by Anne Hampson
‘Long enough to have heard everything,’ he replied tautly.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Weedall was saying, ‘of course I’m sure that dear Clare would want to be with me every evening. We’ve so much in common. I expect she’s told you that my son and she were engaged—and that his death left us both prostrate with grief? We only have each other—’
‘Clare has parents and a brother,’ broke in Luke harshly. ‘While you, I believe, have a son and a daughter-in-law?’
‘But they mean nothing—’
‘Clare’s parents are nothing to her? And Phil—?’
‘Mrs Weedall doesn’t mean it in that way,’ interrupted Clare hurriedly. ‘You’ve misunderstood her, Luke.’
Mrs Weedall was glancing from one to the other, a bewildered expression on her face. ‘I don’t understand, Mr Mortimer. It seems strange that you should interfere like this. Clare will tell you herself that she and I are united by the death of my dear son—’
‘Mrs Weedall,’ broke in Clare desperately, on noticing Luke’s furious expression, ‘Mr Mortimer isn’t interested in Frank.’ She turned to Luke, adding beseechingly, ‘Please don’t say any more. Mrs Weedall is very sad over her son’s death and it isn’t kind to speak to her like you are doing.’
‘I don’t want to be unkind, but, Mrs Weedall, your son has gone and no amount of tears or heartbreak can alter the situation. Clare has her life to live. It’s five years since her fiancé died and since coming here she’d begun to get over it, but you arrived and it all began again. It’s got to stop!’
‘I don’t understand where you come into it,’ said Mrs Weedall, gaining a little spirit from somewhere. ‘You are Phil’s friend, not Clare’s.’
Luke and Clare exchanged glances. She was pale, troubled because of the way Luke was treating Mrs Weedall. Why had he interfered? It was not as if he had any interest in her now that Stella Wesley was here on Flamingo Cay.
‘You don’t know where I come into it? I shall tell you. I promised Phil that I’d try to make Clare snap out of the misery that’s been affecting her for over five years.’
So that was it. The promise to Phil was the sole reason for Luke’s interference. Only now did Clare realise that, for one breathless moment, she had dared to hope that there could be an altogether different reason for Luke’s anger. . . .
‘But you would never have succeeded,’ asserted Mrs Weedall.
‘That,’ said Luke, ‘is where you’re wrong. I had almost succeeded before you arrived.’
Mrs Weedall was shaking her head. ‘No, never would you make Clare forget. Why, she keeps my dear Frank’s photograph beside her bed and looks at it every night. Perhaps she kisses it—we do not know, do we? It’s her secret and even I would not ask her about it.’
Clare, white to the lips, had tried to interrupt but her mouth was dry; her tongue seemed paralysed.
‘Is that right?’ Luke turned to Clare, an incredulous expression in his eyes.
What should she do? It seemed imperative that she tell Luke the truth—that she did not have Frank’s photograph by her bed, nor even have a photograph of him with her. But what of Mrs Weedall? She had believed Clare when she had told the lie, saying—in order to make Mrs Weedall a little happier—that she did have a photograph of her son beside her bed. ‘Well,’ rasped Luke harshly, ‘have you an answer to my question, Clare?’
She stared at him, unhappily aware that he would put his own interpretation on the convulsive, uncontrollable trembling of her mouth. ‘Yes,’ she whispered faintly at last, ‘I do have Frank’s photograph beside my bed.’
‘My God!’ Revolted, Luke got to his feet. ‘You’re maniacs—both of you!’ And on that wrathful note he turned on his heel and left them.
‘You’re going home!’ Phil stared at his sister uncomprehendingly. ‘This is sudden, isn’t it? What’s happened?’
‘I want to go home with Mrs Weedall.’ Scalding tears pricked the backs of Clare’s eyes, and her heart felt dead. To go home, back to the life which—she now knew—was a wasted one, a life controlled by the overwhelming pity she had always felt for Mrs Weedall. Clare could not help this feeling of pity; it was something stronger than herself, dominating her life, depriving her of the ability to seek for happiness.
Happiness. . . . Bitterly she knew she had come very close to real happiness, because she felt sure that, at first, Luke had a deep affection for her that could easily have strengthened to love. In fact, at one time she was convinced that he did love her, and that he was only waiting until he could be sure she had shaken off her memories before asking her to marry him. Yes, she had come so very close to happiness.
‘You want to go home with Mrs Weedall?’ Phil’s angry voice broke into her train of thought and she looked up at him. They were in the private sitting-room of the suite which Phil, as manager of the hotel, had been given on taking up the post.
‘She asked me if she could stay for three months. That was yesterday. I made up my mind definitely this morning, and when I told her she decided to come with me.’ Her thoughts wandered again, to last evening when Luke and Stella had come to the Rusty Pelican for dinner and dancing.
Luke had never once cast his eyes in Clare’s direction, but later, when Stella had obviously gone to the powder-room, he came over to Clare and said harshly, ‘I think that, under the circumstances, you will want to be released from that work I asked you to do for me.’ Clare had nodded dumbly and Luke had merely said, ‘That’s settled, then,’ and walked away, a cold and merciless expression on his face.
Luckily Phil was not there at that particular time, so Clare was spared the questions that he would inevitably have asked.
‘I suppose,’ Phil was saying furiously, ‘that your first stop on landing in England will be that grave?’
‘Don’t be like that with me,’ quivered Clare pleadingly. ‘I’m n-not happy at going home, Phil, but it’s the only thing I can do under the circumstances.’
He frowned then, his anger leaving him as he looked with deep concern into her ashen face.
‘Clare—love, what is it? Surely you can tell me?’
‘No . . . I can’t tell anyone. . . .’ To her great consternation she burst into tears. ‘I’ll—g-go to my room—’
‘No, you won’t!’ Phil’s voice was equally as authoritative as Luke’s had been when he was speaking to Mrs Weedall. ‘You’ll stay here until I’ve learned what this is all about.’
She shook her head, bringing out a handkerchief and drying the tears, but only to make way for more. ‘I won’t tell you!’ she cried, ‘so you needn’t ask me!’
‘It’s something to do with Mrs Weedall,’ he persisted. ‘She’s been wearing you down with that same old sob story she wore you down with before, when you were at home! I’m not letting her get away with it,’ he added determinedly. ‘I shall go to her straight away and tell her to leave!’
‘It isn’t Mrs Weedall’s fault,’ denied Clare swiftly. ‘You’ll be making a mistake if you accuse her.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ returned Phil almost brutally. ‘You’re my concern while you’re here—I promised Mum and Dad that I’d take good care of you. What are they to think if you go back—broken-hearted like this? I’d no right to let that woman come here—’
‘Phil, please don’t! You’re mistaken in believing that Mrs Weedall had anything to do with my decision. She wanted to stay for three months. You know that—so how can she be the cause of my wishing to go home?’
‘I’m very sure you don’t wish to go home, Clare. You’ve been so settled and happy here until that woman put in an appearance!’
‘I admit she’s upset me at times,’ returned Clare frankly, but went on to say again that Mrs Weedall had definitely not influenced her in this decision to return to England.
‘She is the cause of your deciding to go home,’ asserted Phil, ignoring her words, ‘because there’s no one else who could be the cause.’ He was furiously angry, something most unusual for P
hil. ‘Why did she have to come here in the first place? And another thing,’ he added as the thought crossed his mind, ‘what about the work you’re supposed to be doing for Luke? Are you going to let him down?’
‘He’ll get someone else.’ Mrs Wesley . . . ? Yes, it seemed to be a foregone conclusion, decided Clare, swallowing the ache of despair that had settled in her throat.
‘He’s not going to be very pleased about this, Clare. You already know he was as mad as I was when he knew that Mrs Weedall was coming over here.’
‘You still believe it was she who influenced me, don’t you?’
‘I’m sure of it—and Luke will agree with me!’
‘Luke’s already had his say—’
‘He has?’ Phil looked interrogatingly at her. ‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘I didn’t want to burden you with my troubles.’
‘It’s what I’m here for.’
She hesitated, but only momentarily. ‘He overheard Mrs Weedall talking yesterday and didn’t like what she said. And as usual he adopted that high-handed manner, almost as if he had some control over me, but this time it was directed mainly at poor Mrs Weedall; she was dreadfully upset, and when he had gone she was almost in tears.’
‘It doesn’t take much to bring Mrs Weedall to tears,’ was Phil’s disparaging comment. ‘However, I’m not interested in the wretched woman’s emotions,’ he went on in the kind of heartless voice his sister had never before heard him use. ‘What was she saying that made Luke annoyed with her?’
Clare paused, but decided it would be less fatiguing to tell Phil the whole truth, seeing that he was in this determined, almost agressive, mood. He listened without interruption, his mouth tightening as she proceeded to relate all that had taken place. ‘It was just unfortunate that he overheard,’ she said finally.
‘This photograph?’ frowned Phil shaking his head. ‘You haven’t a photograph of Frank with you. Mother told me in her letter that she was thankful she had been able to persuade you to leave them behind.’
Clare nodded her head. ‘I did leave them behind,’ she agreed, then went on to tell him the reason why she had told Mrs Weedall that she did in fact have a photograph of Frank beside her bed. ‘At the time it didn’t do me any harm,’ she added, ‘but I never thought she’d conclude that I—I kissed it every night—’ She broke off, thinking of Luke’s reaction and not blaming him for it. ‘Luke m-must consider me—me morbid—’ Again she stopped, this time to seek for a handkerchief to dry her eyes. Phil, having moved over to the window, was standing with his back to it, a most odd expression on his face.
‘Why are you crying?’ he asked? ‘You’ve just said you’re not happy at going home, and yet you want to go. It doesn’t make sense. I want to know exactly what you meant by the words, “under the circumstances.’”
‘Don’t—don’t ask m-me, Phil,’ she pleaded, drying her eyes and then blowing her nose hard, little realising that the action made her seem very young and vulnerable in her brother’s eyes.
‘There’s no need for me to ask you,’ he said slowly. ‘You’ve fallen in love with Luke—’
‘No! How can you say a thing like that? Would I be so—so st-stupid when it’s obvious th-that he’s in love with Mrs Wesley?’ The handkerchief was at her eyes again but as Phil saw that it was not of much use to her he came across the room to hand her his own. His arm slipped about her and she pressed against him, seeking comfort against his chest. Sobs shook her for a few moments before she managed to regain her composure. ‘I’m sorry. Phil, I should never have come here in the first place.’
He said nothing to that, merely giving a deep sigh and holding her a little more tightly against him. ‘You and Luke were getting along so well at one time,’ he remarked, and Clare knew by the tone of his voice that her vehement protestations had fallen on deaf ears. He knew she was in love with his friend.
‘Yes, until she came.’
‘I cannot believe he’s in love with her.’
‘He was once, and I daresay she’s even more beautiful now than she was then.’
‘Beauty!’ scoffed Phil. ‘What is beauty when it merely forms a veneer for a character like Mrs Wesley’s? I’m very sure that Luke has some reason for paying her so much attention. She’s thinking of buying one of his properties in Miami, you said?’
‘Yes, but that’s not the reason for his being with her so much. You’ve only to look at them together to see that he’s attracted to her.’
‘It could be the property,’ murmured Phil, and now there was a strange inflection in his voice, which was very quiet, as if he were merely speaking his thoughts aloud. ‘But on the other hand, it could be that his intention is to make . . .’ He trailed off thoughtfully.
Clare lifted her head to regard him through eyes swollen by tears. ‘What are you saying, Phil? I didn’t catch it all.’
‘It was nothing,’ he frowned, still thoughtful and far away. Clare knew by his tone that he would not reveal what was in his mind.
‘You now realise that my reason for leaving has nothing to do with Mrs Weedall? Don’t you?’
Phil nodded his head. ‘Yes, I do. Nevertheless, you’ve been made unhappy by her, Clare, and I do think you should consider making a complete break with the woman.’
‘I can’t, Phil. It would be too cruel. I’m the only person with whom she can talk about Frank.’
‘Do you any longer want to talk about Frank—?’ He stopped abruptly on hearing a quiet knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ he said after putting Clare from him. She turned to scan the bookshelves, her back to the waiter who had entered at her brother’s invitation.
‘It’s Mrs Wesley,’ he said, anger in his voice. ‘She ordered a tray on the terrace, and because it was a little while in coming she demands to see you. We didn’t keep her too long, Mr Winter, but there was this cruise ship in and we’re very busy at present.’
‘Don’t worry about it, James. I believe we all know by now just how awkward Mrs Wesley can be. I’ll come at once.’
Clare waited to hear the door close before turning around. ‘How can Luke be in love with her?’ she cried. ‘If he marries her she’ll make him so unhappy!’
‘He’ll never marry her,’ declared Phil, a strange confidence in his voice which affected Clare with a nebulous puzzlement that set her pulses tingling. It was almost as if Phil knew something which she did not. However, he made no further comment, merely asking her to excuse him while he dealt with Mrs Wesley’s complaint.
Clare waited for a short while but when he did not come back she went out to join Mrs Weedall who was sitting in a chair beneath the shade of an hibiscus hedge.
‘Ah, there you are, dear,’ she greeted Clare. ‘I’ve been thinking about your decision to go home and realise that I’m really looking forward now to being back. Can we go in about three or four days, do you think?’
‘Yes, if you like,’ agreed Clare without interest.
‘We can then visit Frank’s grave next Saturday. That’ll be—’
‘Mrs Weedall,’ broke in Clare, a high-pitched note in her voice, the result of frayed nerves, ‘please don’t let us talk about Frank just now.’
‘I’m sorry, Clare,’ returned Mrs Weedall soothingly. ‘It’s too painful? I know just how you feel—the tragedy has broken both our lives, hasn’t it?’ Her pale eyes widened. ‘You’ve been crying, child. But I cry myself, so very often.’ Clare said nothing, and in any case her brother was coming across the lawn, a grim expression on his face.
‘Was she awful?’ asked Clare, mystified even yet again that Luke could like the girl.
‘Worse than she’s ever been. She ought to have lived when those who gave you a service were regarded as slaves! She considers everyone here as inferior!’ He paused, looking down at his sister’s face. ‘I’ve just phoned Silver Springs. Luke’s in Miami for a week and so I expect that’s why she’s in this particular mood. Perhaps she expected him to take her with him.’
‘H
e’s there on business. He’d not want Mrs Wesley.’ Clare’s eyes were dark and tragic, for despite the strained relationship that now existed between her and Luke, she had not thought of leaving Flamingo Cay without saying a final goodbye to him. Now, it seemed, she would never ever see him again, because once he was married to Stella Wesley there would be no question of Clare’s returning to Flamingo Cay, not even for a holiday.
Mrs Weedall wasn’t feeling too well that evening and asked to be excused from dinner. ‘If I can have a cup of milk in my room, Clare—that’ll be all I shall want.’
Clare had the milk sent up at once. She felt mean but the thought of having dinner alone with her brother seemed like a Sunday treat.
Naturally he asked about Clare’s guest and seemed a trifle anxious when told she was off-colour. He and Clare were at their usual table overlooking the marina and even now, when she was feeling so unhappy, Clare was able to appreciate the attraction of a scene that had fascinated her from the first—the lights from the yachts and luxury launches, the little fishing boats bobbing about, the golden glow from the harbour itself. A crescent moon hung like a hammock, with a million stars around it, shining in a deep purple sky. In the restaurant itself there was chatter and laughter, mingling with music from the combo band. Lights were low, candles flickered; it was a romantic setting, one which Clare would never ever forget.
It was during the second course that Clare asked Phil if it would be all right if she left on the following Friday.
‘Friday—this week?’ he repeated with a heavy frown.
‘Yes, I’ve already had a word with Mary and she’ll be very happy to take over the desk.’ Clare looked apologetically at him, a pallor on her face that was almost unhealthy, shadows in her eyes which he had not seen for a long while until today. ‘I’d like to go as soon as possible, Phil, if you don’t mind.’
‘Luke . . . don’t you want to say goodbye to him?’
