Island Interlude

by Anne McAllister

  'I think you ought to,' Christine Portman said, her eyes expressing a blend of love and worry as she stood in the kitchen of Libby's home and watched her only daughter try to ignore her the way she'd tried to ignore everyone for the past week. 'I think you need to.'

  'There's nothing to say.' Libby went on stirring. Nothing she wanted to say, at any rate. And she could hardly expect her parents to nurse her through yet another folly with the same man.

  That was, perhaps, the hardest part—being made a fool of twice. Falling in love with a rogue at the age of eighteen might be excusable on grounds of naïveté. Falling in love with a rogue at the age of twenty-six was foolishness. And there were no words left to describe the idiocy of a woman who fell in love with the same rogue twice!

  'It was Alec Blanchard again, wasn't it?'

  Libby sighed, knowing that the time had come, that her parents' patience had worn through. They had been tolerant as could be when she'd returned two weeks ago, looking like the ghost of Christmas past. They, better than anyone, knew how distraught she'd been when she'd come home eight years ago.

  But they'd been tolerant for two weeks now, hovering, concerned, but silent. Now, Christine seemed to be saying, enough was enough.

  Libby knew her mother was right. She just wished the truth didn't make her sound like such an idiot. If only there was some way she could have disguised the source of her distress.

  They hadn't connected the first time with the second until Sam had started talking about his friend Alec.

  Then both Libby's parents' eyes had widened, their jaws had dropped, and they'd looked to her for confir­mation. She hadn't said a word.

  She couldn't stop Sam talking, of course. No one could ever stop Sam talking. The most she could do was hope that eventually he would find something else to say.

  Eventually he did. The longer they were home and the more time he spent with his friends, the less every sentence began with 'Alec said…' or 'My friend Juliet…'

  Still, hearing less about Alec didn't give Libby the reprieve she'd prayed for. On the contrary, she thought about him all the time. She might have left Harbour Island, but she hadn't left Alec behind.

  She had tried to behave in a mature, rational manner when she'd first heard Lois's words. So she hadn't fled Harbour Island at the first inkling that once more Alec had gone off with another stunning actress, though with every fibre of her being she wanted to.

  Instead she'd thanked Lois politely and walked slowly and sedately back across the island to her home, Sam firing off volleys of questions as he dogged her heels.

  Libby hadn't answered any of them. She had had too many of her own.

  Why? she'd asked herself over and over. Why had he done it? What did it mean? Was it all some perverse game he was playing? Did he care at all? How did Alec really feel about her? About Sam?

  And to every question she had only one answer: she didn't know.

  She had hoped it might be a mistake, that Lois had somehow got things wrong. But a day had passed with no word, and then another.

  Sam's questions hadn't abated, but Libby's patience had. It was no mistake. And she'd be a fool to sit and wait forever. She'd be a fool if she even waited another day.

  She had her work more or less finished. And what she hadn't got by now, she'd do without.

  Alec knew where she lived. If he wanted her, he could find her. Not that she wanted him. Not after the way he'd behaved.

  'What we going to tell Mr Alec?' Maddy grumbled when Libby bade her goodbye.

  Tell him to go to hell, Libby thought, but she only shook her head. She had nothing left to say.

  She still didn't. For if she'd thought she was leaving precipitately, if she'd thought there was the slightest chance that she had made a mistake, the magazines she'd seen in the supermarket just yesterday had proven her right.

  There on the front page of two of the more sen­sational journals were pictures of Alec and Amalia Webster disembarking from an aeroplane in Los Angeles, a pinch-faced Juliet in the background. One had the headline 'ALEC AND MALIE RETURN FROM BAHAMIAN LOVE NEST.' The other asked more bluntly, 'IS THIS THE WOMAN WHO WILL TAKE MARGO'S PLACE?'

  Stricken, Libby just stared at them. She felt a hand come down on her shoulder and, starting, turned to look straight into Michael's concerned eyes. It was the first time she'd seen him since she'd come back.

  He looked briefly at the headlines, grimaced, then looked back at her. 'I'm sorry, Lib,' he said.

  Libby closed her eyes. 'Thanks.' What else, after all, could she say?

  Michael, bless him, didn't ask a thing. He offered to buy her a cup of coffee, she declined, and he nodded understandingly. 'I'll see you home.'

  She didn't object. She didn't have the strength.

  Michael was quiet the whole way, and when he let her out at her front gate he looked at her, concerned. 'You'll be OK?'

  'Of course.'

  'I'll see you around, then. We'll have supper.'

  Libby nodded yes. But they wouldn't. She could never go back to Michael now, and both of them knew it.

  'It was Alec, wasn't it?' her mother asked gently now. 'Your Alec'

  'He's not my Alec,' Libby said fiercely. She swiped at her eyes as tears threatened. 'And there are a million other Alecs in the world besides him.'

  'Yes,' Christine said reasonably, 'but not another one who could do this to you.'

  And that, Libby had to admit, was true.

  'I'm fine,' she said stubbornly. 'Yes, I ran into Alec there. But that's irrelevant. I finished my project right on schedule. Early in fact. So I came home. What's the big deal? What's everyone worried about?'

  Christine touched her arm, turning her so that Libby had to look into her mother's eyes. 'You, Libby,' Christine said softly. 'We're worried about you.'

  How could you fight a mother's concern, a mother's love? How could you deny it when you needed it so much? Libby couldn't. She shook her head helplessly, the pain of the past week overwhelming her. The tears she'd held at bay brimmed over at last.

  'I feel such a fool. I fell in love with him,' she whispered, agonised. 'I fell in love with him all over again.'

  Christine put her arms around her daughter. 'Oh, my dear.'

  Libby shuddered and sucked in a deep breath, getting a grip on herself. 'I should have known better. I shouldn't have trusted him. He said he loved me. He said he wanted to marry me. He said…'

  But there was no point in repeating what Alec had said. His actions, once again, she told her mother, had spoken louder than his words.

  'It will take time, that's all,' Libby assured her.

  She had got over Alec before. She had gone on to have a happy, productive life. She still had her home, her family, her son—everything she'd had before she'd gone to Harbour Island in June. If she had done it once, she could do it again.

  'Sam's coming,' Libby's mother said. 'He and Pop must have finished the tree-house.'

  Sam's raving about Juliet's tree-house had convinced his grandfather and uncles that a similar one in the oak tree in their back yard would be worth the effort. Ever since they'd come back, the building had gone on. Libby suspected that part of her father's willingness stemmed from his perception that keeping Sam busy and dis­tracted would give Libby some space and time to come to terms with what had happened. She was grateful.

  She made a point of spending time each day doing something special with Sam, too.

  She had done that from the day they'd returned. She knew Sam would miss his afternoons with Arthur, going fishing with Lyman, playing with Juliet. So she made up her mind to provide him with some new memories to replace the old ones.

  One day they'd baked a cake from scratch. Another they had gone for a hike and explored the caves in one of the county parks. Yesterday, after she'd come back from the supermarket, the stories about Alec still spinning in her head, she had shoved them aside, smiled at her son and asked him if he wanted to go swimming.

  Today, as Sam c
ame puffing up to regale them with the latest tree-house stories, Libby asked if he wanted to go for a bike ride.

  'Sure. But you gotta see the tree-house first.'

  Libby and Christine followed him back up the lane and along Elm Street to inspect the tree-house. It was every bit as nice as the one Alec had built.

  But after Libby and Sam had started out on the bikes, Sam confided, 'I like it a lot. But I liked Alec's better.'

  Libby didn't answer. She just said, 'Race you to the fence-post.' And Sam, no proof against a challenge, took off pedalling.

  They met Michael coming out of the library. 'Going somewhere?' he asked.

  'We're riding out to Ericson's,' Sam told him, men­tioning the farm just outside town which they often used as a turnaround point.

  'Warm day for a ride,' Michael said.

  Libby nodded.

  'Mind if I ride along?'

  Libby opened her mouth.

  'Just for company. No strings,' Michael said quickly. 'You look as if you could use a friend.'

  'I don't want to presume,' Libby said. 'I can't—'

  'I know that, damn it,' Michael said. 'Just friends, all right?'

  Libby nodded. He unlocked his own bike and, with Sam in the lead, they pedalled down the road.

  It was a hot day, beastly and humid—the sort Iowa was famous for. The sort that made Libby long for an ocean breeze like the ones she'd left behind. Bike-riding was not one of her better ideas, and going right out to Ericson's place had been a mistake. She was vastly relieved to turn around.

  Sam's stamina had increased over the summer. He no longer lagged behind when they rode. In fact, now, as they pedalled homeward, the humidity was affecting her more than it was her son.

  'C'mon, Mom!' Sam yelled, half a block ahead of her.

  Libby waved at him, marvelling at his unflagging eagerness. She wanted to drop.

  'Go on ahead,' she called to him as they approached their lane. 'You can get the iced water ready. I'm ready for it,' she said to Michael. 'How about you?'

  He shook his head. 'Committee meeting at three. I gotta go home and grab a shower first.' He rode with her to the gate, then paused.

  'There,' he said. 'See? That wasn't so bad, was it?'

  Libby shook her head. 'I just don't want you to get hurt again.'

  'I won't,' Michael promised. He winked at her, shoved away from the curb and vanished up the lane.

  Libby got off her bike and pulled it up on the curb, then reached to unlatch the gate.

  'Allow me.' The voice was gruff. Hoarse. Alec's.

  Libby ran over her foot as she stared.

  'Mom! Look, Mom! Look who's here!' Sam appeared right behind him, grinning for all he was worth.

  She supposed she should have expected it. He had, after all, come to explain his defection the first time. Why should this one be different? She gritted her teeth.

  Alec didn't say a word. He looked none too happy either, though what he should have to be unhappy about she didn't know. Steeling her emotions, she gave him a brusque nod and got off her bike. He opened the gate and stood back while she wheeled the bike past him into the yard.

  'He was standin' on the porch when I got here,' Sam told her, bouncing alongside. 'How come you left? Where'd you go? Where's Juliet? Did you bring Juliet?' he asked Alec.

  'Not this time,' Alec said, answering only the last. 'I came alone.'

  'How come?' Sam looked up quizzically.

  'I needed to talk to your mother.'

  "Bout what?'

  'That's between your mother and me.' Alec looked searchingly at Libby. She wondered if he expected her to agree. Fat chance, she thought. This was his idea; let him fob Sam off.

  She pushed her hair back off her sweaty forehead. She needed to be cool and calm to deal with Alec. Trust him to show up now when she was a wreck!

  'Are you stayin' for supper?' Sam asked. 'We're having spaghetti.'

  A corner of Alec's mouth lifted. 'Sounds good.'

  Sam cocked his head. 'So you are stayin'!'

  'We'll see,' Alec said.

  'Why don't you run over to Grandpa and Grandma's for a bit?' Libby suggested to her son.

  Sam gave both of them a long assessing look, as if he wondered whether he dared leave them alone. Then, apparently deciding that his presence wasn't going to settle things, he shrugged and started for the gate, then turned back. 'Where is Juliet?'

  'I left her with a friend. Amalia Webster.'

  Who else? thought Libby. Any hopes that Alec might have come to sweep her into his arms died right there.

  It was to be just another explanation, like last time. Or—and here a shaft of pure terror shot through her— had he come to try to get her to agree to let him take Sam with him as well?

  The thought rooted her right where she stood. She felt by turns cold and hot; her mind focused with blinding clarity on the horror of the notion one second and spun out of control the next.

  She watched Sam go, a small reluctant figure who kept glancing back as if one or the other of them might dis­appear. She made herself smile and shoo him on, all the while promising him silently that she'd never let him go with Alec, not over her dead body.

  Libby turned and walked straight past Alec up the steps and into the house. 'You needn't have bothered,' she said.

  He strode after her, letting the screen door bang behind him. 'That's it, huh? Just wait until my back is turned and run off?'

  Libby whirled, aghast, anger flaring. 'What the hell do you mean by that?'

  'Just what I said. I'm gone three days and you vanish. Not a word. Not a message. "She just left, Mr Alec. I don' know why."' He mimicked Maddy's soft Bahamian accents. 'Well, damn it, I want to know why!'

  Over her shoulder Libby shot him a disbelieving stare. 'You're the one who left, Alec,' she said finally, her mouth twisting. 'Not me. Think about it.'

  'I can explain.'

  'As you "explained" last time?' Libby couldn't mask her bitterness.

  Alec raked his fingers through his hair. 'This time is not last time. Damn it, Libby! Listen to me. You have to listen to me!'

  Libby spun around and glared up at him. 'I do? Why? Eight years ago you didn't listen to me!'

  A spasm of pain flickered across Alec's face. He swal­lowed. 'I know that,' he said quietly. He bowed his head for a moment, then raised it and looked right at her. 'I'll regret that every day of my life.'

  And Libby knew that, no matter what he told her now, about that at least he was telling her the truth.

  For all the good it did, she reminded herself, steeling herself against him.

  Alec rubbed a hand down his face, rocked back on his heels, then tucked both hands in his pockets. 'Lord, what a mess,' he said under his breath.

  'Yes,' Libby agreed tightly.

  He sighed, shaking his head. 'Even now I don't know what I could have done differently. With regard to us, I mean.' The look he gave her was sad now, rather than angry. 'Obviously I should never have married Margo.'

  'You loved Margo,' Libby reminded him.

  'The hell I did!'

  Libby goggled at him, shocked to the core. 'What?'

  'I did not love Margo.' He bit the words out.

  'But…but you must have! You…you married her…' Her voice faded.

  'You don't only marry for love,' Alec said grimly.

  It had just been a fling, then? Libby didn't know how she felt about that. Did it make things better or worse? 'You married her because she was pregnant?'

  'Yes.'

  'I don't see the difference, then,' Libby said frankly. 'Marrying her or marrying me. We were both pregnant. She just got there first.'

  'I loved you,' Alec said quietly. 'And…' he paused, his gaze flickering around the room for a moment as he ran his tongue over his lips and drew in a long breath '… I did not get Margo pregnant.'

  Libby's eyes met his slowly, doubtfully. 'What are you saying?'

  'Exactly what you imagine I'm saying. Juliet
is not my child.'

  Libby just looked at him.

  Alec repeated it. He looked at her steadily, his eyes dark and unreadable.

  'But you said that's why you married Margo!'

  'It is.' Alec began prowling the kitchen again. 'But I never had an affair with her. I wasn't ever interested in her in that way.'

  'All those magazine stories—'

  'Hype,' Alec said succinctly. 'And red herrings. Margo didn't want anyone to know who she was really involved with. Daddy didn't approve.'

  At sea, Libby didn't know what to say. 'Who…?' she began finally, then stopped. It was none of her business.

  'Clive Gilbert.'

  It took a moment for the name to register. 'Clive— the stuntman? The one who…?

  'Who was killed,' Alec finished for her. 'Doing my work,' he added. 'I told you it was a mess. That day when we came back from Ben Bay and Margo showed up—that's when I found out she was pregnant. She was distraught. Frantic. She'd never been particularly stable, and Clive's death had devastated her. Then she found out she was pregnant.'

  Alec's fingers clenched on the counter-top. He stared, unseeing, out of the window. 'She knew her father would flip,' he went on. 'He didn't think Clive was good enough for her. He'd forbidden Margo to have anything to do with him. That was why she was planting stories about being seen with me. Then, when Clive died and she found out she was expecting his child, she was desperate. She came to me.'

  Libby stared straight ahead, trying to make sense of it all. Outside in the treetops cicadas hummed. The paper­boy whacked the newspaper against the door.

  He hadn't loved Margo? He'd married her out of kindness? Did that mean—?

  'I did what I thought I had to do,' Alec said heavily. 'I told her I'd marry her. She said OK.' He gave a wry grimace. 'It wasn't OK, right from the very start. She didn't love me; she loved Clive. I didn't love her; I loved you.'

  'You…' Libby began, but she couldn't repeat the words he'd just uttered.

  'I loved you,' Alec said forcefully. Then he shrugged. 'But I didn't think you loved me. Not really. I mean, you were a child, and I'd seduced you. You had your whole life ahead of you. You had plans—to go to college, to get your degree, to become someone your family could be proud of. You had it all worked out. I thought it was the best thing to do—marry Margo and let you go.'