Fragrance of Violets (21 page)

Jack was a complete contrast. He’d backed off when she rejected his advances all those years ago. He’d written the
Chronicle
article, not to make a name for himself, but because it was what he believed at the time, and he had the courage to admit he got it wrong, not only to her, but to all the villagers. And then—she smiled at the memory of his words—he put his money where his mouth was, and gave the huge donation for the Old School. He’d offered the barn for the youth groups, and helped the drama club with their discussions. The last thing you could call Jack was selfish.

He’d been patient and understanding with her, too. Until she threw it all back in his face with her phone call. At twenty-eight, she’d lashed out in the same way as she did when she was eighteen, and for the same reasons. She’d destroyed the chance of a lasting relationship with the man she loved. The boy she’d loved since she was nine years old.

“Oh God, what a fool I’ve been,” she whispered to her reflection in the mirror. “And I don’t know if I can ever put it right.”

She closed her eyes and pressed her hands to the sides of her face, until the voices and laughter from the corridor outside her room reminded her she had to push everything out of her mind while she went to the party.

Half an hour later, after she’d had a quick shower, dried her hair and left her natural waves loose instead of fastened back, she changed into the dress she’d chosen for the opening night party, a deep apricot number, with a calf length swirly skirt. She hoisted the spaghetti straps on her shoulders, slipped on a long matching apricot wrap, thrust the Rycroft contract into her bag, and made her way to the theatre bar where the others were waiting.

The party seemed to go on forever but, at about two-thirty, Peter Stones brought in a pile of early newspapers. The reviews were good, ranging from
A Wilde Night at the Gaiety—Don’t Miss It
to
The Importance of an Earnest and Sparkling Production.

“You obviously appealed to this one,” Ellie said as she handed her one of the papers.

“Oh, wow, Owen Ashton,” Abbey exclaimed. “Listen to this, Jill:
Abigail Barton and Jill Hulbert perform their first scene together with a perfect mix of Gwendolen’s sophisticated but pretentious snobbery and Cecily’s ingenuous but calculated naivety
. Actually, I thought he’d fallen asleep during that scene.”

Jill laughed. “Praise from the Big OA is definitely worth having.”

Abbey knew she should be over the moon. They had a smash hit show in the West End, and she had the Rycroft contract in her bag, but she’d willingly give them both up if only she could have Jack.

CHAPTER 20

Abbey slept late on Friday morning. She was exhausted, mentally drained by the nervous energy she’d used for the show, and emotionally spent from all her visits to the hospice.

It was after ten when she surfaced. Her first waking thought was that she’d dreamt the Rycroft contract. As her brain woke up, she rolled onto her back and smiled up at the ceiling. The Maggie Rycroft part was hers.

A longing for Jack stirred deep inside her, and she put her hand on her stomach to suppress it before glancing around at her clock. If he was still in America, as Farrell said, she couldn’t call him now because of the time difference. Besides, she needed to work out what she was going to say to him.

She thought long and hard as she ate a breakfast bowl of muesli. She had to thank him, of course, but what else? Where did she even start? How could she explain everything to him on the phone?

In the afternoon, she went to the hospice, but even while she sat holding her father’s hand, her mind still worked overtime. There was no time to make any calls once she arrived at the theatre, but after the show, she calculated it would be between three and eight o’clock in the States, depending on where Jack was.

She found his number and her hand shook as she hit the connect button. It rang five times before the answer service clicked in. Despite the urge to end the call and try again later, she listened to the automatic voice, waited until the message ended, and cleared her throat when the beep sounded.

“Jack, it’s Abbey. I’m calling to say thank you so much for the contract and—and to say how sorry I am about jumping to all the wrong conclusions. And—erm—well, a lot of other things have happened, and I need to tell you about them. Please call me back.”

She ended the call and stared at her phone, willing it to ring, but it didn’t.

* * * * *

Jack reached into his pocket for his phone as he walked along the wide corridor at Los Angeles airport on Friday evening. He frowned, patted his other pockets, and stopped to search his bag. His phone wasn’t there, and he swore under his breath.

He thought back. The last time he used it was after he landed at Reno that morning. It could have slipped out of his pocket any time during the day, or his pocket might have been picked at the airport.

When he reached the arrivals hall, he cast a jaundiced glance at the sign saying,
Welcome to Los Angeles International Airport
. What were the odds that things would start to go wrong once he returned to L.A.?

The only reason he was here was to see one of his friends who worked for the L.A. Times. He’d first met Matt Wilson at a party during his early days in the city. They discovered they’d lived about twenty miles from each other as children, and their shared Lakeland background, similar interests, and identical sense of British humour all contributed to their lasting friendship.

Earlier in the week, he told Matt he would arrive in L.A. on Friday or Saturday. Now, without his phone and Matt’s number stored on it, he couldn’t call his friend, but at least he knew where Matt lived. The only thing to do was to take a cab and hope Matt would be at home.

Two hours later, after a long crawl through the evening’s rush hour traffic on the freeway, he dropped his bag on the kitchen floor in Matt’s apartment, threw his jacket on the chair, and yanked off his tie.

“Here, have a beer.” Matt, as always in jeans and teeshirt, produced two cans from the fridge and laughed as he handed one to Jack. “I still can’t believe I’m now used to ice cold beer.”

“Yeah, but when you’re back home, that pint of beer from the pump is nectar.”

Matt grinned. “There are times I yearn for Hardman’s beer, and for English bacon, too. Anyway, what’ve you been doing this past week?”

They took their drinks out to the balcony which overlooked the beach and the Pacific. The sun was almost at the horizon and the day’s heat had lessened a little, but Jack unfastened a couple more buttons of his shirt, and settled into the canvas chair.

“I’ve been researching an article for
Planet Earth
about renewable energy resources over here.”

Matt laughed. “You look like you need some renewable energy yourself, man.”

He nodded. “I’m exhausted. I came over here from Paris nine days ago, and since then I’ve visited a hydroelectric plant in the Tennessee Valley, interviewed farmers in Iowa about ethanol production, lost count of how many wind farms I saw in Texas, talked to scientists at an energy lab in Colorado, and toured a geothermal site in Nevada this morning. I’ve taken so many red eye or early morning shuttles I can’t remember when I last had a full night’s sleep.” He took a long drink from his can and jerked upright. “Hey, hold on, today’s Friday, isn’t it?”

“That’s the general opinion.”

“Matt, I need to recharge my tablet.”

“My computer’s on. Use that if it’s urgent. You know where it is.”

“Not exactly urgent, but I want to check some London theatre reviews.”

He intended to check that morning, but his flight was late arriving at Reno, and he hadn’t had any opportunity after that.

He went into Matt’s small study and typed
London Gaiety Theatre review
in the computer search box. When the list of links came up, he scanned them for a few moments before opening any of them.

While he was in Paris, still smarting painfully after Abbey’s phone call, an internet search showed him he’d guessed right. She was going to appear as Gwendolen in
The Importance of Being Earnest
at the
Gaiety
. The play she said she wasn’t going to do because she wanted to stay in Rusthwaite with him—until she discovered he was John Tyson.

He thought again about their phone conversation and about the decision he made that night. However much he loved her, he couldn’t live with her lack of trust. He’d tried to be patient, tried to give her time, and all for what? The minute his actions made her assume he was treating her like her father had done, she turned on him and lashed out. For the second time. Not quite ten years to the day, but not far off.

He clenched his fist and was about to bang it on the workstation table in front of him until he remembered Matt was still within earshot. Instead, he dragged his fingers through his hair as defeat mingled with a frustrated irritation which wouldn’t go away.
Dammit, Abbey, why the hell can’t you forget the past and realise it’s the future that’s important?
But would she ever be able to put the past behind her?

Better to let things end now before they became too involved with each other. Before? He let out an ironic grunt. He’d been involved with her for two thirds of his life, but now he needed to go his way and let her go hers.

“Good luck, Abbey,” he murmured. “Maybe one day you’ll come to terms with your bitterness and anger, and find a way to move on.”

Anguish furrowed his face. Who the hell was he to tell someone to move on? When his cab passed the spot on the freeway where Rachel was killed, the memories slammed back into his mind. He’d tried not to think about it, tried to tell himself it was in the past, but the guilt was still there.

On an impulse, he stood up and went to the balcony door. “Matt, can I use your phone? I’ve lost my cell. Need to buy a cheap one tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure. Landline’s in the kitchen.”

“Thanks.”

He called directory assistance, got the number he wanted, and punched it into the phone.

“Hi, Warren,” he said to Rachel’s father. “Jack Tremayne here. I’m in L.A. and I’d love to see you and Kay again.”

After arranging to visit them at their Malibu home, he returned to the computer in Matt’s study and surveyed the list of theatre reviews. Some were from the UK morning papers, others were on websites.

He read them all and smiled. She’d done well. The play had received good, even some rave reviews, and Abbey had attracted a lot of praise. For a moment, homesickness threatened to get the better of him, and he wished he was in London. The photos of her in costume were stunning, and heart-aching regret filled him at the thought of not being able to see her on stage.

With a start, he recalled his instruction to Farrell. Had his agent given Abbey the Rycroft contract the previous night, and what was her reaction? Surely Farrell would have called him? But, of course, he’d lost his phone. Instead, he clicked his email link and scanned the inbox. Several from editors and journalists he’d worked with in the past and, in the midst of them, one from Farrell, and one from his father.

He opened Farrell’s first, read the message, and blew out a long breath of relief. Despite all the issues between them, at least she’d said yes, and not thrown the contract back at them. That was what he feared she would do six months before, and there’d still been an element of doubt about whether she would want the role now, after everything that had happened. It was one of the reasons he’d changed his mind about returning to London to give the contract to her in person.

But she’d accepted. It made the struggle they’d had worthwhile, and he knew it was the right decision. She’d be amazing as Maggie Rycroft. After all, it was Abbey he’d been imagining when he wrote the story in the first place.

Next he read the email from his father and whistled softly. He went back to the balcony and picked up his can of beer.

“Found what you wanted?” Matt asked.

“Yeah, and more. A message from my father. You know he’s in Strasbourg with the EU? One of his friends is working with the Paris city government on a renewable energy project, turbines under the Seine, solar systems, and biomass plants. They want a staff writer for a year to promote the project.”

“And you’re interested?”

“I might be.” Even as he said it, he gave a resigned shrug. A year in Paris might help him put Abbey out of his system once and for all. “I have another couple of weeks over here, visiting the nuclear plant at San Gerardo, and a mass of interviews in San Francisco, Seattle and Boston with energy experts. Then I’ll go over to Paris and talk to the project director about it.”

* * * * *

Every time her phone rang during the weekend, Abbey hoped it would be Jack. It wasn’t, and by Sunday she knew he wasn’t going to return her call. A dull heaviness descended on her. She’d destroyed everything and lost him. Again.

After that, her days fell into a pattern. Late nights while she unwound after the show, late get ups the next morning, a couple of hours to herself to shop for food and other essentials, to the hospice for an hour or so every afternoon, usually with Louise and Ellie, and to the theatre in the evening.

Every day she wondered if this would be the last for her father as he sank deeper into his coma. One afternoon, he roused slightly, and his eyes flickered to each of them before he said hoarsely, “Love—love you all. So—so sorry.”

Abbey’s eyes filled and a quick glance at her sisters showed they were also struggling. She squeezed his hand. “We love you too, Dad.”

It should have come as no surprise, but shock still caused her heart to jerk when, at the end of the show, three nights before the final performance, she found a voice message on her phone from Rose.

“I’m sorry, Abbey, your father passed away about eight-fifteen this evening. I was with him. He wasn’t in any pain and it was very peaceful.”

She clicked off her phone, and tears trickled down her face. At one time, she would never have believed she would cry when she heard about her father’s death.

She wished she’d been there but it would have been impossible. She couldn’t have abandoned the show.

After wiping away her tears, she hit the key for Louise’s number. “Lou, I just got Rose’s message. I’m glad it was peaceful for him at the end.”

“Yeah, me too. Rose called me earlier. I’m sorry we weren’t with him, but none of us knew it would happen tonight.” Her voice changed to a practical tone. “Abbey, I’ll deal with all the necessary stuff tomorrow, the undertaker and the register office and all that.”

“I’ll come, too.”

“It’s okay, Ellie will come with me.”

“Louise, I want to come.”

“All right. Give me a ring in the morning.”

The next day, they dealt with the formalities but it was after three o’clock when they finished, and Louise suggested they went to their father’s house near Reigate in Surrey. He’d given her the key when he was in the hospital.

Abbey knew she didn’t have enough time to travel there and back before she had to go to the theatre. “You go,” she said. “I’ll come with you tomorrow if there’s a lot to do.”

Louise rang her the following morning. “No sorting out to do. He obviously cleared some stuff before he went into hospital. I think he knew he wouldn’t be going home again. There’s a folder with a long list of all his bank accounts and investments, and the contact details for his accountant and lawyer. I’ll call them today. I found a copy of his will, too. Wait for this, Abbs. He’s left his money and his investment portfolio to Mum, so she’s about to become a millionaire, assuming the stock market doesn’t crash tomorrow.”

As Louise’s words sank in, Abbey smiled. “Oh, I’m so glad he’s done that.”