the most sensible thing you’ve said, so it is,’ declared his mother, nodding, and without another word she came into the room and slapped away his hand as he attempted to put a rolled tee shirt into his bag. ‘Let me do that,’ she added, taking the tee shirt from his hand and folding it to her satisfaction. ‘Men! They haven’t the first idea how to pack clothes.’

  Jude Riordan exchanged a smile with his son. Then, propping his shoulder against the frame of the door, he said, ‘Have you ever thought of buying yourselves a second home here in the village? Ryan House has been empty these three years past, and although I’ve no doubt it needs a canny thing doing to it, sure you’ve got the money to make it habitable.’

  Jack stared at his farther. ‘Ryan House!’ He frowned. ‘But that place is derelict.’

  ‘It is now,’ agreed his father. ‘But isn’t that the kind of work you could do? Sure, I know you’re an architect, Jack, and you’re not used to getting your hands dirty, but I can’t think of a better project to keep you from being bored.’

  Jack was about to say that in any case Ryan House was too big for his and Rachel’s needs, but he didn’t. Maybe it was too big, but the idea of renovating the old place did appeal to him. ‘How much do they want for it?’ he asked, guessing his father had done his homework before speaking. And after Jude had delivered his answer he was pleasantly surprised.

  ‘Maybe you’ve got something there, Dad,’ he said, aware that his mother was listening. ‘I’ll certainly think about it. I’d have to discuss it with Rachel first, of course, but it’s an interesting idea.’

  And it was something to keep his mind occupied the next morning, as he drove to the busy ferry terminal that served Wexford and the surrounding area. He didn’t know what Rachel would think of it, but it was true that she could work almost anywhere.

  Apart from a certain amount of apprehension, he was feeling okay, he thought. The weeks spent at Ballyryan hadn’t completely banished the occasional pounding in his chest, or the fluttering heartbeat that could make him feel so sickeningly light-headed. But he hadn’t experienced any dizziness since the morning both Rachel and Karen had turned up, and the rest had definitely done him good. He felt—what? Almost seventy per cent—which was a good result, considering he’d only had a few weeks away from the rat race, instead of the six months the doctor had recommended.

  The ferry crossing to Fishguard was both fast and efficient, and pretty soon he was on the M4 heading for the junction with the M5 and home. He called Rachel again when he stopped for a mid-afternoon bottle of water at a service area. But once again there was no reply, and he had to exert a massive amount of self-control not to let her continuing silence faze him. He’d see her soon, he told himself. And it was probably better to have their first conversation face to face.

  It was after he’d passed Exeter and was driving along the A38 towards the turn-off to Market Abbas that he had his first intimation that he wasn’t as fit as he’d thought he was. He was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open, exhaustion pulling at him in bone-deep waves of fatigue. It occurred to him that he’d been a fool to attempt to drive so far when he wasn’t used to it. Besides, he’d made the original journey in two stages, staying overnight in Swansea. He should have thought about that when he’d decided to come home.

  It was early evening when he reached Market Abbas. The village, which was chiefly one main street with several arteries leading to it, was almost deserted. The few shops were closed, of course, though the three pubs appeared to be doing good business. Years ago he and Rachel had used to walk down to the village on summer evenings and enjoy a drink on the terrace of the Ship Inn, which overlooked the ocean.

  Now Jack drove doggedly on, desperate to reach his destination. He was feeling distinctly light-headed, probably because he was so weary, and he couldn’t wait to get out of the car.

  The gates to the house he shared with Rachel were closed, however, and he realised he should have had the sense to call ahead. As it was, he would have to get out and identify himself via the intercom. The only other keys on his key ring were those that opened the house.

  Mrs Grady answered when he pressed the button. ‘Why, Mr Riordan!’ she exclaimed, and he could have sworn there was a note of nervous anxiety in her voice. Or was his brain playing tricks with him? ‘What are you doing here?’

  Jack endeavoured to control his impatience. ‘I live here, Mrs Grady,’ he said curtly. ‘Look, will you just stop messing around and open the gates? I’m tired. I don’t have time for this. I need to lie down.’

  ‘Oh—well—I suppose—in the circumstances…’

  Mrs Grady was definitely on edge, and Jack didn’t know why. What had Rachel said to her, for God’s sake? This was hardly the welcome home he’d expected.

  Then, when he was on the point of losing his temper, he saw the gates shudder before beginning to swing inward. With a relieved sigh, he walked heavily back to the car. Where the hell was Rachel anyway? he wondered. He should have called ahead. He would have if he’d suspected she might not be here.

  He parked the car to one side of the front doors and hauled his duffel bag out of the boot. By that time Mrs Grady was standing on the front steps. She looked much the same as usual, but she was wringing her hands, which usually meant she was worried about something.

  ‘Can I help you with that?’ she asked, as Jack slung the strap of the
duffel bag over his shoulder and almost overbalanced from its weight. ‘Oh, dear.’ She gazed at him with obvious concern. ‘You do look tired, don’t you? Here—let me take your arm.’

  ‘I can manage.’ In spite of his exhaustion, Jack drew the line at leaning on a woman. He locked the car and started up the three shallow steps that widened into a porch. Tubs of impatiens and geraniums made vivid splashes of colour against the mellow brickwork, but Jack hardly noticed as he entered the house.

  Then, glancing back at the housekeeper, who was following him, he said flatly, ‘Where’s my wife?’

  It was just as well he’d carried on across the entrance hall into the drawing room. He heard Mrs Grady take a deep breath, and then she said quietly, ‘She’s not here, Mr Riordan.’

  ‘Not here?’ Slinging his bag onto the floor, Jack sank down onto the arm of one of the sofas. Then, as a heavy weight descended on his shoulders, he added, ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I—er—she’s staying with Ms Robards, Mr Riordan.’ Mrs Grady had paused in the doorway, and she allowed a moment for her astonishing words to sink in. ‘After—after the—er—accident—’

  ‘What accident?’ Despite his own weariness, Jack’s reaction was one of shock. ‘I didn’t know Lucy had had an accident, dammit. Why didn’t Rachel let me know?’

  ‘Because it wasn’t Ms Robards who had the accident,’ said Mrs Grady unhappily. ‘It was your wife.’

  ‘Rachel!’ Jack was horrified now. But he was glad he’d taken the opportunity to sit down. ‘My God, why didn’t somebody tell me?’

  ‘I wanted to.’ Mrs Grady spoke urgently, and, even though Jack was tempted to ask her why the hell she hadn’t in that case, he was inclined to believe her. ‘But—well, people said—’

  ‘People? What people?’ Jack tried not to get angry with her. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Um—well, Mr Thomas said we shouldn’t worry you unnecessarily—’

  ‘George should mind his own bloody business!’