‘So that’s what happened. That day in the boathouse,’ she said at last with crisp resignation.
He glanced across at her, noting the look on her face. Firm, stoical – the army officer’s daughter that she had been brought up to be.
‘She’s emotional,’ he muttered, looking away.
‘So you don’t believe her?’
‘I don’t know what to believe any more.’
Another silence that seemed to make the night air vibrate between them.
‘I do,’ said Elizabeth eventually, stepping out into the moonlight. ‘I believe her.’
‘What?’ whispered Jim incredulously.
His mother’s face had paled so that it looked ghoulish.
‘I remember that day,’ she said, moving towards him. ‘It was hot, sticky. We’d come back from Savannah and your father was in the shower. At four o’clock in the afternoon.’
Jim didn’t remember that detail.
‘You said it yourself. It was hot . . .’
‘Your father was a man of routine,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘A glass of claret, a bath, a cigar in his dressing gown . . . Not a shower in the afternoon.’
She paused and looked out towards the inky lake.
‘I’d suspected him of seeing someone for weeks. He was different, pleased with himself. I knew it wasn’t the work, his book. I’d seen his notes, and believe me, there wasn’t much of it. I wondered if it was Sylvia Wyatt, but then I knew how much she disliked us. Or perhaps the housekeeper, Marion. She was certainly appealing. So I went down to the boathouse. I don’t know what I was looking for – a sign, a smell, a clue, something . . . and then I saw it.’
‘What?’
‘A necklace. A thin gold chain with a little hummingbird just here,’ she said, touching her throat. ‘I remembered Jennifer Wyatt wearing an identical necklace at the party. I tried to tell myself that perhaps you and she had been fooling around in there, but in my heart of hearts I knew something had happened.’
‘It doesn’t mean he . . . it doesn’t mean he raped her.’ He struggled to say the word.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ she said sadly. ‘But I heard Jennifer just then, and she wasn’t lying. Besides, your father had form . . .’
‘Form?’
It was another minute before she spoke.
‘Saul had an assistant. Julia. Beautiful thing. Very similar in looks and poise to Jennifer. She made allegations . . .’
‘What sort of allegations?’
‘That your father assaulted her. Sexually.’
‘People didn’t believe her, did they?’
Elizabeth didn’t speak.
‘Say something,’ pressed Jim. ‘Was she trying to blackmail him? I’m guessing this was after his success with College . . .’
‘Saul had the allegations buried,’ said Elizabeth, shifting uncomfortably. ‘Bryn was the biggest client the agency had. College was on its twelfth printing. It was one of the biggest global hits of the decade. No one wanted that bandwagon to stop rolling, and besides, there was no concrete evidence. Not that there ever is . . .’
‘I don’t believe it,’ he whispered.
‘We’ll never know the truth. About Saul’s assistant, about Jennifer. But yes, your father had his demons; all this self-confidence and yet he never quite believed he was good enough.’
Elizabeth took a moment, as if she were collecting her thoughts.
‘We were never really happy together,’ she said finally. ‘Certainly after the business with Saul’s assistant I could never sleep next to him at night without wondering if the allegations were true. But I stayed with him. I took the easy option, even if that meant being dishonest; dishonest with myself, dishonest with the world about what I knew about Bryn Johnson.’
‘The truth hurts,’ replied Jim quietly.
‘Yes, it does. But at least it’s the truth. Lies always catch up with you in the end.’
She stepped forward and took her son’s hand.
‘Go and find Jennifer. Trust her. Trust your feelings for one another.’
‘I can’t. Not after everything I’ve done, everything I’ve said,’ said Jim, feeling wretched. All he had ever wanted was to be with Jennifer. Protect her. Even the acquisition of RedReef had been to help her, and yet when it really counted, he had turned his back on her.
‘Jennifer was right. If you don’t go after her now, he’s won.’
Jim squeezed his mother’s fingers, then wrapped his arms around her in a hug that had never been more full of affection and support.
‘Go,’ she whispered, and he released her and ran up the lawn towards the house.
As he pushed through the crowd, he vaguely registered the scene. In one corner he could see Simon Desai still deep in conversation with Sarah; in another, Celine Wood was sitting on her fiancé’s knee. A couple kissed by the pool, a waiter topped up the fountain of champagne to shrieks of delight, a seventy-something socialite was laughing with Nina Scott, the travel PR. For one night at least, happiness was everywhere, except in his heart.
He ran through the house towards the front of Casa D’Or. Already a line of black Town Cars was queuing down the drive to whisk away the earliest-departing guests. He ran along, banging the window of each one, calling her name, until one pulled away and he saw her. The back of her dress, her dark hair fluttering in the evening breeze. Her hand was stretched out for a white Savannah taxi.
‘Stop. Don’t go!’ he shouted. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest.
The driver of the cab held up his hand, but Jennifer shook her head, and with a disgruntled expression he went to park and wait for another fare.
They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other.
‘I was wrong back there,’ he said finally. ‘I didn’t want to believe you. I couldn’t let myself.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ replied Jennifer in the quietest of voices.
‘It does,’ said Jim more passionately.
He took another tentative step closer to her.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
He was ashamed of even trying to justify his actions, but he wanted her to know.
‘Bryn was my father, my hero,’ he said, bowing his head. ‘And now he’s gone. Part of me blames myself for his death, and that’s the reason why I behaved like I did back there. But I guess he wasn’t the person I wanted him to be.’
‘I think we just have to accept that people are flawed. We all are, in our own ways.’
‘Will you forgive me?’ he asked.
For a second, Jennifer didn’t say anything. Time seemed to drag on for ever, and Jim had a fierce and dreadful sense that he had just lost everything.
‘Please,’ he whispered.
‘Only if we have no more secrets,’ she replied, and his shoulders sagged with relief.
‘No more secrets,’ he agreed, holding out his hand, and when she took it, he drew her into his arms. He inhaled deeply, smelling the fresh scent of her shampoo, never wanting to let her go, and she rested her head on his shoulder as if, against all the odds, she felt the same.
‘You know you shouldn’t blame yourself for what happened to your father,’ she said into the fabric of his dinner jacket. ‘That doesn’t end well, and I should know.’
He pulled away and looked at her.
‘About that . . .’
He saw a wave of anxiety creep across her face and thought about Sylvia’s box of letters sitting in a drawer in the house. He had spent half the night tossing and turning, wondering what to do with them, and had woken up deciding that it would serve no purpose to tell Jennifer about her mother’s affair with Bryn. He had stood there in front of the roaring fire that the housekeeping staff had lit and taken the letters out of the box, imagining them disintegrating to ash and taking the memories of that summer with them.
But something had stopped him.
No more secrets, repeated a voice in his head.
‘You shouldn�
��t blame yourself for your mother’s death either,’ he began.
‘I know,’ agreed Jennifer quietly. ‘But it’s not easy to do. We had words. I went down the stairs. She must have followed me and slipped . . . If we hadn’t argued . . .’
‘I don’t believe it happened that way,’ said Jim with conviction.
He looked away, and wiped his mouth, knowing that he was doing the right thing.
‘Sylvia and Bryn were having an affair,’ he said gently.
‘What?’ said Jennifer incredulously.
‘I found love letters they had written to each other. I’ve got them upstairs.’
‘An affair?’ she repeated, her face crumpling into a frown. ‘For how long?’
‘I’d say a month or so, from the letters. Your mother’s were very eloquent, passionate. I think she had intense feelings for Bryn, or perhaps they just felt intense at the time,’ he continued carefully. ‘But I’m not entirely sure they were reciprocated.’
Jennifer was looking down at her shoes.
‘Bryn called it off the night of the party. I think she was distraught.’
Jennifer nodded slowly. ‘It makes sense,’ she whispered, as if she was lost in the past. ‘She screamed at me that day – “Where have you been? What were you doing at the Lake House?” I thought she was upset about Connor, our relationship, my reputation . . .’
‘Did you see her slip?’ asked Jim, trying to catch her gaze.
‘No.’
‘She had been diagnosed with depression.’
Jennifer looked at him. ‘Depression?’
‘They wanted to keep it from you. But there was a reason why your mother could be cold and difficult. She was ill. Seriously ill. In your final year of college, she took an overdose. Two, in fact.’
Jennifer was wide-eyed with horror. ‘She tried to commit suicide?’
Jim shook his head. ‘She didn’t want to kill herself,’ he said, remembering what Marion had told him. ‘It was a cry for attention.’
There was another silence. Jennifer’s expression was stricken. Jim moved towards her in the dark to reassure her. He knew how bad she felt about her mother’s death; he knew because he felt the same about his father. But now he just wanted to convince her it was not her fault.
‘Maybe she fell that night, Jen. Maybe she was miserable, maybe it was another cry for help. But it was an accident, an accident that could have happened at any time because her illness wasn’t under control,’ he said, stroking her cheek.
‘It doesn’t matter how it happened, Jim. The fact is, she died.’
‘And you don’t have to carry that guilt around for the rest of your life.’
‘Nor do you,’ she whispered, this time taking his hand in hers, holding on as if she would never let go.
Epilogue
‘Best-looking bride I’ve ever seen,’ grinned Jeanne as she squeezed Jennifer tight.
‘Some might say you’re biased,’ giggled Jennifer, smoothing the cream lace over her curves.
Jennifer realised she had turned into a cliché, but she couldn’t stop smiling whenever she caught a glimpse of herself in the beautiful gown her old friend had found for her big day. She had originally got in touch with Jeanne to complete her documentary, now tentatively called Twenty-One, and had not been entirely surprised to discover that Jeanne no longer worked in the Seven Eleven but owned Savannah’s most celebrated vintage clothing store. When she had invited Jeanne to her wedding, her friend had insisted that she would find her the perfect gown, and had flown to London three months later with the most exquisite dress Jennifer had ever seen, a delicate creation of pale silk and lace that had made her feel like a goddess from the second she put it on.
Jeanne took Jennifer’s hand and led her to the dance floor.
‘Are we going to boogie, then?’ she giggled as Jennifer’s Aunt Donna waved at them from across the room.
Jennifer’s divorce had been uncontested and had been quickly finalised. Jim had taken her to Salcombe in Devon shortly afterwards, promising a weekend of good food and sailing, and had proposed during a walk on the headland.
She had fallen in love with the English seaside town, loved its pace of life and the silver light that glistened over the sea, so much so that it seemed like the perfect place to exchange their vows. Through Jim’s property contacts, they had found a gloriously faded hotel on the outskirts of town. It had views of the estuary and the boats bobbing in the harbour, three acres of English country gardens, and a ballroom that could not only fit a hundred guests but whispered of a glamorous past – art deco era dances and flapper girls – that Jennifer found intoxicating. Savannah would always be Jennifer’s home, but it represented her past, not her future, and in this small Devon town, she knew she had found a place where she could plot and dream and sail and be happy.
She spun around on the dance floor, feeling giddy and light-headed as the song faded.
‘This one is for my beautiful wife,’ said a voice from the stage.
Jim’s eyes met Jennifer’s through the crowd, their gaze connecting as if no one else existed. She felt her heart lift like a balloon, full of love, lust and joy. The most handsome man in the room – in the world – was on stage and he was singing a song for her.
‘I love you,’ he said into the microphone as Donna held her hand to her chest and gave a dramatic sigh.
‘Four husbands in and I’ve never had anyone look at me the way your sexy man has just looked at you,’ she laughed to her niece, as Frank grabbed her playfully and told her he would rectify the situation in the bedroom later.
As Jennifer swayed to the music – a cover version of a Mamas & the Papas song – she admired her husband on stage. Jim had the big job at Omari Hotels now, but since Jennifer had moved to London to be with him, he didn’t seem to spend as much time in the office as a CEO might.
Their lives had settled into a comfortable and contented rhythm. By day, Jim worked at the Omari London office, while Jennifer developed her fledgling film company in between short courses at the National Film School in Beaconsfield. They lived in Jim’s North London flat and went out most nights – to jazz clubs and museum late openings, to restaurants and dinner with Jim’s old friends – but somewhere in the middle of all that, Jim had found time to reconnect with his music, and had become the man she had loved all those years ago, the Jim she thought might have disappeared when she met him again in New York.
The song faded and he jumped off the stage. He came to her and wrapped his arm around her waist.
‘How was your rock star moment, then?’ she laughed.
‘Forty-one and I think I’ve still got it,’ he grinned, and Jennifer smiled to herself about the wedding present – one of them – she would give him later. A vintage Les Paul guitar she had found at auction and knew he would love.
‘Come on. We should go,’ he said, taking her hand.
‘Go where?’
‘To our room,’ he whispered into her ear.
She felt puzzled as he led her outside into the garden. A chill had settled into the English summer evening air, and Jim took off his suit jacket and put it over her shoulders.
‘Jim, our suite is upstairs,’ she frowned, looking back at the hotel.
‘We’re going somewhere else,’ he said mysteriously as he beckoned her to follow him down a path that led to the coast. She had found the trail earlier in the day. It snaked down the hillside to the harbour, and at some point one of the event planners had lined it with lanterns that cast a golden glow over the track.
Jennifer had thought getting married on Midsummer Eve was romantic enough, but as they walked in the moonlight, hearing the sound of the waves, the cow parsley tickling her arms, there was something especially magical in the air. Or perhaps it was just the idea that she was now Mrs Jim Johnson.
‘Here,’ said Jim as they reached the harbour.
She laughed out loud when she saw the fishing boat tethered to the dock. It had tin cans strung from the
stern and a wonky hand-painted sign that read Just Married.
‘Where are we going?’ she grinned, as someone waved from the cabin.
‘Climb on board. We’re going for a spin.’
‘Jim, our wedding . . .’
‘We’ll be back. Go on. I just want to show you something.’
She took off her heels and hitched up her skirt and did as she was told.
Cushions had been laid out along the seat at the back of the boat. Sunset was fading to dusk and the sky floating above the estuary had darkened to saffron-streaked violet.
The fisherman operating the boat cast off and the vessel chugged to life, the noise of the cans rattling against the stern as they carved through the water.
Jennifer curled into the space between Jim’s arm and his chest, consumed by the warm and peaceful feeling of coming home. She didn’t fool herself that she was a young woman any more. She would be forty-three soon. Almost certainly in the second half of her life and she had lines on her face and the scars of experience to prove it. And yet, as they powered down the estuary, watching the village recede into a series of lights, there was a sense of possibility, excitement and new beginnings that had seemed inconceivable a year earlier, when, living with Connor in her grand town house on the Upper East Side, she felt as if she was just treading water and slowly sinking.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m wondering where we’re going. It’s exciting,’ she said softly as Jim gave her shoulders a squeeze.
She heard the engine of the boat begin to slow.
‘We’re here,’ said Jim, getting to his feet.
She realised that they had anchored just off the opposite shore to Salcombe. It was a short distance to the beach, and a small tender lowered them from the bigger boat to take them there.
She was careful not to let salt water splash the hem of her dress and, barefoot, she followed Jim across the sand. He took her hand and led her away from the beach, past rocks covered with mussels and seaweed towards a small white cottage set in a thicket of trees.
‘It’s a micro-climate around here, so exotic plants can grow,’ he said, pointing out a perfumed myrtle, a magnolia bush and a banana plant.
The House on Sunset Lake Page 29
