Shadows of the Heart

by Lorena McCourtney

  If only she could talk to him! Perhaps there was some reasonable explanation that could answer all her doubts and suspicions. Perhaps behind that aloof, arrogant exterior Marc had actually been hurt by her rejection of him that night. Not that it was a real rejection of him, she thought, her hands trembling at the memory of that night as she moved the drape slightly for a better view. He didn’t know that one more kiss, one more caress, and she would have abandoned all else and gone anywhere with him.

  She got up and paced restlessly around the room. Yes, she must talk to him. It was unfair to condemn him without ever giving him the opportunity to defend himself.

  Car lights arced across the window and Trish stopped short, realizing they had come from the direction of Marc’s house. She darted to the window, saw the headlights stop in front of the house, and then blink out. It was too dark to see the vehicle behind the headlights, but she was sure it was Marc’s car.

  She hesitated a moment, wavering, wondering if she dared to do what she was considering. Yes, she decided. She had to do it, now, before she lost her nerve. If she thought too long about it, she knew common sense, or perhaps fear, would prevail. And the fact that he had returned home just now, when she felt a desperate need to talk to him, seemed somehow fortuitous, a sign that she should do it.

  She slipped out of the shirtwaist dress she had worn to dinner and into sturdy jeans and a longsleeved blouse. As she left the room she carefully inspected the hall, not wanting to encounter Armando just then. She knew she could never give him a satisfactory explanation of why she was doing this. In fact, if she inspected her actions too closely, she might not have a logical explanation for herself. But then, was love ever logical?

  The shortest route would have been to go by the swimming pool and out the courtyard gates, but there was too great a chance she would be seen. Instead she slipped out a side door and circled the house. There she hesitated again, undecided. Should she take the longer route by the road or the shorter but rougher route through the trees and brush? She glanced again at Marc’s house. One more light had come on since his return. From the identical arrangement of rooms in the houses, she knew that it was a bedroom. Marc’s bedroom?

  That thought decided her. If he was preparing for bed, she must get to the house as quickly as possible, which meant taking the shorter route through the brush.

  This impetuous nighttime jaunt was already foolhardy enough without arousing Marc out of bed to talk to him!

  She plunged into the dark tangle of underbrush, keeping her eyes on the bedroom light as a beacon to guide her. She determinedly kept her mind away from what might be beneath her feet, what her hands might encounter with each handhold on a hanging branch or vine. From Marc’s stables she could hear the uneasy movement of horses’ hooves, a nervous whinny now and then as the horses became aware of her awkward progress.

  Finally she stumbled into the cleared area. She skirted the stable fences, careful to keep a good distance away from Demonio’s paddock. She could hear him snorting in the darkness, contemptuous as always.

  She was almost at the house when she saw the light in the bedroom go out. She paused, momentarily dismayed, but then proceeded determinedly. She had come this far; she was not going to turn back now.

  She rounded the corner of the house and stepped into the shadows under the overhanging roof. She fumbled for a doorbell, could find none, and knocked instead. She waited, nervously phrasing and rephrasing what she wanted to say. No one came. She knocked again, louder and longer this time.

  This time she was rewarded. Footsteps approached on the other side of the door.

  Chapter Nine

  A light flicked on over Trish’s head, momentarily blinding her. She covered her eyes with her hands, and when she looked up, Marc was standing in the open doorway.

  For a long moment they just stared at each other. Marc was wearing dark dress pants. Evidently he had started to undress and had flung a white shirt back on when he heard the knock on the door. The shirt hung open, his chest naked beneath it. The broad chest covered with fine dark hair tapered to a lean, tanned waist. Trish struggled against the feeling that always overwhelmed her in his powerful presence. There was something primitively suggestive about his naked skin bared beneath the expensive shirt.

  Then Marc said coldly, “Yes?”

  Trish’s mouth felt dry, her tongue thick and awkward. “I… I just wanted to talk to you. I mean, I must talk to you!” The statement sounded melodramatic with Trish in her old clothes, her hair awry from the struggle through the underbrush, the hour late, and Marc obviously preparing for bed.

  “Couldn’t it wait until a more suitable time?” he suggested. Trish had the wild feeling he was going to pull out an appointment book and schedule some formal meeting date.

  “No!” she cried. “I mean… things are happening. I’m frightened!”

  Even in the shadowed doorway she could see his eyes narrow slightly. “Frightened of what?”

  “May I come in?” Trish asked, feeling a little desperate. She shivered, half from nervous fear, half from the cold night air.

  “Darling, what is it? Is something wrong?” The voice came from a figure that seemed to float toward them, the lush body momentarily outlined as the hall light glowed through the filmy peignoir. The woman moved toward Marc, and Trish knew who she was even before she reached the circle of his arm.

  She was even more lovely than Trish remembered from her brief glimpse in the restaurant, her complexion like rich cream, her dark hair tumbling sensuously around her shoulders, the froth of a pale blue peignoir swirling around her voluptuous figure. Ramona de Cordoba. She had come from the direction of the bedroom light, the light that had gone out just before Trish arrived. She looked at Trish curiously, without recognition or antagonism—the same way one might look at some unfortunate creature staggering on the streets, Trish thought wildly.

  Trish’s gaze jumped back to Marc. He had moved slightly and his face was in the full light now. There was the faint twist of a smile on his sensuous lips, and his dark eyes mocked her. She saw the deliberate tightening of his arm around the woman’s shapely shoulders.

  Trish took a stumbling step backward. “I—I’m sorry,” she faltered. “I didn’t know—”

  She turned and fled, Ramona de Cordoba’s musical voice drifting to her as she stumbled away. The words were in Spanish, totally incomprehensible to Trish at this stunned moment, but the tone, puzzled and a little amused, said enough.

  Marc’s words, spoken as if he said them with a shrug, were all too plain. “It was just that unpredictable American girl I was telling you about,” he said carelessly to the beautiful woman at his side. “I’m sorry about the disturbance.”

  The words were said casually but spoken in English, for her benefit, Trish thought grimly. She plunged ahead into the darkness, hardly knowing where she was going, only wanting to get far away as quickly as possible, her heart and emotions in wild tumult.

  When she finally paused for breath and glanced back, the heavy door was shut, the light out.

  What a fool she had been, telling herself Marc had perhaps been hurt by her rejection! She had half convinced herself that if only she could see and talk to him, everything could be explained satisfactorily. Now she knew the only explanation possible was the one she had fought against accepting.

  Marc had realized that the only way he could buy the coffee plantation from Robert Hepler was if Edith were dead. He had cold-bloodedly decided to get rid of her, and if Trish got caught in the trap too, that was just too bad. He obviously had other willing arms with which to entertain and satisfy himself.

  The thought of Marc making love to the lovely Ramona jolted through Trish with a fresh burst of pain. Irrational as it seemed, knowing what she did about him, her heart still ached at the thought of him with another woman. Even with the web of guilt tightening around him, the memory of his kisses and caresses made her heart pound. That made no sense, she thought wildly. She couldn�
�t love a man so cruel and ruthless that he would kill to get what he wanted!

  And yet she did love him. In spite of everything she had the sinking feeling that if he suddenly returned to the door and called to her, she would run to him.

  She stood there for a moment longer, her chest rising and falling as she stared at the darkened house. Very well, she loved him, she admitted to herself. But she must not let that love blind her or get in the way of her duty to protect Edith. She must seal it off in some corner of her mind and heart, seal it off forever like an evil demon that must not be allowed to escape and drug her into some evil whirlpool of desire.

  She walked on, trying not to think what was happening in the darkened house behind her.

  She took the long way around by the road this time, past the coffee-processing plant and the neat office building. There was no need to hurry now. Edith was safe tonight. Marc was otherwise occupied. And there was little point in Trish hurrying home to her own bed. She knew it would be a long time before she slept tonight.

  When she finally did sleep, it was with a kind of drugged stupor, and she awoke late the next morning, feeling sluggish and dispirited. Automatically she peered out the window in the direction of Marc’s house. In the daylight, she could not pick out the bedroom window in which she had seen the light the night before. Unhappily she wondered if Ramona de Cordoba was even now looking back at her, her body still warm from Marc’s caresses.

  The thought made Trish feel sick inside and she determinedly jumped up, showered, and dressed. Today she was going to do something. She wasn’t sure what, anything to keep her mind off Marc and Ramona—talk to Edith about the wedding, perhaps take her to see the seamstress and find out how the wedding dress was progressing. Perhaps she would get Edith to help her with her Spanish. That seemed an inspired idea. She couldn’t possibly think about Marc when she was concentrating on mastering a foreign language.

  That idea, she learned shortly, would have to be postponed. This was the doctor’s day at the village and Edith, in spite of her broken arm and recent hospitalization, had determinedly gone over to the village to assist him.

  That left Trish at loose ends. She restlessly tidied up her room, took a dip in the pool, and cut some flowers for the living room vases. While she was snipping some unfamiliar but flamboyantly red blooms, she heard a voice call from behind a bougainvillea-draped wall.

  “Is that you, Edith?”

  Trish froze in surprise. Robert Hepler! It had to be!

  The voice came again, questioningly. “Edith?”

  Trish glanced around in dismay, wondering what to do. In collecting the flowers, she had wandered around to the rear of the house, where she had not been before. She had seen the flower-draped wall from a distance but had vaguely assumed it was there to conceal a servants’ entrance or utility activities. Now it appeared that assumption was in error, that the wall enclosed some sort of private patio Edith’s father used.

  Quickly Trish gathered up her armload of blooms. Her suspicions of Robert Hepler had vanished, but that had not changed his feelings about her nor the probability that seeing her would upset and disturb him. In her hurry she dropped the garden clippers and bent to retrieve them.

  “You didn’t answer. Is—”

  Trish straightened up just as the tall, gaunt man rounded the end of the wall. They stared at each other for a long moment before Trish gathered her wits together and scrambled backward.

  “Patricia?” he said tentatively.

  Trish stopped at the unexpected and unfamiliar use of her full name and stared at him again. He was wearing khaki-colored walking shorts and a shortsleeved shirt that together revealed thin muscles and bony knees and elbows. But, as she had noted that day at the pool, there was really nothing frightening or peculiar looking about him. He was just a rather tired, old-looking man regarding her now with an unexpectedly hopeful look on his face.

  “Yes. I… I’m Patricia Bellingham,” Trish said uneasily.

  If the last name of the man who had seduced his wife in any way affected him, he gave no indication of it.

  “I’m Robert Hepler, Edith’s father,” he said. A rueful smile touched his gaunt face. “Don’t be frightened of me, please. I’ve wanted to apologize for frightening you in the hallway that night. Edith had not told me you were coming and there in the dim light you looked so much like Edith’s mother. It took me by surprise and it’s no wonder my reaction frightened you. I’m very sorry.”

  He smiled again, a tentative, hopeful gesture that somehow reached out and touched Trish.

  “I imagine I frightened you as much as you did me,” she said, returning the smile tentatively. “Guests shouldn’t wander around taking unexpected midnight swims.”

  “Would you come and have a glass of iced tea with me?” he suggested, motioning toward his small patio.

  Trish hesitated, glancing uneasily toward the road. What would Edith think of all this? But Robert Hepler did not appear to be upset or angry, so there seemed no reason to reject his cordial invitation. In fact Edith would probably be relieved when she learned she need not be apprehensive about her father and Trish encountering each other.

  Robert Hepler led the way, slowly, and with some difficulty in walking, to the solid gate around the corner of the wall. He also had difficulty closing the latch behind them and Trish rushed to help.

  “Useless hands,” he muttered, grimacing as he looked at the gnarled fingers. He opened and closed his hands, a gesture Trish suddenly realized was something he did automatically, without thinking, to try to keep his hands flexible enough to use. He motioned her toward a small white patio table.

  Trish took a seat, wondering where the private nurse was. A moment later the nurse rushed out, obviously agitated at finding Trish there.

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Spencer,” Robert Hepler said calmly.

  She clasped her hands. “But Edith said—”

  “We’re just having a glass of iced tea,” Trish said, matching Robert Hepler’s calm attitude. He gave her a conspiratorial smile and Trish smiled back.

  Robert Hepler sighed as the woman went back inside, grumbling a bit to herself. “She means well. Edith does too. I’m sure that is why she’s been so careful to keep us from meeting each other.” He poured the tea and pushed sugar and lemon within Trish’s reach. “But it wasn’t really necessary.”

  “Edith will be glad to know that. I know I am,” Trish said quickly. “I would never want my presence to upset you.”

  He twisted his glass and asked almost absentmindedly, “How is Carole Ann these days?”

  “Oh… fine. I was raised mostly by my grandparents in Minnesota,” Trish added, hoping to detour the conversation away from her mother. She rather liked the quiet man who had given her that unexpectedly conspiratorial smile, as if they were two children outwitting a stern adult, but she still wasn’t sure of him.

  “Yes, I remember your grandparents. Fine people,” he murmured. “Do they still live on the little farm out of town?”

  Trish nodded and went on to elaborate a bit on changes in the area, though he hardly seemed to be listening. Uneasily she realized Edith must have had good reasons for believing that seeing or talking to Trish would upset him.

  “I’m afraid Edith still remembers my bitterness when her mother and I first separated. There were some rather unpleasant scenes,” he said regretfully, as if sensing Trish’s feelings. “But time changes our perspective and I am able to see things differently now. I hope time has softened Carole Ann’s memories of me also.”

  Trish murmured something noncommittal. In truth her mother had hardly spoken of this man. Trish was curious about him but didn’t want to pry. She sipped the iced tea, waiting to see if he would continue.

  “I really can’t blame her for what she did,” he went on, looking off toward the mountain looming beyond them. “She had no idea when we married that I would immediately spirit her off to a remote Costa Rican banana plantation. She liked bright lig
hts, happy times, and lots of social life. I gave her isolation, boredom, and an eccentric electric generator that wouldn’t give any light about half the time,” he added ruefully. “I was always tied up in my work. It’s no wonder she fell for the first attractive man who appeared and paid her some real attention.”

  Trish knew vaguely that her parents had met while her father was in Costa Rica with the import firm in which he had eventually become an important executive, but she had never known any of the details. She had been in her teens, in fact, before she realized that falling in love with Roger Bellingham was what had broken up her mother’s marriage to Robert Hepler. She was glad now that time had obviously healed that painful wound in Robert Hepler, but she would just as soon talk about something else. Robert Hepler was beginning to look almost morose as he stared at the icy liquid in his glass.

  “Costa Rica is certainly a lovely place,” Trish said suddenly, too brightly. Almost grasping at straws, she added, “Edith told me once you used to hunt for Indian artifacts on the other side of the mountain.”

  “Yes, near the old lava tubes. I never found anything but it’s an interesting area. I always thought it might have been an old burial site. Peculiar, the way the lava hardened on the outside and then flowed on through, leaving those big, empty tubes and caverns. I explored some of them, but it is an eerie place.”

  He lapsed into silence as if his mind were really elsewhere. Trish jumped up suddenly, making an almost exaggerated gesture of looking at her watch.

  “I didn’t realize it was getting so late! And I must get these flowers in water before they wilt.” She scooped up the armload of flowers she had set beside her chair. “I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, Mr. Hepler.”

  “Mr. Hepler,” he mused. “That sounds so formal.”

  “Yes, I suppose it does,” she said, suddenly a little uneasy at the odd way he was looking at her. She managed a bright smile. “And do call me Trish. No one calls me by my full name.”