Letters From the Past

by Erica James

  Closing her eyes, she gave in to the memory of lying in bed with Red at Island House and their making love. They brought out the passion in each other, he claimed, and it was true. She felt she could give more of herself to him than she ever imagined possible. What she had come to feel for Red was equal to, if not greater than, the very deep love she had experienced with Jack. She had waited a long time for that to happen.

  The thought of once again sharing a bed with Red immediately heightened her anticipation of seeing him, giving her butterflies in her stomach. She felt clammy, too, from a combination of excitement and nervous energy, and from wearing the wrong clothes.

  When she left London yesterday, the temperature was barely above freezing, and she had been glad of her mink coat and woollen skirt and jacket. But here, mid-afternoon, it was seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit. She wished she hadn’t been so impatient to get out of the airport and grab a taxi; she should have changed into something lighter. Fanning her face with her hand, her eyes on the passing sun-baked desert landscape, she wound down the side window to let the rush of air cool the flush of her cheeks. In the front, the taxi driver fiddled with the car radio, switching from one station to another until, through the crackling static, he found something to his liking. When he settled on Nat King Cole singing ‘You Made me Love You’ and began humming along, Romily smiled to herself. Oh Red, she thought, you certainly did make me love you.

  He had reluctantly left Island House in the new year. A prior engagement with a film studio in Hollywood forced him to return, although he had been tempted to tell the studio that he was snowed in and there were no flights leaving Heathrow airport. Neither of which was true, and as Romily pointed out to him, he had to leave some time. ‘Do I?’ he’d asked. ‘Are you sure I couldn’t just stick around for ever? I wouldn’t be any trouble.’

  ‘You’ve been more than enough trouble already,’ she’d teased him.

  ‘The right kind of trouble?’

  ‘Fishing again, Mr St Clair? What have I told you about that?’

  She had gone with him to the airport to wave him off. Staying with him for as long as was possible in the departure area, sitting together at a table drinking coffee and suddenly finding it difficult to talk, she began to hope that a blizzard would prevent his flight from taking off. But not a flake of snow had fallen, and she had stood at the window watching his Pan Am DC-7C lumber along the cleared tarmac before soaring into the pewter-grey sky. Unable to face the train journey back to Suffolk that same day, she had stayed the night in London, already missing the man who had given her the best Christmas she could remember.

  As eventful as Christmas had been, what with the extraordinary weather, Hope emerging from her coma, Ralph helping Julia to leave Arthur, and then Arthur suffering a stroke, Red had taken it all in his stride. He had fitted in perfectly, throwing himself into whatever needed doing without being asked – chopping logs for the fire and clearing snow, not just at Island House, but in the village with a small taskforce so that the elderly residents could get out to the shops. He had acted as an excellent barman whenever guests called and he had even charmed Mrs Collings, a feat Romily had believed could never be done.

  Once he was back in Palm Springs, he and Romily slipped into a routine of telephoning each other almost daily. ‘I’m the wrong side of fifty yet I feel like a teenager again,’ he’d said during one call.

  ‘Me too,’ she’d laughed. ‘It’s absurd, isn’t it?’

  ‘Totally crazy. But I could talk to you all day, and then all night.’

  ‘You might not think that when your telephone bill lands on your doormat.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about that; I just want to know when I’m going to see you next.’

  ‘Soon,’ she had told him. ‘Just as soon as life here has settled down again.’

  ‘That family of yours can manage without you, you know.’

  ‘I know that, it’s just that I need to be sure that they’re all right. So much has happened in the last few weeks, and their happiness is important to me.’

  ‘How about your own happiness? Who’s looking out for that? Apart from me, that is?’ he added.

  His question made her think that he had a point. She had spent a very long time not thinking about her own happiness, of always considering the needs of others before her own. Had it become too much of a habit, an unconscious need on her part always to be at the centre of things? If so, it was time to break the habit.

  It was that thought that had encouraged her to book a flight to Los Angeles, and without telling anyone, not even Red. Florence was the exception. Dear Florence, what a good friend and co-conspirator she was.

  Before she left Island House, Romily had done what she should have done years ago: she had burned Matteo’s letters. It had not saddened her as she thought it might, watching the flickering flames devour the past; instead it had felt cathartic, a sense of letting go. Finally.

  Back in 1944, and in the days after she had written to Matteo telling him it was over between them, that she would not be responsible for destroying his marriage, her emotions had ricocheted wildly, bouncing between heartbroken despair, self-pity and wild fury. In truth, her anger was mostly directed at herself for not being more careful. For allowing her reckless behaviour to get her into the mess she was.

  Then one night, when she was alone in the cottage in Hamble, exhausted and feeling sorry for herself, she drowned her sorrows in a bottle of wine. By the time she had drained it to the last drop and made it upstairs to bed, she was consumed with drunken self-pity. Her last conscious thought before passing out was that she wished she could make the baby disappear from her life just as she had banished Matteo.

  The next morning she woke with her stomach cramping painfully. Staggering to the bathroom, the pain causing her to cry out and double over, she realised that she was miscarrying: her wish had been granted.

  She wept with guilt for hours afterwards. But she never told a soul. Not then, not since. She could never bring herself to admit the dreadful thing she had wanted to happen, that she had literally wished the baby’s life away. The rational part of her could reason there was a world of difference between wishing something and it actually happening. But shame and remorse would not allow such an easy get-out clause. She was convinced that drinking so much alcohol had caused her to lose the baby; that a part of her had done it deliberately. That child would be eighteen now.

  Remembering that shameful night, and the depths to which she had sunk, was as painful now to recall as it was then. She had tried to bury the memory inside that wooden box of letters she had hidden in the attic. It would have been better to destroy the letters, but she had kept them to punish herself, to ensure she never forgot. As if she ever could.

  She never heard from Matteo again. For all his protestations of loving her and wanting to divorce his wife, he never did. He returned to Italy when the war was over and became an artist of some repute, many of his paintings portraying life through the changing seasons as a prisoner of war in England. She learned of his success when she came across one of his paintings that was due to be auctioned in London. The auctioneer’s catalogue had written a piece about him, including his death two years previously. The article highlighted his time spent as a POW at Tilbrook Hall in Norfolk and that he was survived by his devoted wife, Maria, and their two adopted children.

  In honour of the child she lost, Romily bought the painting and ever since it had hung in her drawing room. It was another punishing reminder of her culpability.

  The taxi driver came to a stop in front of the address she had given him. She settled the bill and with her handbag and fur coat hooked over her arm, she followed him up the path while he carried her heavy suitcase and typewriter case. Watching him drive away, and taking a deep breath to quell the resurgence of butterflies in her stomach, she rang the doorbell.

  When the door was opened
by an attractive flame-haired woman in tennis whites, the shortness of her skirt showing off a pair of shapely legs, Romily’s heart sank.

  But then why was she surprised? Of course he would be seeing other women while she was out of sight!

  ‘Hello,’ the flame-haired beauty said cheerfully. ‘Presumably you were hoping to see Red?’

  She was certainly seeing red right now, Romily thought, trying to think of something polite to say. Out of everything she had rehearsed during her journey here, this was not the scenario she had imagined. ‘Yes,’ was all she could muster.

  Her hand on the door, the woman stepped back to let her enter, but then she noticed Romily’s luggage. ‘Oh, are you staying?’ she asked.

  ‘I doubt that very much in the circumstances,’ answered Romily.

  The woman closed the door and for the longest and most uncomfortable moment, stared at her. ‘Are you English by any chance?’ she asked, her head tilted to one side.

  There was no faulting her detective skills. Or Red’s taste in women; this one was a stunner. But at least she wasn’t young enough to be his daughter. ‘I’m as English as they come,’ Romily said.

  Her reply was met with an unexpected smile. ‘I’ll go and find Red for you,’ she said, ‘the last I saw of him he was bashing away at that typewriter of his. Come on through and make yourself at home. Here, let me take one of those cases for you.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said curtly, ‘I’m perfectly capable of carrying them.’

  Her comment elicited another smile. It was as if this beautiful woman was in on some kind of joke. Maybe she was used to foolish women turning up on Red’s doorstep like this.

  Well, Romily would have her say to him, and then insist he ordered a taxi to take her back to the airport where she would catch the first available flight home. So much for living more impulsively. Never again!

  Ignoring the invitingly comfortable-looking sofas, she prowled round the large airy room she had been shown in to. She remembered it from her last visit. The white-painted walls were adorned with oversized abstract paintings, the colours rich and vibrant. The sight of a pile of her own novels on the glass coffee table made her want to hurl them through the sliding glass doors that led out to the garden.

  She heard Red before she saw him; clearly her untimely visit had triggered a loud exclamation of shock from him. She heard laughter too from the flame-haired beauty, followed by a comment she couldn’t make out.

  The next thing Red was hurtling through the doorway. ‘Romily! Oh my God, it is you! I don’t believe it!’ The shock on his face was priceless. But it was for the wrong reason; it was because she had caught him out.

  ‘You better believe it,’ she said coolly. ‘Large as life.’

  He rushed over to her and before she could stop him, he’d gathered her up in his arms to kiss her.

  She pushed him away. ‘I think you have some explaining to do,’ she said, indicating the flame-haired beauty now standing behind him.

  ‘I told you she had the wrong end of the stick,’ the woman said with another of her infuriating smiles. ‘For which, given your reputation, you have only yourself to blame.’

  Even more infuriating, Red laughed. ‘Romily, meet my sister, Patsy.’

  Romily did a double take. ‘Your sister?’

  ‘Yep, she’s a regular pain in the proberbial butt, always has been. I told you about her.’

  ‘Yes,’ Romily said vaguely, ‘I . . . I do remember you mentioning a sister, but you didn’t say how beautiful she was.’

  ‘Nor would he,’ said Patsy, stepping forward to shake hands. ‘He only flags up my bad points. But I apologise for not saying who I was earlier, that was mischievous of me, especially as I’d guessed who you were. Now if you’ll both excuse me, I have an appointment at the Racquet Club to keep.’ She winked at Red. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll be leaving town first thing in the morning to go back to Chuck, leaving you two love-birds to enjoy yourselves.’

  ‘No chance you could leave before then, is there?’ asked Red. ‘I could help you pack if you like.’

  She wagged a finger at him. ‘Not a hope, I want the opportunity to get to know the woman who has finally captured your heart. I have a feeling Romily and I are going to be the best of friends.’

  Red groaned. ‘Just what I need, the two of you ganging up against me.’

  When Patsy was gone, and Red had his arms around Romily, and they had kissed to make up for the time they had been apart, she said, ‘Have I really captured your heart?’

  ‘What the hell kind of a question is that? Damned straight you have!’

  She kissed him again. ‘You have no idea how delighted I am to hear that. Or how relieved I am that Patsy is your sister.’

  He frowned. ‘I hope you didn’t really think I was seeing another woman while—’

  She silenced him with another kiss. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m here now.’

  ‘But you have to trust me, Romily. You really do.’

  ‘I know,’ she said with a sigh. ‘It’s just that it’s a long time since I have trusted someone.’

  ‘We’ll get there,’ he said with a smile. ‘I promise. Now, is that your typewriter case I see?’

  ‘I thought I might write while I’m here. Maybe write a new Sister Grace novel with a Palm Springs setting. Or maybe work with you on that film script for Gabe and Melvyn.’

  ‘Are you planning on a lengthy stay?’

  ‘I thought I could stick around until you’re sick of me.’

  ‘That’ll be never, then. Unless—’

  ‘Unless what?’

  He loosened his grip and held her at arm’s distance. ‘I could swap you for Mrs Collings?’

  She prodded his chest with a finger. ‘Careful what you wish for, Mr St Clair.’

  ‘Oh, I love nothing better than to live dangerously, Mrs Devereux-Temple.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said softly, thinking of Matteo’s letters burning to ash in the fireplace back at Island House and finally releasing her from the past. ‘Me too.’

  Acknowledgements

  I had always planned to write a sequel to Coming Home to Island House, I just needed a good idea . . . It came to me when my eldest son and his wife took me to Palm Springs, for which I am enormously grateful. While Edward drove me round the Movie Colony, a sought-after area once home to movie stars from the Golden Age of Hollywood, I had a flash of inspiration – I imagined it was the early 1960s and Romily Devereux-Temple was in Palm Springs to discuss a film script.

  Of course, that initial spark of an idea was the easy bit, what followed was a year of putting words on the page, aided and abetted by agents Jonathan Lloyd and Lucy Morris, so a very big thank you to them.

  Thanks must go to Genevieve Pegg for her editorial input, and to Sally Partington for her excellent copyediting skills. Also, thanks to Olivia Barber at Orion for the final push at the end. And not forgetting Team Orion who sent me the enormous bottle of fizz on my equally enormous birthday – cheers!

  While I have used real events and places in creating my story I have, as I always do, taken a few liberties here and there to suit my purposes. I hope the reader will forgive me this.

  Also by Erica James

  A Breath of Fresh Air

  Time for a Change

  Airs and Graces

  A Sense of Belonging

  Act of Faith

  The Holiday

  Precious Time

  Hidden Talents

  Paradise House

  Love and Devotion

  Gardens of Delight

  Tell it to the Skies

  It’s the Little Things

  The Queen of New Beginnings

  Promises, Promises

  The Real Katie Lavender

  The Hidden Cottage

 
Summer at the Lake

  The Dandelion Years

  Song of the Skylark

  Coming Home to Island House

  Swallowtail Summer

  About the Author

  Erica James is the number one international bestselling author of twenty-two novels, including the Sunday Times top ten bestsellers Summer at the Lake, The Dandelion Years and Song of the Skylark. She has sold over five million books worldwide and her work has been translated into thirteen languages. Erica won the Romantic Novel of the Year Award for her novel Gardens of Delight, set in beautiful Lake Como, Italy, which has become a second home to her. Her authentic characters are thanks to her fondness for striking up conversation with complete strangers.

  Chat to Erica online:

  www.ericajames.co.uk

  @TheEricaJames

  @EricaJamesAuthor

  @the_ericajames

  Copyright

  First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Orion Books,

  an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

  Carmelite House, 50 Victoria Embankment

  London ec4y 0dz

  An Hachette UK Company

  Copyright © Erica James 2020

  The moral right of Erica James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (eBook) 978 1 4091 7388 5

  Typeset by Input Data Services Ltd, Somerset