The Trouble with Trent!

by Jessica Steele

  `I should think so. You tell him next time he rings not to bother you again.'

  Alethea gave more thought to leaving home as she lay wakeful in her bed that night. Her mother usually kicked up a fuss whenever she asserted her right to go out with someone if she so wished. But, since Trent had called for her last Tuesday, Mother had seemed to carp nonstop.

  Alethea knew that her mother had endured a hard time, and she was sorry about that. But, unlike Maxine, who was having trouble getting any maintenance money

  from Keith, her father had seen to it that his wife kept their house and had a good monthly allowance. Though, thinking about it, her mother would have had lawyers sitting on his doorstep night and day had he attempted to do otherwise.

  Alethea stopped herself right there. Grief! She was sounding as bitter as her mother! Quite when her thoughts had become a touch on the sour side, she couldn't have said. But suddenly Alethea knew without question that the time had come for her to cease merely thinking about leaving home. If some of her mother's bitterness wasn't to rub off permanently on to her, she had to do something about it now. The trick would be to find the nerve to tell her mother what she had in mind.

  Saturday dawned early. Sadie, with a sleepy-eyed Georgia in tow, came into Alethea's bedroom and woke her up. 'I'm bored,' Sadie announced.

  `And me,' Georgia echoed.

  `Looks as though we're in for another fun-filled Saturday.' Alethea struggled to sit up. She knew that there was not the remotest likelihood that they were going to allow her to go back to sleep again. 'We could go down and have breakfast,' she suggested.

  `Yes!' they whooped in unison.

  The morning that had started off noisily grew progressively worse. Lunch ended in a pitched battle with Sadie being sent to her room yelling, 'It's not fair!' and with Georgia smiling cheerfully at the outcome.

  Alethea, who had been hoping at some time during the morning to find a tactful way of telling her mother that she had decided to find somewhere else to live, accepted then that she wasn't going to get the chance of a quiet talk until all three of Maxine's offspring were tucked up in bed.

  Sadie was unusually silent upstairs. It was a silence Alethea didn't trust. She went upstairs and found Sadie in her bedroom experimenting with her lipsticks.

  `Suits you,' she murmured faintly. Guessing they were all in for an afternoon of hell, she added, 'If I can square it with your mother, do you fancy a walk.'

  `Past the sweetshop?'

  `Into it if you like.'

  Only just did Alethea manage to avoid a sudden and impetuous kiss from her heavily lipsticked niece.

  Polly was still a little poorly, so it only took half an hour to clean up Sadie and get her and Georgia ready.

  In all, Alethea had them out of the house for around three hours. But, at least, thanks to a nearby playground with slides and swings, plus a mile-and-a-halflong ramble, when they returned with sweet bags in hand, they were looking fit, healthy and cheerful, and even managing to talk at a less than high-pitched level.

  If the two girls were looking cheerful, however, it was more than could be said for their mother. Maxine looked extremely worried and as if—but for the presence of her daughters—she would be in floods of tears again.

  Alethea gave her a questioning look; Maxine shook her head. Clearly she did not wish to discuss the fresh crisis which had presented itself while the children were around. Alethea could make a fair guess at who was at the root of Maxine's present upset, though, when her mother coldly let fall in passing, 'He called!'

  Alethea had to wait until the children were upstairs in bed, and she and Maxine were in the kitchen tidying up, before she heard anything of why Keith Lawrence had that afternoon braved his mother-in-law's house.

  He was, it seemed, to be prosecuted. SEC, Trent de Havilland's company, had decided they now had suf-

  ficient evidence to have him tried for diverting some of the company's funds into his own bank account.

  `Oh, Maxine, I'm so sorry!' Alethea gasped, realising that it hadn't taken the powers that be very long to have a case against her brother-in-law all neatly tied up. 'Is he sure it will come to that—prison, I mean?'

  `He's positive,' Maxine answered shakily, adding, in obvious distress, 'We'd just started to agree that any money left over from the sale of the house—once he's paid everything back—I could have. But, unless someone can put in a good word for him, it will mean ...' She started to cry. 'It will m-mean that my girls will have to bear the stigma of having a jail-bird for a father. Oh, I can't bear it!'

  `Oh, Max, don't...' Her heart was wrung, and Alethea couldn't bear her sister's distress. She left off wiping down the work surfaces and went over to put an arm around Maxine. 'Perhaps it won't come to jail. Perhaps someone will speak up for him Has Keith a friend at work who...?'

  `He hasn't been there all that long. He knows no one really, except ...' Maxine broke off to wipe her eyes. `Except, you,' she ended.

  For several witless seconds Alethea stared at her. 'Me?' she questioned, smiling nervously as she sought to understand what her sister meant. 'What have I ...?'

  `You know Trent de Havilland,' Maxine enlightened her.

  `Tr.. .' Alethea's lovely violet eyes widened in alarm as, appalled, comprehension started to dawn. 'Yes, but ...' She gasped.

  `You could go to his party tonight and, if need be, beg him not to prosecute.' Maxine, it seemed, after hours

  of worrying, had come up with the only possible solution.

  `I couldn't do that!' Alethea argued in a strangled voice.

  `Why not?' Maxine wanted to know, sounding tougher than she looked. `I'd do it for you.'

  `Oh, Maxine ...' Alethea cried. Her sister's distress was her distress. But surely Maxine could see that Alethea couldn't possibly do what she was asking. 'Trent doesn't even know Keith. He'd have no idea who on earth I was talking about.' She tried to counter Maxine's insane idea with reason.

  `He doesn't have to know Keith,' Maxine continued. `He's the chairman of the whole shoot. All he has to do is pick up the phone and give the order to drop the prosecution and ...'

  Oh, Heavens! Maxine was seeing her wild notion as perfectly feasible, Alethea could see that she was. 'But Keith stole from him,' she cut in to protest.

  `And you're his sister-in-law, my sister and aunt to his three children,' Maxine said forcefully. This was her only chance and for her three children she would fight—and expect their aunt to do the same.

  I'm—sorry,' Alethea mumbled, and, unable to bear the accusing look in Maxine's eyes, she left the kitchen and went up to her room, with an unbearable weight of guilt dogging her footsteps.

  That same guilt plagued her for another half an hour while she sat on her bed and tried to forget Maxine's tear-stained face. Maxine seemed to think there was nothing to it. That Alethea could just bowl up to Trent's gathering and do as she asked. But how could she?

  Another half an hour went by and, wriggle though she might, Alethea, thinking of Maxine tearing herself

  apart, thinking of Maxine's pronouncement, 'I'd do it for you', found she had presented herself with a new problem: how could she not do it?

  She didn't want to do it. No way did she want to do it. The idea of driving over to the smart area where Trent de Havilland lived, of ringing his doorbell and then of somehow or other getting him alone and saying, Oh, by the way... and then confessing she was the sister-in-law of a man who had robbed his company, and going on from there to ask him to stop the prosecution, was utterly and totally ludicrous.

  Why should Trent do it? Why should he take any notice, for goodness' sake? He was a businessman, for certain upright in all his dealings, or Hector Chapman would not consider him a friend. So why, in creation, should Trent take any notice of her, someone he barely knew, pleading the case of someone he didn't know, but who had cheated his company?

  She glanced at her watch. It was half past nine. She went and had a shower, and was still mentally protesting a
gainst what she was doing when she applied powder and lipstick and stepped into the plain mustard-coloured dress she had worn the last time she had seen Trent.

  Was it only last Tuesday? It seemed ages ago. With luck she might make it to his home before eleven. Oh, grief, she didn't want to go.

  She had her car keys in her hand and was halfway down the stairs when it all at once dawned on her that Maxine could have said nothing to their mother of what she was going to ask Alethea to do. Alethea could quite see why. For, regardless of any stigma Maxine believed would attach itself to the children if their father was sent to prison, his mother-in-law would take only delight from

  the fact he was having to pay for his misdeeds. Prison,

  in her mother's opinion, would be the best place for him.

  In view of her mother's lack of sympathy, Alethea was positive that Maxine would want her to keep their discussion to herself. That being so, her mother was going to raise the roof when she went into the sitting room to mention she had changed her mind and was just off to Trent de Havilland's party.

  The thought of her parent's wrath gave Alethea some moments of unease. But then, perhaps in relation to that word 'sympathy', she recalled thinking that sympathy on its own would not be much help to Maxine.

  Time to suit her actions to her sympathy. Alethea took a brave breath and continued down the stairs. 'Where on earth are you going?' her mother demanded the moment she walked through the sitting-room door, spotting at once that her younger daughter no longer wore jeans and a T-shirt, but looked to be on her way out to a party.

  `I—er —changed my mind about going to that party,' Alethea dared, not looking at Maxine in case her mother did a two-and-two addition and came up with a correct four.

  `You're going to Trenton de Havilland's party?' her mother questioned incredulously.

  `I thought I would.'

  `Well, I..: Her mother started to give full voice—only for once her elder daughter interrupted her.

  `Alethea has a right to a life of her own, Mother.' She willingly drew Eleanor Pemberton's fire on herself, and Alethea didn't hang about.

  `And a fine mess you've made of yours!' she heard her mother rally as she got over her shock. By then Alethea was negotiating the chest in the hall.

  She found the exclusive area where Trent de Havilland lived without any trouble. But she was already brimful of nerves as she parked the car outside, went up stone steps and rang his doorbell.

  Oh, how she wanted to run away as she waited. Oh, it would be so easy! But she could not take that way out. For all she had barely glanced at Maxine before leaving, her sister would know that the only reason she had changed her mind about attending this get-together was to do as she had wanted. To ask Trent de Havilland not to prosecute her crooked brother-in-law. Grief, what on earth had ever made her think Trent would listen, much less agree?

  Alethea, though her feet were glued to the doorstep, was mentally all set to run away when she heard the sound of someone coming to answer the door. Oh, help her, somebody! Oh, if only she hadn't come.

  `Alethea!' Trent, casually dressed, opened the door to her. He was as she remembered him tall, dark-eyed, dark-haired. 'Come in,' he invited, stepping back to allow her to come by him.

  I—er—didn't bring a boyfriend. Is that all right?' she blurted out in her nervousness.

  `Of course,' he replied evenly, and, closing the door, he continued, 'I'm glad you could make it.' And so saying he led the way into a vast, high-ceilinged drawing room.

  The floor was thickly carpeted, with a low table separating a couple of matching sofas which flanked a massive stone fireplace. But, having anticipated being shown into a room full of people, or with at least half a dozen other guests, Alethea saw there were none.

  `Oh, no, I got the wrong nights' she exclaimed, appalled.

  `The fault is all mine,' Trent replied urbanely, his tall length between her and the door as if he read in her eyes that she was ready to bolt.

  `Fault?' she echoed.

  `My other guests rang from Paris. They flew over for the day,' he explained. 'Unfortunately, their plane is fogbound, making it impossible for them to get back tonight.' Flew over for the day! This was another world—but Alethea had no time to dwell on it; she was too busy coming to terms with the fact that, by the sound of it, she was Trent's only guest! 'I should have phoned you,' he went on. 'Forgive me that I didn't,' he apologised. `I was somehow certain you'd no intention of accepting my invitation.'

  Was there a question in his voice? Alethea was too embarrassed to be able to tell for sure. Hey-ho!' She tried to make light of it, and, skirting round him, she mumbled, `I'll—er—see you,' and was at the door.

  Trent de Havilland, however, was there before her. `You're not going?' he asked, making it sound as though he sincerely wanted her to stay a little while.

  `I— It's gone eleven, and—and ...'

  `And you don't have to be up early for work in the morning,' he teased, which reminded her of her mother—who on Tuesday had said the reverse of that—which in turn reminded her of her sister.

  Oh, Lord! 'That's true,' she agreed while she tried to sort out the conflict going on in her head. She must have had a brainstorm to think for a moment that she could get upright Trent de Havilland to give the order not to prosecute her brother-in-law! Yet, at the same time, what better opportunity to ask him than now? She didn't even have to try and get him alone to have a quiet word with

  him. There was no one else there! Perhaps within the next few minutes ...

  `You don't sound very sure,' Trent cut through her thoughts.

  Hurriedly Alethea got herself together. 'Er—perhaps I might stay for a cup of coffee,' she answered, and unexpectedly felt like smiling. Trent had asked her back to his home for coffee last Tuesday. She had declined—now look at her!

  She glanced up and saw his eyes were on her mouth. He caught her looking at him, and was not in the slightest way put out. 'You're very beautiful,' he told her. But before she could decide quite how she felt about Trent finding her beautiful, he stated firmly, 'Coffee. Come into the kitchen with me while I make it.'

  The kitchen was very up-to-date, with lots of equipment and, like the drawing room, large and high-ceilinged.

  `Did you ditch the boyfriend to come here this evening?' Trent asked conversationally as he set about making her a fresh cup of coffee. He had decided to have one himself, she saw, when he got out two cups and saucers.

  Mentally wriggling, Alethea thought of what she had to ask him and decided on honesty. 'I didn't have a date tonight,' she answered truthfully. She found the silence that followed deafening. Trent was nobody's fool; he was bound to know that there was more to her turning up the way she had, at this time of night, than any mere acceptance of his invitation. Or was it just her guilty conscience that made her think that?

  It was, she realised a moment later. Trent was loading the coffee and cups onto a tray, and, turning to her, those dark eyes seeming to penetrate her very soul, he

  asked, 'Do I conclude I'm someone special?' He sounded every bit as if he was serious, when she knew he had to be joking.

  `In your dreams!' she replied, and laughed—and felt a good deal better when Trent laughed too.

  `After you,' he instructed, and followed her to the drawing room with the coffee.

  Alethea poured, taking charge of the pot instinctively, and with the low table between them, Trent sitting on a sofa on one side and she perched on the other, the question she had to ask—didn't want to ask—waited for its opportunity.

  `Thought any more of finding a place of your own?' Trent kept the conversational ball rolling as they sipped their coffees.

  He'd remembered! Though, since he was probably still nursing a bruise on his shin after saying hello to that chest in the hall, she supposed it might be difficult to forget her mentioning the possibility of her leaving home in the same breath as 'overcrowding'.

  Alethea looked across at him. 'I'm going to s
tart looking for somewhere next week,' she replied, and knew as she said it, that, come Monday, she would set about finding a home of her own.

  Trent made no comment, but seemed to approve of her decision. But then he confused her totally by stating, when she thought he had forgotten, 'You didn't have a date tonight.' She shook her head, wondering what tack he was on now. 'Do you have a steady man-friend?' he wanted to know.

  Did he think she'd be there if she had? 'I've—friends,' she answered, and found herself adding as Trent's gaze stayed steady on her face, 'Though I'm careful not to—' Her breath caught and she abruptly broke off. She

  barely knew Trent, yet here she was on the way to revealing her innermost secrets to him. 'What have you put in this coffee?' she countered.

  `Nothing, I promise you,' he grinned—and Alethea discovered that she found his superb mouth fascinating. She also had to wonder what it was about him that had led her to tell him she was leaving home before she had told her mother, and she had as near as dammit revealed to him her care not to... 'So tell me, Alethea,' he went on smoothly, with not so much as a hint of what was to come, 'why are you afraid to commit yo—?'

  `I'm not!' she interrupted him in a hurry, her cup and saucer going down on the table with a clatter.

  `You're afraid to trust,' he stated calmly, not one bit put out by her agitated manner, though his eyes on her were alert and watchful.

  `I'm not,' she denied again, hating him and all scientists in general, who saw what they thought was a problem and weren't satisfied until they'd rooted out the cause.

  `You trust me, then?'

  She looked at him. Of course she didn't trust him `I'm here, aren't I?' she answered snappily, beginning to feel cross and not wanting him, with his scientific brain, wondering why she was there when he knew as well as she that she'd previously had no such intention. The time wasn't right to tell him, to ask him, not just now. Unfortunately, in her attempt to rapidly take the subject away from why she was there, Alethea latched onto that word 'trust', and went headlong into another subject she didn't want to discuss. 'Anyway, I've already told you—' she changed course in a rush ' —my father ran out on us when I was ten!'