Fragrance of Violets (8 page)

He’d done it again.
Shut himself off when he didn’t want to talk about something.

He gave her a quick grin. “Race you there?”

She laughed, taking her cue from him. “No way! You’ll win. You have longer legs than me.” Another reminder of their teenage years when they raced each other in the village or on the lake shore or even here in the grounds of his home.

“I always had longer legs than you, but you often won. Mainly because you cheated.”

“I did not!”

“No? What about the times you tried to trip me up?”

Abbey smirked. “Purely accidental, of course.”

“Oh yeah? I seem to remember one occasion when you pretended you’d hurt your ankle so I’d stop and come back to you.”

She grinned at the memory. “Ah, yes, but that was a tactical manoeuvre, not cheating.”

He laughed as they returned to the barn, and a pleasurable warmth seeped through her as they chatted and joked while they continued to clear the junk.

When Jack found an old dartboard with three darts stuck in it, he hung it on a nail on the wall, and shot the darts at it.

“Hah!” Abbey mocked. “Three, five, and two. Great score, Tremayne.”

“Beat it.” He pulled out the darts and handed them to her.

She screwed up her eyes as she aimed her darts. It was at least ten years since she last played, but she’d always had a good eye. Her first dart hit double nine, but the second one went straight to the bull, and she turned to him with a triumphant grin.

“See, I haven’t lost my touch.” Her smile died when she saw his expression. Serious, intense, studying her. “What’s the matter?”

“When are we going to talk about it, Abbey?”

Her heart missed a beat. She knew but still asked, “About what?”

“Oh, come on, you know exactly what I mean.”

Of course she did, but she was reluctant to damage the fragile link they’d established that morning. Opening up the past would open up her old wounds of anger and resentment. She shook her head. “Jack, let’s not even go there. It was a long time ago and it’s better to leave it in the past.”

Jack shrugged. “Okay, but that doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten, does it?”

* * * * *

Her silence was answer enough for him. She hadn’t forgotten, but how could they ever forget? And, from the way her lips tightened and wariness dulled her eyes, it was clear she hadn’t forgiven him either. He wondered what was dominant in her mind. His attempted seduction or their bitter fight afterwards? Or was it the
Chronicle
article?

And now there was something else for which she wasn’t going to forgive him.

The
Rycroft Saga
.

He’d been about to come clean, to tell her he was the author who turned her down and to explain his reasons. Why didn’t he? The answer was simple. He didn’t want to add to the list of all the things he’d done that had upset her.

He hadn’t realised for one minute it would affect her so drastically. He’d assumed she would have plenty of other offers. Now he struggled with the shock of what she’d just said. Guilt stabbed through him. Unwittingly he’d been the cause of her losing confidence in herself.

But at least there was something he could do to right that particular wrong. If it wasn’t too late.

He watched as she turned away and started to pick up a bunch of old paintbrushes from the floor.

“Okay,” he said. “I guess you’re right about leaving things in the past, but how about the future?” Her eyes narrowed as she straightened up, and he went on, “Tuesday evening? The drama club?”

“Oh, that.”

He wondered for a moment if she’d been expecting him to say something different. “Yes, that. I had the impression you weren’t altogether in favour of Sam inviting me.”

She pretended to inspect the brushes. “He took me by surprise, that’s all, and—” She paused before looking up and smiling. “And yes, I’d like you to come. He was interested in your ideas, so I’m sure the others will be, too. They were floundering when they tried to come up with suitable scenarios for the drama festival.”

Relieved that they seemed to be on safe ground again, Jack thought back to his conversation with Sam. “It has to be connected with the Lake District, right?”

“Yes.” She gave him a wry smile. “Did he tell you they thought they should do something about preserving Lakeland’s heritage?”

He returned her smile. “Yes, and of course there are a lot of events or people in Lakeland’s history they could highlight, but my suggestion was that they might think about the issues facing young people here today.”

Her eyes lit up. “What an excellent idea! There aren’t many youth drama clubs in this area. Most of the other festival entrants will be older groups so a play dealing with youth issues will be different.”

“Even if it’s controversial?”

“Especially if it’s controversial. Drama can provide a framework for young people to explore their own feelings and values within a safe space.”

“Good point.” Jack took the dartboard from the wall and picked up a couple of framed pictures. “Tell me more about the kids in the group.”

They went back and forth to the garage with the junk while she told him about the teenagers. The animation in her voice made him smile. She was the teenage Abbey again, vibrant and enthusiastic as she talked about the things which were important to her.

She reminded him of how Rachel had been when they were at McMurdo Station in Antarctica. That was what had attracted him, before he understood the sharp edge of ambition which consumed her. He shook away the memory and concentrated on Abbey’s descriptions of the youngsters.

“I won’t remember any of the names you’ve mentioned, but I’m sure I’ll enjoy meeting them all.”

Abbey glanced at her watch. “I ought to go now. Mum usually makes lunch about one o’clock.”

He walked with her to the gateway. “I’m glad you’re okay about me coming to the drama club. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Yes, so am I. See you on Tuesday evening, Jack.”

He watched as she set off down the road. When she reached the bend, she half-turned to wave, and he raised his hand in response.

Once she’d disappeared around the corner, he pulled his phone from his pocket. He found his agent’s number, hit the key, and exhaled in frustration when his call was diverted to the answer service.

“Farrell, it’s Jack Tremayne here,” he said. “Call me as soon as you can, please. It’s about the casting for the TV series.”

CHAPTER 8

A curious and unexpected sense of euphoria filled Abbey as she walked briskly down the lane. She’d been right to offer to help Jack. During the last couple of hours, her awkwardness with him had eased. Perhaps they
could
re-establish a casual friendship, after all.

The thought surprised her. Only a few days ago, she’d been adamant there was no way they could ever be friends again, but the shared memories of their teenage years had somehow bridged the huge gulf between them. The gulf was still there, of course, but if they ignored it, they could at least enjoy each other’s company again.

The ring of her phone broke into her thoughts, and she reached into her pocket. When she saw her sister’s name on the screen, she smiled and put the phone to her ear. “Hi, Louise.”

“Hey, Abbey, how’s things? Been to any auditions recently?”

“No, you know I’m taking a break from those.”

“When are you going to stop hiding yourself away up there?”

“I’m not hiding away. I enjoy being here. Makes a pleasant change from London.”

“Funny you should say that. I’m back in London now.”

“Oh? I thought you were working in Brighton. What about your job?”

“I resigned. It was only temporary, anyway.”

“What’s happened to Colin what’s-his-name from Brighton? He’s your latest, isn’t he? Or is that the guy from Latvia?” She found it difficult to keep up with her sister’s love life. Since her divorce from Stuart three years earlier, Louise seemed to be on a desperate, but unsuccessful, hunt for someone to take his place. Few of her boyfriends lasted for more than a few weeks.

“Jurgi was from Lithuania, not Latvia, and I broke up with him ages ago. And—well, the reason I’ve come back to London is because I’ve met this man called Farrell Saunders. He’s a literary agent and I think—”

“You think this is the real thing.” Abbey sighed. She’d heard it so many times. “Honestly, Louise, when you are going to realise there aren’t any Prince Charmings in this world? Your knight on a white charger isn’t going to come galloping out of the misty forest to rescue you.”

Louise laughed. “You’re mixing your metaphors, sis. Prince Charming wasn’t a knight and didn’t have a white charger. Anyway, who’s
your
latest?”

“I don’t have a latest, as you call it.”

“Oh Abbey—”

“Don’t
oh Abbey
me! You’re starting to sound like Mum. What is it? You think my life’s incomplete because I don’t have a man in tow?”

Louise chuckled. “You don’t know what you’re missing, Abbs.”

“Being cheated on? Lied to? Disappointed and hurt? No, thanks, not my scene.”

“Oh, come on, not all men are like that.”

“No? Are you forgetting Dad? Or your ex-husband?”

“No, but I’m not letting either of them rule the rest of my life. I have lots of men friends.”

“So do I, but that’s all they are.” She hesitated and decided to go on. “Oh, and by the way, talking about men, guess who’s back here.”

“A man?”

“Jack Tremayne.”

“Jack Tremayne?
Jack
?”

“The same. Except he isn’t the same.” She perched on the low dry-stone wall which surrounded the swings and slides of the small children’s playground. No, the good-looking boy had become a devastatingly attractive man. His maturity and his successful career had given him an air of self-assurance, but without the arrogance that often accompanied such confidence.

“What d’you mean, he isn’t the same?”

“He’s a man and not a boy, for one thing,” she said as casually as she could. “But before you start getting any ideas, his fiancée was killed two months ago, and I think he’s come home to grieve.”

“Oh, my goodness, poor Jack.” Louise’s voice became compassionate. “Have you talked to him?”

“Yes, a couple of times.”

“How long is he staying up there?”

“I’ve no idea. I didn’t cross-examine him, Lou.”

“When are you seeing him again?”

“Depends what you mean by
seeing
him.”

“Dating him, of course.”

“There’s no way that will happen.”

“Oh, come on, you’re not still mad at him for whatever he did all those years ago, are you?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“So straighten it out.”

Abbey sighed. Why couldn’t she cope with her own life in the matter of fact way Louise dealt with hers?

“Anyway,” Louise went on, “I was calling to tell you we’ll be coming up north this week. Farrell has several meetings with his authors in Lancaster and Kendal, and I’m coming with him. Not sure what day it’ll be, probably Thursday or Friday.”

“Great. I’ll look forward to seeing you again, Lou.”

After she clicked off her phone, Abbey gazed unseeingly across the children’s playground to the hills on the far side of the valley.
Straighten it out
, Louise had said. Easy to say, but much more difficult to do. The past would always stand between them. Jack had hurt her on so many levels.

Why, then, had she felt such an electrifying response to him? Why did her heart beat faster, her nerves quiver, and her skin tingle at the sight of him? Ten years ago, she’d angrily rejected his advances when he wanted to take their friendship further. Why did everything seem different now?

She eased herself off the wall and blew out a brief huff of breath.

Today they’d managed to establish a cordial relationship but that was all it could ever be. For one thing, he was mourning his fiancée. For another, she wasn’t ready to let a man into her life—and definitely not Jack Tremayne.

* * * * *

The fine spring weather brought more tourists into the village during the next couple of days and kept Abbey busy in the shop, but while she helped them with their purchases, and suggested items in which they might be interested, Jack was never far from her thoughts. Heady excitement shimmered through her every time she thought about the drama club meeting.

Tuesday afternoon dragged, and she kept glancing impatiently at her watch. It seemed an eternity before they finally closed the shop and went home, where she spent an agonising fifteen minutes deciding what to wear. Eventually she chose a pair of brown slacks and her cream shirt.

She reached Fir Garth at about twenty past seven and saw Jack near the door of the barn, talking to one of the parents. He turned and raised his hand in greeting. Such a trivial gesture, but it still sent a small quiver through her. She reminded herself to act naturally.

“Hi,” she said brightly. “It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

They agreed with her, and Dan Morris, a member of the Parish Council and the father of two of the girls in the drama club, went on, “I was telling Jack how grateful we are. With the Old School out of action, there’s nowhere in the village for kids to meet.”

“Is there any news about the roof repairs?” Abbey asked.

“Bob Elliott came last Friday,” Dan replied. “We’re waiting for a definite quote, but it’s going to be expensive. A lot of the beams need replacing and, of course, the Planning Board will insist we use Lakeland slate which costs much more than normal roof tiles.”

Abbey nodded. She was well aware of the strict planning regulations in the area.

“Did Elliott give you any rough idea of the cost?” Jack asked.

“About seventy thousand.”

Abbey winced. “That’s a lot more than you have in the account, isn’t it?”

“We do have a contingency fund for repairs to the Old School but nowhere near enough, so Tom’s investigating charitable grants. But don’t let me keep you, Abbey. At least Jack’s provided this place for you in the meantime. How long are you going to be here, Jack?”

“I’m not sure yet, but you’re welcome to use the barn for as long as you need it. I’ll get more keys made so Abbey and the leaders of the other youth groups can use it even if I’m not here.”

That sounded as if he didn’t intend to stay in Rusthwaite for long, and a sinking feeling hit her stomach, but Abbey smiled. “We’re all very grateful. Are you coming to the meeting?”

“I’ll pop in later. Is that okay?”

“Yes, whenever’s convenient for you.”

She left the two men outside the barn and went in to greet the teenagers who had already arrived. Some red plastic chairs and tables had been brought from the Old School, and she wondered if Jack had organised that. At least no one could accuse him of not supporting the village on this occasion.

By seven-thirty, the rest of the teenagers had arrived, and Abbey divided them into three groups of four. She gave each group a piece of paper and told them to write down their ideas for the festival play.

“Anything at all?” asked Joanne Barnes, the fifteen year old daughter of one of the local farmers. Petite and pretty, with long dark hair, she knew how to flirt with the boys, and Abbey didn’t need to be psychic to know Joanne’s ideas would revolve around the opposite sex.

“Anything at all, at least for the moment,” she said. “Once you’ve brainstormed your ideas, we’ll discuss them in more detail and try to reach an agreement.”

“Abbey, I thought Jack was coming tonight,” Sam said.

She nodded. “Yes, he said he’ll come later.”

As each group started to talk among themselves, she opened her file which contained the application forms for the festival, and pretended to study them. Only half-listening to the babble of conversation, she was far more aware of the anticipation building inside her as she waited for Jack to arrive.

She tried not to acknowledge the way her whole system seemed to be tied in knots as it stirred in response to a strong sensual attraction she’d never experienced before.

Twenty minutes later, when Jack walked in, all her nerves jumped into overdrive.

“Hi,” she said with careful nonchalance, and indicated the groups of teenagers. “They’re brainstorming ideas,” she went on, determined to keep this evening’s encounter casual and to ignore the treacherous responses of her body.

“You’ve not given them any structure or guidelines?”

“Nope, carte blanche. I was about to see what they’ve come up with.”

He grinned. “Excellent. This should be interesting.”

Abbey called them together, and they sat in a large circle. After introducing Jack, she asked each group for their ideas. She could have predicted some of their answers.

“We want to do a romance,” Joanne Barnes said. “A modern Romeo and Juliet story.”

“What’s that got to do with the Lake District?” one of the boys asked. “We thought we should find out more about the effects of foot and mouth disease around here a few years ago.”

“We think it should be about someone famous who lived here. Beatrix Potter or Wordsworth or Catherine Parr,” said another of the girls.

More ideas were suggested, and Abbey smiled as she watched Jack. He leant forward, with his elbow on his knee and his hand cupping his chin as he listened intently. She loved the way he gave the youngsters all his attention as he looked from one to the other when they spoke. Sometimes he nodded, other times his eyebrows shot up or his forehead creased at their suggestions, and a couple of times he joined in their laughter. It gave her a warm sense of pleasure to realise he was taking this seriously.

Then Sam spoke. “Jack, the other night you and I were talking about the problems facing young people in the Lake District today, and you said we could feature those in our play. Do you think that would work?”

“It depends—” Jack glanced around at her. “Okay for me to talk to them?”

“Yes, of course.”

He sat upright. “It depends, firstly, on what problems you want to highlight and, secondly, how you think you can put them across in your play.”

“What do you think we should highlight?” Sam asked.

Jack shook his head. “That’s not for me to say. We’re talking about your ideas, not mine. So—” He opened his hands to them. “What
are
the problems for young people today?”

“No chance to meet any different boys,” Joanne Barnes said with a giggle.

Sam turned to her. “Shut up, Jo. We’re being serious here.”

“So am I,” Joanne retorted. “Shut up yourself, Sam.”

Abbey was about to intervene to stop their squabble when Jack spoke again. “Jo has a good point. Here you don’t have the opportunity to meet as many young people as the teenagers who live in cities.”

“See!” Joanne stuck her tongue out at Sam.

“On the other hand,” Jack went on, “having a smaller circle of friends gives you the opportunity to get to know them all better. Working together like this, for example.”

He’s good
, Abbey thought. He’d turned the small squabble into something positive, where neither Joanne nor Sam could lose face.

“How about a play dealing with the good and bad points of living in the Lake District?” Sam asked.

Jack nodded. “That’s possible. What other problems are there?”