Island Interlude

by Anne McAllister

  But for all that she, personally, was ready to go home, she couldn't leave without finishing her work.

  She didn't want to think what Professor Dietrich would say if she went back to Iowa without the material she'd come for. He had been her mentor for seven long years. She owed him—and herself—its completion.

  Besides, Sam didn't know any of her turmoil. These two months were a holiday for him, the first real vacation away from home he'd ever had.

  She could hear him now, out in the road playing two square with several of the town kids. His laugh made her smile. His joy made her life complete. For Sam's pleasure and Dr Dietrich's satisfaction, she could live with the knowledge that Alec was only a mile away.

  At least he was a mile away. With luck they would come no closer than that.

  There was a brisk tap at the front door.

  'Come on in,' Libby called, expecting Maddy with the day's catch of fish. She stood and scraped her papers into a pile on the desk, then turned, a smile of welcome on her face.

  'Hello, Libby.' It was Alec.

  Her smile faded, her stomach knotted. He hadn't changed. Not at all. Other men his age had begun to grow chunky. Their hair had started to thin, their eyes to tire. But Alec was the same as he'd always been— only more so.

  The lean whipcord strength she remembered seemed all too evident, contained in a mere T-shirt and cotton trousers. His dark hair was wind-ruffled and wanted cutting. His face was taut, the skin tight over the bones. It took only a glance to confirm that he was every bit as handsome and compelling as he had ever been.

  Her fingers found purchase on the back of the chair, tightening reflexively. She drew a slow, steadying breath.

  'Alec,' she acknowledged coldly when she could speak. 'What do you want?'

  'I heard you were here,' he said in the same voice that had once sent shivers of love and longing down her spine. 'I wanted to see you.'

  Libby met his gaze evenly. 'Why?'

  'Because we were friends.'

  'Is that what we were?' Libby asked bitterly.

  His smile was grim. 'Not exactly thrilled to see me, are you?'

  'Should I be?'

  He sighed. 'No,' he said after a moment. 'Probably not. But I knew we'd run into each other sooner or later. I just thought I'd rather pick the time and place.'

  'If you'd keep to your own side of the island,' Libby said rudely, 'it needn't have happened at all.'

  Her vehemence seemed to surprise him. 'I wanted it to,' he said again.

  'All right,' she said shortly. 'You've seen me. Go home.'

  Alec shook his head. 'I don't think so.'

  'Alec—'

  'We have a lot to talk about.' He still stood in the middle of the room, shrinking it, his eyes on her, making her squirm.

  She wished, if they'd had to meet, they had met at the dock or on the beach—anywhere outside where Alec Blanchard didn't take up all the available space.

  'No, we don't,' Libby said and looked pointedly at the door.

  Alec didn't move, just waited.

  She sighed, knowing he wouldn't leave until he'd said whatever it was he'd come to say. They might as well get it over with. 'OK. Talk. Sit down if you must,' she added ungraciously as she went to stand behind the dining-table.

  'You used to be more welcoming.'

  'Surprise, surprise.'

  He scowled, but took a seat on the couch, crossing one leg over the other knee. He wore a pair of faded blue trousers and the fabric pulled across his thighs, outlining the muscles beneath. Libby remembered the strength of those thighs, the power of the man. Her face burned. Desperately she shoved herself away from the table.

  'How about some iced tea?' she asked, needing some herself to quench the sudden fire she felt.

  'Sounds good.'

  She had hoped for a momentary respite in the kitchen, but Alec followed her in, lounging against the door-jamb, his eyes never leaving her. There was a hunger in them that was all too familiar. Libby looked away, opening the refrigerator.

  'Why did you come, Alec? What do you want?'

  'To see you. To catch up. You were a kid the last time I saw you.'

  'A kid?' Her voice was scornful, but his words hurt.

  'A beautiful child.' The tone in which he said the words made her knees weak.

  'That you took advantage of,' Libby bit out.

  His mouth twisted. 'Maybe I did,' he allowed.

  She whirled and glared at him. 'Is that why you're back now? Do you want more? Because if you do, you're sure as hell not getting it!'

  He grinned. 'The kitten's developed claws.'

  'I'm not a kitten. I never was. I'm a woman, Alec' She turned away and concentrated on dropping ice cubes into tall glasses, then filled them up.

  'I've noticed,' Alec said drily.

  'Don't bother.' She handed him a glass, careful not to touch him, then led the way back into the living-room, seating herself in the high-backed chair closest to the window.

  For a long moment neither of them spoke. Then Alec said conversationally, 'They say you're on the island doing a study.'

  Libby nodded. 'That's right. Oral history.'

  Alec smiled, as if her choice amused him, then settled on to the couch. 'Do you like it?'

  'Yes.'

  'That's what you wanted to do.'

  'Yes.'

  'You were serious, then, about your goals?' He was looking at her intently, as though it mattered.

  To her it had. Eight years ago they had lain on the beach together, their bodies touching, their breath mingling, their dreams shared. And while Alec had told her about his first film, just finished, about the pains and joys of that experience and about his hopes and dreams for a successful directing career, Libby had told him how she would be the first of her family to enrol in college.

  She had told him how excited they all were, how determined she was. It might have sounded like small potatoes to someone like him, but she had meant it.

  'I'm going to make them proud of me,' she'd vowed with the enthusiasm of youth.

  And Alec had said, 'Good for you. You can do it.'

  Of course, it hadn't happened the way she'd envisaged it. It had been a longer, harder road because of Sam. But, after a fashion, with a few major obstacles sur­mounted, she had done what she'd said she would do. And her family was proud of her. She was proud of herself.

  'I was completely serious,' she said now, deliberately meeting his gaze.

  He nodded and took a long swallow of the tea. 'That's good. I'm glad. You must be serious if you're still going strong eight years later. What're you working on, a PhD?'

  'My master's.'

  He looked surprised. 'That's all?'

  She shrugged. 'I dropped out for a while.'

  'Dropped out? But you were so gung-ho. Why'd you quit?'

  'I had another commitment that was more important.'

  'What commitment?' He was frowning now, chal­lenging her, as if asking what could have been more vital than the degree she'd been so determined to get.

  Far out in the harbour Libby could hear the persistent buzz of an outboard motor. Beyond the gate came the laughter of playing children. Just outside the window, crickets chirped and birds twittered.

  She lifted her chin and looked straight at him, won­dering if even the truth would shatter his complacency. 'I had your son.'

  For an eternity Alec didn't move.

  She might have wondered if he'd even heard her, but she saw the colour drain from his face.

  So, she thought. It was possible to rattle him. But it was a hollow sort of satisfaction.

  Still, she wasn't going to lie to him. She never had. She wouldn't start now. Not to protect either herself or him.

  He was still staring at her. 'My son? You had my son? You got pregnant, Lib?' His voice cracked. He was as white as the coconut meat Libby helped Maddy to grate.

  In answer Libby got to her feet and walked to the window, pulling aside the curtain to look past
the fence towards the street. 'Your son,' she said and nodded.

  Alec hauled himself up from the couch and came to stand beside her. She pointed. His gaze followed the movement of her hand.

  There were half a dozen children playing in the dusty street. Only one of the six was white. He had unruly dark hair that flopped across his forehead, long skinny legs and dirty bare feet. He laughed just then and Alec could see that one of his top front teeth was missing.

  'My God.'

  His fingers caught Libby's wrist and gripped it tight. His gaze swivelled, fastening on hers.' Why…? For pity's sake, Libby, why didn't…why didn't you tell me?'

  She heard rage and pain and every emotion she'd ever hoped to hear in his voice. But it was too late. Eight years too late.

  She pulled her arm away. 'I called. No one would let me talk to you. You were married, remember? They were protecting that.' Her mouth twisted at the memory of the run-around she'd been given by all those many well-meaning people. 'I understood. Margo got there first, after all,' she added with an ironic smile.

  'Margo—'

  'But I did try. I thought maybe you'd want to know.'

  'To know?' He looked at her, aghast. 'Just to know? That you were having my son?'

  Libby gave a bitter laugh. 'What else? You could hardly marry me. You already had one pregnant wife. What did you need with another?'

  He looked stricken. 'You should have told Harve.'

  Libby shook her head. There was no way Libby could have told Alec's secretary-cum-assistant. Harve Milliken's job was to protect Alec from groupies and hangers-on. And from the first time he'd met her, he'd lumped Libby into that category, never seeing in her what Alec had.

  Harve had wanted the best for his boss. The best, in Harve's eyes, had never been Libby Portman.

  'Harve wasn't the father of my baby.'

  'For goodness sake, Libby…' he raked his hands through his hair '… you must have needed help…money…'

  'I didn't want money,' she said. 'I wasn't asking for that. I just thought you should know.' She shrugged and walked away from the window. 'When they wouldn't let me talk to you, I wrote.' She spread her hands.

  Alec stared at her. 'The letter? That was what you were writing to me about?' His face was still white. She could see the pulse ticking furiously in his temple. He swallowed hard. His gaze went again to the boy in the street, then came back once more to Libby.

  'Yes. I certainly wasn't trying to get you!'

  He shut his eyes. 'Oh, lord.' He looked almost ill.

  The gate clicked just then and Maddy came into the garden, a shopping-bag in her arms. She came up the steps and, with a light tap, opened the door.

  Her eyes went from Libby to Alec and back again. 'Oh, my.'

  'Hi, Maddy. Did you bring us some fish?' Libby mus­tered her most matter-of-fact voice.

  Maddy licked her lips, then rummaged in the shopping-bag and slapped a packet on the table. 'That I did. Plenty for tonight and tomorrow too. How you been, Mr Alec?' she added, giving him a surreptitious glance.

  Alec shook his head. He backed towards the door. 'I need to think,' he mumbled.

  His eye caught Libby's for just a moment, then slid away. 'I… have to go. I'll talk to you, Libby.'

  'He knows,' Maddy said into the silence he left behind.

  'Yes,' Libby agreed. 'Now he knows.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  'YOU sick or something, Mom?' Sam asked.

  Libby shook her head as she concentrated on washing the dinner dishes later that evening. 'I'm fine.'

  'You're awful quiet.'

  Libby laughed. 'You're just not used to the lack of noise around here. No television. No radio. No telephone.'

  Sam shrugged. 'Maybe. But last night you talked to me.'

  And tonight she'd scarcely said a word. She had begun to understand the implications of Alec's knowing. She'd been preoccupied with his arrival and with everything that had passed between them all through dinner, but she didn't think that Sam had noticed. Now guiltily she made an effort to focus on him. 'So what did you do today?'

  'Went swimming with Arthur down by the dock. An' then we fed Lulu at the cricket grounds.'

  Arthur was Maddy's youngest. Lulu was the island horse. Her function in life seemed to be keeping the weeds down on the scraggly patch of grass known as the Royal Cricket Grounds and, periodically, giving rides to the island's children.

  It hadn't taken Sam long to make friends with either Arthur or Lulu.

  Libby watched him now, drying the dishes with more vigour than ability. There was an eager light in his eyes. This trip had been good for him, broadening his horizons, opening his eyes to a world larger than the one he lived in back home in Iowa.

  Despite Alec, she couldn't be sorry they had come.

  'So can we?' Sam asked.

  Libby blinked, coming back to reality. 'Can we what, sweetie?'

  'Go to the beach? Arthur says it's super. Better'n the harbour. Waves 'n' reefs. Can we, huh?'

  Libby pulled the plug and let the water pour noisily down the drain. She'd been avoiding the beach. It held too many memories. But she couldn't be plagued by more than had already been today. If she had to go, now was the time. 'Why not?'

  She took a beach towel to sit on and a flashlight in case darkness fell before they got back. The sun was behind them, low in the sky, and when they reached the rise of the hill the breeze off the ocean picked up, cooling her cheeks as she walked. The pavement was still warm through the thin soles of her sandals, and she walked at first reluctantly, then more rapidly as if pulled, drawn like the tide to the shore.

  Eight years ago this beach, these three miles of pink coral sand, had been her second home. Every day she'd taken Tony and Alicia Braden, aged eight and ten, there to swim and to play in the sand. And at night, when Tony and Alicia had gone to bed, she'd taken a flash­light and walked back down to dream her impossible dreams as she'd dug her toes in the soft wet sand.

  They had been nights just like this one with the sun going down behind her. And she would come down and stare out at the ocean, thinking that if she, Elizabeth Mary Portman, an eighteen-year-old land-locked Iowan, could wind up on the most beautiful beach in the Caribbean for a whole summer, then anything—any­thing at all—could happen.

  And when she had met Alec, it had.

  But she wouldn't let herself think about that now. Alec was too close to her tonight. Too immediate. Too real.

  Forget him, she told herself fiercely and forced herself to focus on Sam as he skipped down the path to the ocean, shouting at her to come, to hurry, to see what he had found.

  It was Sam who mattered now, not Alec. Sam. And when she got home, Michael. Alec was her past. Sam and Michael were her future.

  'Come on, Mom,' Sam shouted again.

  Libby slipped off her sandals and ran after him.

  Sam found a Coke can from the Netherlands, an empty tube of sun-screen from Poland, a water-bottle from France. Libby, despite her best intentions, found mem­ories of the past.

  Sam raced in and out of the incoming tide, dug trenches, built castles, turned cartwheels in the sand.

  Libby spread out her towel, wrapped her arms around her knees and watched.

  But what she saw was not Sam, but Tony and Alicia Braden, her charges of that summer eight long years ago.

  What she felt was not a detached anthropological interest in the shipboard flotsam and jetsam that Sam laid before her, but the remembered awe and starry-eyed amazement of a sheltered young woman come for the first time to a foreign land.

  'Watch me!' Sam yelled, leaping into the ocean, jumping the waves. 'Watch me, Mom!'

  And Libby watched. But it was Tony she was seeing in her mind's eye as he had leaped in and out of the surf all those years before.

  It was a day that, no matter how much she might like to, she knew she would never forget…

  * * *

  It had been a long day, a tiring one. Alicia had been cranky, Tony ha
d lost a tooth. Neither had been happy when their parents had informed them they wouldn't be home that evening, that their neighbours, the Blanchards, had invited them over for cocktails and dinner instead.

  'Can we come?' Tony demanded.

  'Not this time,' his father said.

  'You promised you'd play cards with me,' Alicia fussed. 'And Mama was going to cut out the Roaring Twenties paper dolls.'

  'In the morning,' Mrs Braden promised. 'It's important that we go tonight, lovely. It's a party for Alec'

  Tony's eyes widened. 'He's back? Really? Truly?'

  'Just for a while,' his mother said, then turned to Libby and explained, 'Our neighbours' son is Alec Blanchard. You may have heard of him.'

  'Yes.' Even provincial midwestern Libby had heard of Alec Blanchard. An actor of brooding intensity and considerable fame, Alec Blanchard was becoming a household word. Just last month in a weekly news magazine Libby had read about his new film.

  He had tried his hand at directing this film as well as acting in it. The writer of the article had waxed lyrical about his talent, had spoken of the sparks that flew between him and his co-star Margo Hesse, and about how well he'd borne the stress of something or other; Libby didn't remember what.

  Evelyn Braden did.

  'Such a shame what happened. Poor Alec He's taking a bit of time off,' Mrs Braden said to Libby as she played gin rummy with Alicia. 'It's been a hard year for him, what with the film, Margo's temperament and then Clive Gilbert getting killed.'

  Libby looked blank, not knowing who Clive Gilbert was.

  Her confusion must have showed on her face for Mrs Braden went on, 'Clive was Alec's stunt man. His double, you know. Alec did most of his own work. But his contract prevented him from doing the riskiest bits. Clive did those. He was killed last month in Spain. Trampled by a horse doing a re-shoot of a scene. He was, perhaps, Alec's best friend as well. Alec's taken it very hard.'