Second Tomorrow

by Anne Hampson

  ‘I was thinking,’ she replied briefly and non-committally.

  ‘About what? Going home?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she answered with a hint of defiance.

  ‘Phil’s relying on you.’

  ‘He could easily get someone else.’

  ‘Let’s drop the subject,’ he said curtly and they danced in silence until the music stopped. Clare, having managed to follow his steps perfectly, actually enjoyed the dance. He too enjoyed it, if he were to be believed when he said, ‘Thank you, Clare. It was a pleasure to dance with you.’

  She averted her face, telling herself that the embarrassment she felt was due rather to the unexpected compliment than the strangely soft inflection in his voice as he spoke her name. . . .

  Phil suggested they take their coffee in the lounge but no sooner had they sat down than he was called away by one of his staff, and once again Clare found herself alone with Luke. He spoke first, breaking a silence which for Clare was fast becoming awkward.

  ‘You’re not really serious in your intention of going home, are you?’

  ‘I haven’t definitely made up my mind,’ she replied. ‘I did say I was only thinking about it.’ ‘

  It’s morbid to dwell on the past.’ Luke spoke almost harshly, as if he were delivering a stern rebuke. ‘I said each new day is what you intend to make it. You wake every morning with the firm intention of being unhappy.’

  ‘You know so much, don’t you?’ she retorted sarcastically.

  ‘I know you’re a fool!’

  She glanced up; their eyes met fleetingly, hers wide, indignant and questioning, his narrowed and inscrutably dark.

  ‘You baffle me,’ she complained and looked away.

  ‘Then that makes two of us. I’ve never met a woman like you.’ He paused as if giving her the chance to speak. ‘Do you really intend to remain sunk in misery for the rest of your life?’

  She frowned in puzzlement. ‘I’ve said you baffle me. I can’t understand your concern.’

  A strange silence ensued before Luke spoke, and when he did speak there was the most odd inflection in his voice.

  ‘It could be that I don’t understand it myself. Let’s change the subject, shall we?’ He glanced at her empty coffee cup. ‘Better still, let us take a stroll. It’s becoming far too hot in here.’

  Clare hesitated; the last thing she wanted was to walk outside with him, in the lovely tropical gardens, with the bright stars above and the moon turning the wavelets to silver along the pink-sanded beach. But on the other hand, she had to remember that Luke was her brother’s friend and, therefore, she must make some attempt to appear friendly.

  ‘Why the hesitation?’ challenged Luke with a touch of irony in his voice. ‘Would you prefer to be alone, so that you can brood?’

  Her mouth went tight. The insufferable man would rile her to the point of no return if he went on like this. It was with considerable difficulty that she managed to keep the anger from her tone as she said, ‘Of course not. I shall enjoy a stroll in the fresh air.’

  Faintly he smiled, as if fully aware that she was lying.

  The cooling breeze of the trade winds fanned her face as, after walking along the pergola-shaded terrace in front of the lounge, they came into the gardens proper. Sounds drifted to her over the soft balmy air—the murmur of the waves breaking against the coral reef, the tender Bahamian music from the restaurant, the whisper of night creatures in the stately royal palms and the ‘pity-pit-pit’ call of a nighthawk as it swirled down from some unseen place high in the air. The beach was deserted, serene and unspoiled as it was hundreds of years ago, before man ever set foot on its virgin sand.

  ‘It’s a beautiful evening.’ Clare spoke to break the silence which seemed to be becoming too companionable for her liking. She did not want to feel at ease with Luke; on the contrary, she desired only that they should both keep their distance from one another, being polite and nothing more. But somehow the situation was becoming out of control, with Luke acting as if he had the right to criticise and admonish, and to advise her to remain on the island. She thought about his comments and decided that she ought to remain, if only to give her parents a little peace of mind, something they certainly had not had for the past five years, knowing that, every Saturday, no matter what the weather, she would meet her dead fiancé’s mother in the grim environment of the cemetery. Was it morbid to want to go there? Her father had said so, and now Luke had said it was morbid to dwell on the past. Neither of them understood, she told herself. Being men, they had no deep emotional feelings about such things as memories that were more precious than anything else in the world.

  ‘Are you enjoying the stroll?’ inquired Luke after agreeing with her that it was a beautiful evening. They were on the hotel’s private beach, where tall coconut palms extended as far as the eye could see, and intriguing little lanes meandered in their midst before disappearing into the wooded grounds of the hotel.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Clare, ‘I’m enjoying it very much.’ She spoke the truth but wished she could have told herself she was lying.

  ‘Shall we carry on? I have a feeling that Phil is not going to be able to leave his duties for a while.’

  She nodded and said yes, she would like to go a little farther. As her gaze went out towards the horizon she was recalling her impression as she flew over from Nassau in the small aeroplane. The numerous islands and cays were strung out over a cerulean blue sea, jewels glistening in the sunlight. In the shallows beyond the Gulf Stream blue and green and silver mingled to produce unbelievable colours, while the Gulf Stream itself was a dark indigo blue edged with platinum where the crested waves lashed into foam.

  She turned her head to glance up at the sphinx-like profile of the man at her side. So superior! Her first impression had been that he was totally unapproachable. With other women he seemed to be oblivious even of their presence; this she had noticed on several occasions when he had come to the hotel in the evening, perhaps to dine but sometimes merely to have a drink and a chat to Phil in the Yellow Bird Bar, a part of the hotel that had undergone a tasteful conversion from what had once been a slave kitchen, the place where all food was served to the numerous slaves working on the estate of the owner of the plantation house which was now the main building of the Rusty Pelican Hotel.

  Luke glanced down at her and a smile suddenly lifted one corner of his mouth, robbing it of some of its severity.

  ‘A penny,’ he said, still looking at her. ‘Or perhaps your thoughts are too critical for revealing.’

  She drew a long breath.

  ‘Are you always like this with women?’ she could not help saying, ‘or is it only with me?’

  ‘Only with you,’ came his prompt reply, disconcerting her.

  ‘There must be a reason,’ she murmured curiously after a pause.

  ‘You intrigue me. A beautiful girl of twenty-five eating her heart out over someone who’s been dead for five years.’

  ‘That,’ said Clare shortly, ‘is my own affair!’

  ‘You consider it indelicate of me to mention it?’

  ‘I consider it interfering of you to mention it!’ She stopped, wanting to turn back, but to her amazement Luke put his hand beneath her elbow and she was urged forward, along the soft pink coral sand. She felt that strange stirring within her again, because of the touch of his hand and the nearness of his body to hers. She trembled, her thoughts so confused as to be almost chaotic. She actually liked the nearness of his body, the rhythm he adopted in order to match his steps to hers, but on the other hand she was filled with resentment that he should make her forget the pledge she had made herself, and also the promise she had given Frank’s mother. Yes, on more than one occasion she had assured Mrs Weedall that she would never let another man come into her life.

  The air was still, suddenly, and all was silent around them. The high, rolling moon drifted through delicate threads of lacy cirrus cloud, shedding its argent glow over the sands and the sea and t
he fringing reef. There was magic all around . . . an intangible, spellbinding witchery that enveloped Clare in spite of her determination to hold herself aloof from anything remotely akin to the romantic. But she fought a losing battle, the island alone casting a spell on her with its Utopian enchantment, and if that weren’t enough she had as her companion this tall handsome man whose personality was breaking down her defences.

  He spoke, softly, his head bent so that his mouth was close to her ear, ‘How easily your anger’s aroused, my child. Why don’t you relax, come out from that barrier you’ve built around yourself and learn to laugh again?’ He had stopped, and they stood together, motionless and silent for a few moments after he had spoken. Clare lifted her head, her big hazel eyes wide and bewildered and rather brighter than they should be.

  ‘I don’t want to forget. . . .’ Her voice faltered to a slow stop, because of the sudden tightness affecting her throat. ‘You don’t understand, Luke. No one does. Frank adored me and I him. You can’t just forget—it isn’t right to forget.’

  She heard him draw a breath and guessed that he was impatient with her.

  ‘Five years, Clare,’ he said. ‘How much longer are you going to pine for what you can’t possibly have?’

  ‘You’re wrong. I said you don’t understand. I’m not pining for something I can’t have; that would be absurd. I’m merely keeping a memory alive—’

  ‘It’ll fade, no matter how hard you try,’ he broke in roughly. ‘You might prolong the agony but in the end it will fade. You’ll be a middle-aged spinster then and you’ll have wasted your youth.’

  ‘I don’t know why you should be so concerned about me,’ she quivered, staring into his eyes but finding neither compassion nor understanding. ‘It’s strange that you should be, because you don’t strike me as a man who bothers his head much about my sex.’

  ‘Well,’ he returned with a light little laugh, ‘that’s forthright enough! So I strike you as a confirmed bachelor, do I?’ There was an odd inflection in his voice which puzzled her. Had he had a serious affair, she wondered. After all, she knew nothing of his past; there could be some very good reason why, at thirty-five, he was still a bachelor.

  She said, compelled by something she could not control, ‘Have you ever been in love—?’ She stopped abruptly, wishing she could take the words back.

  ‘Sort of,’ was his surprising answer. Clare had felt sure that even if he had been in love he would have flatly denied it. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘It was . . . serious?’

  He smiled reminiscently. ‘Yes, it was—rather.’

  Clare felt a little access of pity for him, which was absurd, she chided herself, since Luke Mortimer was the last man who needed pity. He had everything—wealth, looks, physique, a wonderful house here and another in fabulous Miami Beach. And with all this he could have any woman he wanted.

  ‘Is she—alive?’

  ‘I’m not pining over someone who is dead, Clare.’

  She coloured up. ‘It was a silly question. You’ve already stressed the futility of cherishing memories.’

  ‘You admit it’s futile?’

  ‘For me it isn’t, but for you—’

  ‘There’s no difference,’ he broke in impatiently.

  Clare twisted round. ‘I’m going back,’ she said, a flatness in her voice. Subconsciously she had wanted to stay with him for a while longer but, somehow, his impatience brought back her resentment and she began to retrace her steps. Luke set the pace, which was faster than she desired. He had had enough of her company, she thought, and an unwanted feeling of dejection swept over her. She hurried along beside him, skipping now and then to keep up the pace set by those incredibly long legs of his. Her thoughts wandered to the girl he had loved. Where was she now? Was she married to someone else? Did Luke still care—just a little?

  Clare drew a deep, shuddering breath, and wondered why her dejection should be even more weighty than before.

  Chapter Two

  Another fortnight went by and to her own surprise Clare was becoming so contented that the idea of going home scarcely ever entered her mind. She loved the sun and the sea and the lush, tropical vegetation of the island. Above all she was enchanted with the unspoiled, unchanging ways of the people, the natives who lived in brightly-painted clapboard houses, some of which nestled within groves of casuarinas, while others occupied sites in the narrow, neat little tree-lined streets.

  ‘These people have retained the secret of how life should be lived,’ Luke had told Clare after she had remarked on the happy, contented faces she invariably encountered whenever she went out of the hotel grounds to explore the island. On the main street there was one single traffic light, and this was the only one on the island. Drivers moved sedately towards it, hailing one another as they passed. All was free and easy, unhurried and leisurely. Clare had passed a remark to Luke about his building programme and had been assured that the people buying his properties would be carefully chosen; moreover, he was laying down certain conditions that would have to be adhered to. Each villa was to be inconspicuously sited among trees already established, and once built the houses could neither be altered nor added to in any way whatsoever.

  ‘Will prospective purchasers agree to these restrictions?’ Clare had asked doubtfully.

  Luke had shrugged his shoulders and answered to the effect that if people disliked the restrictions imposed they would obviously decide not to buy.

  ‘I particularly want to keep this island unspoiled,’ he had gone on to say. ‘The villas I shall build will not be a blot on the landscape, I can assure you of that.’ He had smiled in a way that set her pulses stirring . . . and her resentment rising. It was all so absurdly illogical, she admitted, but her tenacious determination to cling to her memories, to be true to her lost love, seemed to be warping her vision and there was nothing she could do about it because, if she even contemplated seeing someone else she was immediately filled with guilt and a feeling of disloyalty both to Frank and to his mother.

  Mrs Weedall had written to her, reiterating what she had said when she first learned of Clare’s decision to join her brother on Flamingo Cay, ‘I don’t know how you could go away from everything you have known with Frank. And what about his grave? There’ll be no one when I’ve gone—’ and at this point she had prophesied an early death for herself, because she had nothing left to live for now that her husband had died. Her other son, she said, had no feelings at all. ‘He keeps telling me I’m morbid. Did you ever hear anything so unkind, dear Clare?’

  Clare had read the letter and then wept for the loneliness of the woman who would have been her mother-in-law. On impulse she had invited her over for a holiday but as yet had received no reply to her letter.

  On another occasion, when she had been in conversation with Luke, Clare had received an invitation from him to attend a sort of garden party which he was giving for prospective purchasers of his villas. They would be shown over his own house, advised about any internal changes they might require, and any other matters regarding the properties which might be of interest to them. Phil was also invited but at the last minute he decided he could not spare the time.

  ‘You go, though,’ he urged when Clare seemed hesitant about going on her own. ‘It’ll be a nice break for you. Mary can manage on the desk. It isn’t as if we’ve anyone checking in until tomorrow morning.’

  Still reluctant, Clare took a little more time over her lunch than usual, her mind occupied with the changes that were coming over her since she had joined her brother at the hotel. There was no doubt that the heaviness of the past years was lightening, that changes were taking place within her despite her struggles to prevent change. More and more she was thinking of Luke’s words and admitting that he was right when he stated that the memory would fade. Yes, in time it would fade, if she remained here. But if she went home and took up where she had left off . . . A sudden frown touched her forehead at the thought. She had no desire to go bac
k—at least not yet.

  The colour-drenched gardens of Silver Springs presented an incredible panorama of tropical beauty, and as she gazed around Clare had to own that Luke Mortimer was nothing less than a genius where planning was concerned, be it a house he was planning or gardens such as these surrounding his villa, which itself was a breathtaking example of elegance and good taste.

  She had arrived on foot, Silver Springs being no more than ten minutes’ walk from the Rusty Pelican. Luke, casual but immaculate in white slacks and short-sleeved shirt, came striding across the satin-smooth lawn to meet her, his dark eyes taking in her own delightful appearance. She wore a sleeveless cotton dress, leaf-green and short, revealing her honey-tanned arms and legs. Her sandals were of fine white leather, matching her handbag and the wide belt she wore. Luke’s eyes came at length to rest on her face; she parted her lips, unaware that the smile was delightfully reflected in her eyes, giving them a radiance Luke had never seen there before. His scrutiny was unfathomable and long, and she blushed delicately beneath it, even more so when his eyes began to move with slow deliberation to settle for a moment on the tiny waist before rising to the tender curves of her breasts and then higher to the gentle swell of her throat. He seemed to catch his breath and at the same time a nerve pulsated at the side of his neck. Fascinated by it, Clare wondered just what kind of emotion touched him for it to be reflected in this way.

  ‘Clare,’ he murmured softly at last, ‘you look very charming. You’ll be the most beautiful woman here today.’

  Her colour deepened at his flattery and a tremor that was pleasant touched the region of her heart.

  ‘Thank you, Luke,’ she responded shyly. ‘I’m glad you like my—my dress. . . .’

  He laughed and her heart jerked involuntarily. Without doubt this man affected her senses on every occasion that they met, this in spite of her initial resolve to remain immune. His superlative physical attractions, the way his very tone of voice could give pleasure or pain, the expression she caught now and then that affected her pulse . . . all these were definite phases of her recent admission that Frank no longer held her entire waking thoughts, although he was, of course, ever in the background, an image that she never wanted completely to erase.