Fragrance of Violets (7 page)

During the morning, as she helped with some spring-cleaning, she couldn’t stop thinking about Tuesday’s meeting. Before then, she needed to work out how to act naturally with Jack instead of allowing her personal feelings to affect her behaviour, like they did the previous evening. She couldn’t even recall thanking him or offering to help him tidy the barn. He must think her churlish and ungrateful.

On an impulse, she picked up her phone. She didn’t have his mobile number but she remembered the landline number for Fir Garth. How many thousands of times had she rung that number in her teens?

After her mother went out into the back garden to hang out newly washed curtains, she hit the numbers quickly. When the familiar voice said, “Jack Tremayne here,” a flurry of nervousness assailed her, and she wished she’d worked out beforehand what she was going to say.

“Jack, hi, it’s Abbey. I—erm—I’m calling to say I’m very grateful for your offer of the barn for the drama club. You took me by surprise last night, and I don’t think I even thanked you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m glad I could suggest somewhere for you to meet. I called Tom Williams this morning to say other groups can use the barn if they wish.” Jack gave a quick laugh. “Assuming I can clear out the junk that’s accumulated. I hadn’t realised how much there was until I checked earlier. I’m about to start clearing it now.”

“I could come and help you, if you want.”

The words were out before she thought about them, and she surprised even herself.

“Aren’t you at the shop today?”

“No, we don’t open on Sundays until the main tourist season starts at Easter.”

“Okay. I’d appreciate another pair of hands, if you’re free.”

“I’ll come over in about twenty minutes.”

“Thanks. See you later, Abbey.”

As she clicked off her phone, Abbey drew in a deep breath and crossed to the back door.

“Want a cup of tea?” she called.

“You’ve read my mind,” Edwina said as she came back into the kitchen.

Abbey switched on the kettle and steadied herself. “Mum, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“What’s that?” Edwina sounded unconcerned as she pulled a couple of china mugs from the dishwasher.

“The thing is—well, I didn’t want you to hear this from anyone else.”

“Come on, Abbey, you’re reminding me of when you were about twelve and eventually confessed to breaking a Mrs. Tiggywinkle plate. What have you broken this time?”

“Nothing.” Abbey concentrated on putting teabags into the teapot and her words came out in a rush. “Jack’s offered us the use of the barn at Fir Garth for the drama club, and he’s coming to talk to the kids, too.”

Edwina’s eyes narrowed. “When was all this arranged?”

“Actually, it was Sam who invited him.” Abbey went on to tell her mother what had happened.

“And you agreed?”

“I didn’t have much option. It’s not as if I’ve found any other place where we can meet, and Sam was so excited about Jack’s ideas.”

“Have you forgiven him?” Edwina said as they sat down at the kitchen table.

“No, but I think we need a sort of armed truce. I—erm—I’ve agreed to go up and help him clear the barn.”

Her mother’s green eyes studied her. “He broke your heart once, Abbey. Don’t let him do it again.”

She gave her mother what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’m not a teenager now, Mum. Don’t worry, I can handle this okay.”

No way was she going to mention the frisson of excitement that zinged through her at the thought of seeing him again. That was something her mother didn’t need to know.

CHAPTER 7

Abbey gave herself a good talking-to as she walked up the lane to Fir Garth. She didn’t have two days to adjust to being with Jack again. She had to do it right here and now. Forget what happened in the past, ignore the jumpy feelings inside her, and pretend he was a casual acquaintance.

It worked until she reached the house. She turned in through the gateway just as he came out of the barn, carrying a pile of boxes.

The sight of his strong body, in jeans and a blue polo shirt, created an odd, tugging sensation in the pit of her stomach. Broad shoulders, wide chest, firm tanned arms, slim waist and hips, and—Quickly she averted her eyes from the lower part of his body.

“Hi,” he called. “Let me find someplace to dump these, and I’ll join you in the barn.”

He continued into the house, and Abbey tried to calm herself as she walked past the front of the house to the stone barn. When she went in, a kaleidoscope of memories crowded into her mind. The eight or nine teenagers in their friendship circle had met here frequently, talking and discussing everything from world events to local gossip, listening to their favourite pop music, fooling around, laughing and joking. How wonderfully simple life had been at that time.

“Thanks for coming,” Jack said behind her.

She turned. “It’s the least I could do. I see what you mean about all the junk.” She surveyed the boxes and other paraphernalia that covered half the barn floor. If they concentrated on the practicalities, she might be able to ignore the way all her senses seemed to be on fire. “What
is
all this stuff?”

“Everything my parents cleared out of the house when they decided to rent it out. Books, ornaments, and whatever else they didn’t want to take to France.”

“Where are you putting it all?”

“The more valuable things will go into the house, the rest I’ll put in the garage.”

“Okay, what do you want me to do?”

“The boxes with Dad’s old law books are probably too heavy for you to carry,” Jack replied. “They’re all hefty tomes, but some boxes in that corner aren’t labelled. Can you find out what’s in them?”

“Will do.”

As he went back and forth with the boxes of books, she opened the ones he’d indicated. Several were full of old videotapes and CDs. Others had table and bed linen, towels and bathroom items, and one contained Christmas decorations.

When she found a stack of photo albums, she flicked one open. The first few pages were photos of Jack’s parents on holiday. Ireland, she guessed by some of the scenic shots. As she flipped over another page, she stopped at a photo of Jack and herself, taken on the day they decided to prune one of the apple trees behind the house.

He was balancing in the tree and she was laughing as she reached up to hold a long branch while he sawed it. More photos followed. Mr. Tremayne had taken several while they worked, and the final one showed them both standing in front of the neatly pruned tree. Jack’s arm was around her shoulders, and hers was wrapped around his waist.
We were such innocents
, she thought wryly.

“What’ve you found?”

His voice broke into her thoughts, and she smiled. “Old photos. Some your dad took the day we pruned the apple tree.”

He gave the same grin she’d seen in the photos as he crossed the barn toward her. “You were convinced I was going to fall out of the tree.”

“You almost did at one point. Remember when you tried to hold onto a branch that snapped? You looked like—” She broke off with a giggle.

“Like what?”

Still laughing, she went on, “Like one of those cartoon films where a crazy character sways backwards and forwards trying to keep its balance.”

“Yeah, but in cartoons, the characters usually go
splat
on the ground. At least I didn’t do that.”

“If you had, do you think your Dad would have rushed to help you, or carried on taking photos?”

Jack laughed. “Oh, he’d have taken a series of action shots.
How my son fell out of the apple tree
. Anyway, I need a break.” He held out a can. “Fancy a lager?”

She put the album back in the box and took the can from him. “Thanks.”

“Come on, let’s go and sit outside.”

She followed him to a wrought iron bench at the far side of the lawn. Pale sunshine filtered through the tall conifer trees and created flickering patterns on the grass. Birds chirped and trilled, and in the distance the frantic high-pitched bleating of a lamb was answered by the deeper cry from its mother.

In the last few minutes, it seemed as if she’d stepped into the past, talking and laughing with her best friend, the boy with whom she’d always been so much at ease. Today was the first time since his return to Rusthwaite that she actually felt relaxed with him.

“It’s been a good few years since we last sat here, hasn’t it?” he said.

“A lifetime.”

“So let’s talk.”

“What about?”

He gave her a lazy smile that threatened to demolish her new-found composure. “I don’t know where we start. Do you?”

She took another mouthful of her lager. “Not really.”

“What would you have been doing today if you hadn’t come up here?”

“I didn’t have anything planned, but I might have gone for a run in the forest this afternoon now the weather’s dried up.”

“Do you often do that?”

Obviously he was keeping to small talk. She could go along with that. It was easier than talking about the things that mattered. “Yes, when I have time, and when it’s not raining. In London, I go to the gym each morning, but up here the only gyms are at the big hotels, and they charge the earth for non-residents to use the facilities.”

Jack gave her an amused smile. “Is this where we discuss whether tourists are more important than local people?”

She let herself meet his gaze. “Maybe we’d better stay away from controversial subjects?”

He tilted his head in acknowledgement. “If you say so.”

“Tell me about your career and all the places where you’ve been.”

“Okay, if you really want to know. Once I went freelance, I managed to land contracts that took me to South America, India, Japan, the Middle East, and Kenya. In between those, I did my own thing, researching topics that interested me personally.”

“What’s been the most interesting?”

“Antarctica. I went with a team of scientists who were studying the effects of global warming there.” He hesitated before adding, “That was where I met Rachel.”

“Rachel?”

“My fiancée.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Abbey tightened her hand around her lager can. “And I’m sorry about what I said the other day, about driving on a freeway, I mean. That was so thoughtless of me.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind talking about her, you know.”

“All right.” She thought for a moment. “Why was she in Antarctica?”

“She was doing an article for National Geographic.”

“She was a journalist, too?”

He nodded. “Yeah, from California.” He turned to gaze across the lawn. “And it was my fault she was killed.”

Abbey stared at him. The whole conversation had taken such an unexpected turn she didn’t know what to say.

Without looking at her, he went on, “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

“Do you want to tell me?”

“Do you want to listen?”

She nodded. “Jack, years ago, you and I told each other things that we never told anyone else. So yes, let’s put everything else aside. If you want to talk, of course I’ll listen.”

* * * * *

Jack leant back against the bench. It would be a relief to unburden himself, but during all the hell he’d gone through, not for one moment had he imagined it would be to Abbey.

He exhaled deeply before he said something he’d never told anyone else, least of all Rachel’s parents. “About an hour before she died, we had the mother of all fights.”

“Oh.”

He shot a sideways glance at her. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“But it was a freeway pile-up, wasn’t it? An accident?”

“That’s what all the reports said.”

“What happened?”

“Some witnesses said the truck driver lost control and smashed into the side of her car; others said Rachel cut in front of the truck which caused him to swerve. All I know is that she was in a fury when she stormed out of our apartment.”

“Do you think she was driving recklessly or carelessly?”

“I’ll never know, will I?”

“What about the truck driver? Didn’t he say what happened?”

“He was killed when his truck rolled over. Several other cars rammed into the truck and into Rachel’s car. A couple of other drivers were injured but no one else was killed, thank God.”

“Jack, you can’t blame yourself.”

“No? If we hadn’t argued, she wouldn’t have been on the damned freeway on her own. I would have been driving.”

There was silence for a few moments before Abbey spoke again. “But you’re not responsible for any error Rachel or the truck driver might have made.”

He thought back to the fight they had that evening. It was a variation of the same fight they’d been having for weeks, but he wasn’t ready to share that with anyone, not even Abbey.

He took a gulp of his lager. “Enough about me. How about you?”

* * * * *

Abbey knew Jack had to find his own way of coming to terms with his guilt. Knew, too, that he’d closed himself off, not wanting to talk about it any longer. When he did that in his teens, she’d usually been able to persuade him to open up but she couldn’t do that now.

“In what sense?” she asked in response to his question.

“Are you happy?”

“I’m enjoying being back up here.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“All right, then. Yes, I’m happy.”

“What about your career?”

She shrugged in pretended nonchalance. “I’m not sure yet. It depends what comes up.”

“I thought you’d be besieged with offers after the
Jane Eyre
series on TV.”

“I was so lucky to get that role.”

“Not lucky. Talented.
Abigail Barton displays a magical blend of inner strength and heart-breaking vulnerability, exactly what Charlotte Bronte envisaged in her heroine Jane Eyre
.”

“Now you’ve surprised me. Wasn’t that
The Times
critic?”

He nodded. “And he was right.”

“You watched the series?”

“Yes. You were good—very good.”

A flush rose to her cheeks at his praise. “Thank you.”

“Why did you change your surname?”

“My agent’s idea. B comes before S, therefore it appears nearer the top in casting directors’ lists.”

“Why Barton in particular?”

“Oh, come on, you shouldn’t have to ask that. What’s the shop called?”

She saw the light dawn on his face. “Yes, of course. Barton’s Gift Shop. Your mother’s maiden name. Anyway, what else have you done since
Jane Eyre
? Sorry, I should know, shouldn’t I? But I couldn’t get British television in most of the places I’ve been staying.”

“I’ve done a few TV dramas, a couple of films, and several stage roles.”

“What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why have you come home?”

“I told you, I needed a break.” When he raised his eyebrows questioningly, she knew he didn’t believe her. Okay, he’d been honest with her so maybe she needed to be honest, too. She stared down and faltered with the words. “The truth is that last December I didn’t get a part I desperately wanted, and it knocked my confidence for six.”

“What part?”

“Maggie Rycroft in
The Rycroft Saga
. You probably haven’t heard of it, but it’s a best-seller, a trilogy about a Lakeland family in the nineteenth century. I’ve read all three books and they’re fantastic. Maggie’s a wonderful character, feisty and rebellious against the submissive role the Victorians assigned to women. She’d have been a suffragette or an equal rights campaigner in later ages. They’re doing a TV mini-series of the first book, and I auditioned. I thought I’d done okay but they turned me down.”

“Do you know why?”

She shrugged. “My agent said the casting director wanted me but John Tyson, the author, didn’t, and he had the final say.”

Jack nodded, drained his can of lager, and went on, “What about other roles?”

“I had a couple of possibilities in the pipeline but I turned them down because I was holding out for the Rycroft one. I suppose I came home to lick my wounds and find a way to rebuild my confidence.” She looked around at him. “Is that what we’ve both done, Jack? Come home to our roots to regroup and start again?”

“Could be.” He stood up. “I guess we’d better go back to the barn. There’s still a lot of stuff to clear.”