by Mary Lyons
She could recall the brief, short months of her married life as clearly and vividly as if it had been yesterday. All too soon, it seemed, they had returned from their honeymoon, and she had faced the long, empty days in Luke's large, grimly austere New York apartment. Totally absorbed in his business affairs, he had appeared to have less and less time for his young wife, although he had resolutely refused to allow her to occupy herself with any worthwhile occupation. She could still remember, with a shudder, the cataclysmic row which had followed upon Luke's discovery that she had found herself a part-time job.
'I am not prepared to discuss the matter,' he had said, curtly dismissing her reasoned arguments. 'As my wife, you are merely required to look beautiful, and to be waiting in the apartment when I come home.'
Unfortunately, and increasingly as the months went by, he often didn't come home, preferring to spend the night in his office when there was a big business deal in the offing. Neither did he telephone or feel the need to explain and apologise for his absence. When she protested, as she frequently did, he had replied with cold, brutal logic, 'I am a businessman. You must just learn to put up with it.' But she never did. And how could she, when he spent more and more time with his personal assistant, Adele Francis? Adele, a tall, cool blonde, who was not only clever, but who was also extremely beautiful, seemed to possess all the attributes that Samantha so clearly lacked. Was it any wonder that she, young, bewildered and becoming daily more and more unsure of herself, had come to believe that Luke had married her more out of a sense of pity for her situation than love? Especially when Adele was so obviously the sort of woman who was ideally suited to be the wife Of a millionaire businessman. And Adele had clearly agreed with Samantha's view of the situation, treating the younger girl with cool contempt and, as time passed, being quite frank and open about the fact that she was also having an affair with her employer.
Increasingly, it had seemed that the only times she and Luke shared together were those when he slid into bed at night, and would become once again the demanding, passionate lover that she had married. But even that last refuge of their relationship began to crumble beneath her mounting resentment of being treated like a child during the day and a sex-object at night. She was too young and inexperienced to know how to combat the situation, only slowly recognising that the all-too-brief enchantment of their first months of ecstatic, wedded bliss had given way to wretched misery and despair, before finally dissolving into animosity and raw hatred.
In a last-ditch attempt to save her marriage, she had suddenly issued an ultimatum. If Luke was intending to take his personal assistant on a week's business trip to South America, then as far as she was concerned their marriage was finished. Luke had barely listened to her, brushing aside her objections to Adele as infantile and not worthy of discussion. And when, accompanied by Adele, he kept to his schedule and flew down to Rio de Janeiro, she had come to her senses at last. Realising that in marrying Luke she had made a terrible mistake,
Samantha had simply walked out of the apartment she hated so much, and fled back to the sanctuary of St Pauls and her beloved Aunt Emily. She had never been in any doubt that she had made the right decision, and since Luke had never bothered to contact her, he had clearly come to the same conclusion. In fact, for the first year or two, she had expected to hear from him asking for a divorce, so that he could marry Adele. When he had remained silent, she had assumed that he was content with his semi-bachelor life and his on-going affair with his personal assistant. She didn't know about his present relationship with Adele, but with the arrival of Luke and Corrine—another cool blonde in the same mould as Adele—it seemed as if her supposition had been correct.
Perhaps that was the basic problem, she told herself wearily as she emptied the teapot into the sink. Maybe marriage wasn't Luke's forte? It was obvious that he had bitterly regretted the impulse which had led him to marry such a young girl—possibly the only rash decision of his life. Luke evidently preferred the ruthless world of business to that of domesticity; the choice of emotional freedom rather than settled commitment. And who could blame him after the debacle of their brief relationship? Samantha thought grimly. She, herself, had been extremely wary of any emotional entanglements during the past four years, and fond as she was of Gerald, she had steadfastly refused all his proposals of marriage. So, maybe both Luke and she really did have something in common, after all. . .?
CHAPTER FOUR
Samantha woke up the following morning feeling tired and morose, her heavy depression aggravated by a headache, which began throbbing as soon as she lifted her head from the pillow. After stumbling over a stray shoe on the floor, and stubbing her toe on the hard base of her large, antique mahogany bed, she limped painfully downstairs in a thoroughly bad temper.
Her grouchy frame of mind was not helped by the realisation that if the events of yesterday had been traumatic—and heaven knew, they certainly had!—today didn't look like being any better. Apart from her own personal predicament, embodied by the unexpected arrival of Luke and his girlfriend, there were all the usual difficulties in trying to run the hotel.
What a life! As far as she was concerned, it was a real can of worms. If it wasn't the guests being difficult— and there seemed to be nothing and no one more demanding, and wearisome, than clients who had paid for an expensive holiday and weren't enjoying themselves— then it was the hotel staff. She had been amazed at the rapid turnover of personnel in the hotel trade; none of them seeming to stay more than five minutes in any one establishment. She was swiftly coming to think of the staffing problems as some sort of mad, frantic game of musical chairs.
And if that dipsomaniac chef, Thomas, isn't stone-cold sober today—I'll kill him! she thought grimly, hunting through the kitchen cupboard for some aspirins to alleviate the pounding in her head, which seemed to be getting worse every passing minute. It was probably due to the weather, she thought, gazing out at a sky which was unusually grey and overcast. Although the temperature was as hot as ever, it seemed far more humid than usual, the thin muslin nightgown sticking uncomfortably to her damp, moist skin. Maybe a quick dip in the sea would help to get rid of her headache, and freshen her up for the undoubtedly arduous day ahead?
Back up in the bedroom, she was just slipping into her bikini when she saw a crested hummingbird outside the open window. Always fascinated by the tiny, brilliantly coloured birds, she went over to watch it hovering, wings beating almost in a blur, as it extracted honey from the bright red flowers on the shrub climbing up the outside wall of the sugar mill. Raising her eyes to look out over the lawns leading down to the fine, sandy beach which edged the blue Caribbean sea, Samantha swore violently under her breath.
It really wasn't going to be her day! Of course, there was no logical reason why she shouldn't continue with her plans for a cooling dip in the ocean. She often joined those guests who liked to have an early-morning swim before breakfast. However, not only was the sledgehammer still pounding in her head, but it was definitely far too early in the day for her to feel up to coping with her husband!
Unfortunately, there was no possibility of a mistake. Even at this distance she couldn't fail to recognise Luke's tall figure, clothed only in a pair of navy blue swimming trunks, with a white towel slung over one of his broad shoulders, nor his distinctive stride as he moved lithely down over the soft sand towards the water's edge. And neither did she need twenty-twenty vision to identify the slim figure walking beside him—Miss 'Cool' van de Burgh herself. Who else?
Samantha's soft lips tightened as she viewed her husband's companion, her eyes flashing with icy green fire as they swept over the American girl. It was absolutely sickening! No one had the right to look so sensational in a one-piece bathing suit, which also somehow seemed to be far more revealing than the bikini that she herself was wearing. And telling herself that Corrine's figure was definitely on the skinny side—almost verging on scrawny, in fact—didn't seem to help at all.
Oh, no! She gritted her teeth, almost groaning aloud with dismay. She really must stop this nonsense. There was absolutely no point in remembering the past: the haunting recollections of her husband's warm, passionate endearments, or the delight he had taken in her body during their brief marriage. Those days were well and truly gone beyond recall, and the sooner they were finally banished from her treacherous memory, the better.
Quickly stripping off her bikini, she went to have a brief shower before putting on a simple, light blue cotton sundress and matching blue sandals, ready for yet another hard-working day.
'Hi, Penny, how's it going?'
The young manageress gave her a smile and a wave from the end of the kitchen as she continued to count the trays on the table. '. . . seven, eight, nine. That's it,' she murmured, handing a clipboard to one of the two local girls who worked in the kitchen, and were busy putting fresh toast and orange juice on to the trays. 'Everything seems to be under control,' Penny said as she came over to join Samantha. 'They've almost finished serving in the dining-room, and there are only these trays to be taken to the guests wanting a late breakfast in their bungalows.'
'Well, it sounds as though we're getting off to a good start today, thank heavens!' Samantha grinned. 'What's on the menu for lunch?'
'I'm not sure. I haven't seen Thomas this morning.'
'Oh-oh. I thought things were too good to last.'
Penny gave her a reassuring smile. 'I expect he's around here somewhere. It's only just after nine o'clock, after all.'
'He'd better put in an appearance soon,' Samantha warned her, becoming sharply conscious of the fact that the aspirins she had taken for her headache didn't seem to be working. 'Because, quite frankly, I've had just about as much as I can stand from our temperamental chef.'
'I'm sure he'll be OK.' The other girl frowned. 'I've never known him to get drunk twice in a week before.'
Samantha gave a heavy sigh. 'I only wish I could rely on that comforting fact. Still, this place is pretty dreadful, isn't it? Maybe if I had to work down here all the time, I'd take to the bottle, too.'
She glanced around at the dimly lit, subterranean kitchen which had been formed from the old cellars of the plantation house. The only daylight came from small windows set up high on the stone walls. The heat of the stoves together with the damp, muggy atmosphere, and the noisy pounding of the ancient generator which ran both the large ice machine and the refrigerators, made it seem strangely like the boiler room of an ancient, old-fashioned steamship.
'Your aunt has promised that we will soon have a new kitchen,' Penny said brightly.
'Hmm.' After having spent a great deal of time going over the hotel's books, Samantha knew very well that, far from building a new kitchen, her aunt was going to have an uphill struggle to even pay next month's wages. However, there seemed little point in curbing the girl's optimism. After all, miracles had been known to happen, although what anyone could hope to do about this hot, steaming kitchen, she had no idea. It was still early in the morning, but she was already beginning to feel sticky and uncomfortable, despite the fact that she was wearing nothing beneath the strapless, cotton top of her sundress.
'Well, if you've got everything under control, Penny, I'm just going to check today's arrivals and departures. Then, if you need me, I'll probably be out in the garden with Jason.'
An hour later, Samantha was conferring with the head gardener, who seemed strangely reluctant to do as she asked.
'Look, Jason,' she said patiently for the third time. 'I know that we have to be careful with our supply of fresh water. But it's getting hotter every day, and if we don't give the flowers and shrubs enough water, they'll die. So, get on with it, huh?'
'There ain't no point,' he said stubbornly. 'The Christmas Winds is coming very soon.'
God give me patience! she thought, staring at the mulish expression on his dark face. Everyone who lived on St Pauls knew all about the 'Christmas Winds'—the north-east trade winds which normally blew throughout December, bringing sudden rain-showers which were over almost as soon as they started. They were essential for the successful cultivation of fruit and vegetables on the island, and the main reason why the cattle pastures were so lush and green.
'It's only November, for heaven's sake,' she said, trying not to sound too exasperated. 'There's another month to go before the rains arrive—and if we wait that long, it will be too late. We can't have the grounds of this hotel looking a mess, can we?' She gestured helplessly towards a clump of drooping, red poinsettias.
'That isn't my fault,' Jason said firmly, and Samantha was forced to agree with him. Aunt Emily's attempt to establish a small, Italian-style garden, here on St Pauls, had been the least successful of her many projects.
Set at the side of the large lawn, the tall, six-foot-high dark hedges enclosing the small beds had effectively cut the sunlight from the flowers and shrubs, and the claustrophobic atmosphere of what appeared to be more of a maze than a garden was not one that the guests found attractive. Samantha had often thought that her aunt should have bulldozed it all down and built a swimming pool in its place—a suggestion which had not been well received by the formidable Emily Ward.
'I feel it in my bones that there's a storm coming soon,' the old gardener said stubbornly. 'For certain sure.'
Samantha was just opening her mouth to tell Jason to forget his bones, and to get on with the watering, when she recalled her conversation yesterday with the mechanic at Antigua airport.
'You don't mean. . .you haven't heard anything about Hurricane Hannah coming our way? It's supposed to be well out in the Atlantic'
Jason shrugged. 'I ain't saying anything about a hurricane. But what I is saying is that we sure has a storm of some kind on the way.' He glanced up at the overcast sky. 'And then I reckon we'll soon have more rain than we knows what to do with.'
'All right, Jason, we'll leave it for the moment,' Samantha sighed, conceding defeat. 'In the meantime, can you and the boys see about cutting down some of the ripe coconuts? Especially from the palm trees near the bungalows. Apparently one fell down yesterday only inches away from young Zachary Dillman, and while I couldn't help wishing it might have landed on his horrid little head, I think we'd better make sure it doesn't happen again,' she grinned.
'Yes, ma'am!' The old man wheezed with laughter as he picked up the handles of his wheelbarrow and began trundling it away. 'That boy sure need a good belting from his pa.'
'My sentiments exactly!
Samantha nearly jumped out of her skin as she recognised the harsh, dark voice coming unexpectedly from behind her shoulder. Quickly spinning on her heel, she turned to face Luke's tall figure, clothed in a pair of brief white shorts topped by a short-sleeved, white cotton shirt. Startled and confused by his sudden appearance, she found herself staring, mesmerised, at the long length of his deeply tanned legs for some moments, before she realised that her husband was simmering with anger.
'I thought this hotel didn't take children,' he growled.
*It doesn't—well, not under the age of seven, that is,' she muttered, striving to pull herself together. 'What's the problem?'
'Oh, I wouldn't say there's a problem,' he drawled sarcastically. 'Or not one that I couldn't solve by strangling that kid with my bare hands!'
Samantha sighed as Luke paced up and down the small, narrow path, fulminating about parents who couldn't control their spoilt brats, and who insisted on inflicting them upon unsuspecting members of the general public. And
after suffering from the dreaded Zachary Dillman for the past week, she found herself in strong agreement with Luke's views.
Mr and Mrs Dillman were a quiet Canadian couple who seemed strangely protective of their eight-year-old son, it never occurring to them that the trail of damage which followed Zachary's progress could in any way be due to the boy's fiendish talent for causing mayhem. Some of his pranks were harmless, of course, but she had been furious a few nights ago when he had deliberately put a dime into a lamp socket in his parents' bungalow, before replacing the light bulb. The memory of the sudden blackout during the middle of dinner, a horrendous mixture of screaming panic, wild alarm and confusion, was still capable of making her break out into a cold sweat.
'OK,' she sighed heavily. 'I guess it must be Zachary. What's he done now?'
'Is that the kid's name?' Luke gave a snort of harsh laughter. 'Well, young Zachary is now learning to sit down—very carefully!'
'Oh, Luke—you didn't. . .?'
'Give him a good spanking? Sure I did. And after he'd let down all the tyres of my hired car—which had just been delivered outside the hotel—he's lucky that's all I did to him!'
'But he's only a little boy,' she protested. 'I know he's been naughty, but, well. . . what he's done isn't so very terrible, is it? In fact,' she grinned, 'I bet that's just the sort of thing you did when you were young—and your kids will probably do exactly the same.'
'I certainly did not, and I'll make sure any children of mine are decently brought up,' he assured her grimly. 'And you can wipe that grin off your face,' he added. 'Because up at the plantation house, you'll find that, not content with harassing me, that imp of Satan has also flooded the men's toilet, by stuffing paper into every sink and then turning on the faucets.'
