Second Tomorrow (16 page)

‘Yes,’ she agreed flatly, ‘it is.’

Luke, his expression unfathomable, picked up the hamper and carried it to the jetty where the launch was moored. Somehow she had felt that in this visit to Windward Cay, she would be able to make Luke notice her again . . . to win him back from Stella Wesley, but she had done nothing. The opportunity had been lost . . . or perhaps it had never been there at all.

Chapter Ten

It was two days later that Mrs Weedall told Clare she was considering a prolonged stay on Flamingo Cay. ‘I like it so much,’ she added, with her usual thin smile. ‘And I have you, which is so nice for me, Clare, dear. I’ve been so much alone and now everything’s changed. Do you think that Phil can arrange for me to have a room for about three months?’

Three months! Consternation looked out from Clare’s eyes. She recalled last evening, when Luke had again dined alone with Stella Wesley, giving her all his attention, obviously very happy to be with her. It still amazed Clare that he could not only have forgiven her but was willing to marry her after what she had done to him. Marry . . . ? He had not actually said he was intending to marry her but when Clare had mentioned it he made no denial. ‘Do you really want to be away from Frank’s grave for that long, Mrs Weedall?’ Clare inquired at last.

‘I’m hoping that Simon will look after it. He did promise.’

‘It’s a long time—and we have the busy season coming,’ added Clare as the thought occurred to her. ‘We might be booked up.’

A small hesitation and then, ‘Perhaps, dear, if that were the case, I could share your room? Is it big enough for another bed?’

‘I—I—’ Clare shook her head, frowning. It would be unbearable to have Mrs Weedall with her every night. ‘I never did like sharing,’ she said apologetically. ‘I read before going to sleep and the light would disturb you—’

‘Not in the least, dear,’ interrupted Mrs Weedall, smiling. ‘I too read in bed so your light would be no problem.’

Clare moved uneasily. She felt she was being caught in a net from which she would have the greatest difficulty in escaping. What must she do? She could not deliberately hurt Frank’s mother, and yet, if she put her first then she herself was going to be even more miserable than she was now. And the other thing was that she wanted more than anything to return to England as soon as possible. She had not yet mentioned her decision to Phil, but she had no doubt that he would be let down by her giving up the post of receptionist. Mary would readily take her place.

‘I’ll pay for a room if there’s one available, naturally,’ Mrs Weedall was saying. ‘Why not see if there is one, dear, before we discuss the possibility of my sharing yours?’ She looked anxiously at Clare, whose pity leapt instantly to the forefront of her mind. What a desperately
lonely woman she was! And it was not her fault if she dwelt all the time on her misfortunes, she just happened to be made that way, and people like Luke and Phil should try to understand. ‘I know you have your job, Clare, dear,’ continued Mrs Weedall, ‘and I know you can’t be with me during the daytime—except perhaps for lunch,’ she added on an optimistic little note. ‘But there would be every evening, and we could sit and talk about Frank. . . .’ Her voice trailed off to silence and a tinge of colour stole into her pallid cheeks. She and Clare were on the terrace and Clare twisted her head to look up into the narrowed gaze of the man who was scarcely ever out of her thoughts.

‘Luke,’ she began when he interrupted her, speaking to Mrs Weedall. ‘Did I hear you say you were staying for three months?’

‘I’d like to,’ answered Mrs Weedall feebly.

‘And you expect Clare to spend every evening with you?’

‘She would want to be with me.’

‘You’re sure?’ He came forward unhurriedly to take possession of a chair opposite the woman he was talking to. Clare noticed the steely glint in his eyes, the harsh set of his jaw and something made her ask, ‘How long have you been there, Luke?’

‘Long enough to have heard everything,’ he replied tautly.

‘Yes,’ Mrs Weedall was saying, ‘of course I’m sure that dear Clare would want to be with me every evening. We’ve so much in common. I
expect she’s told you that my son and she were engaged—and that his death left us both prostrate with grief? We only have each other—’

‘Clare has parents and a brother,’ broke in Luke harshly. ‘While you, I believe, have a son and a daughter-in-law?’

‘But they mean nothing—’

‘Clare’s parents are nothing to her? And Phil—?’

‘Mrs Weedall doesn’t mean it in that way,’ interrupted Clare hurriedly. ‘You’ve misunderstood her, Luke.’

Mrs Weedall was glancing from one to the other, a bewildered expression on her face. ‘I don’t understand, Mr Mortimer. It seems strange that you should interfere like this. Clare will tell you herself that she and I are united by the death of my dear son—’

‘Mrs Weedall,’ broke in Clare desperately, on noticing Luke’s furious expression, ‘Mr Mortimer isn’t interested in Frank.’ She turned to Luke, adding beseechingly, ‘Please don’t say any more. Mrs Weedall is very sad over her son’s death and it isn’t kind to speak to her like you are doing.’

‘I don’t want to be unkind, but, Mrs Weedall, your son has gone and no amount of tears or heartbreak can alter the situation. Clare has her life to live. It’s five years since her fiancé died and since coming here she’d begun to get over it, but you arrived and it all began again. It’s got to stop!’

‘I don’t understand where you come into it,’
said Mrs Weedall, gaining a little spirit from somewhere. ‘You are Phil’s friend, not Clare’s.’

Luke and Clare exchanged glances. She was pale, troubled because of the way Luke was treating Mrs Weedall. Why had he interfered? It was not as if he had any interest in her now that Stella Wesley was here on Flamingo Cay.

‘You don’t know where I come into it? I shall tell you. I promised Phil that I’d try to make Clare snap out of the misery that’s been affecting her for over five years.’

So that was it. The promise to Phil was the sole reason for Luke’s interference. Only now did Clare realise that, for one breathless moment, she had dared to hope that there could be an altogether different reason for Luke’s anger. . . .

‘But you would never have succeeded,’ asserted Mrs Weedall.

‘That,’ said Luke, ‘is where you’re wrong. I had almost succeeded before you arrived.’

Mrs Weedall was shaking her head. ‘No, never would you make Clare forget. Why, she keeps my dear Frank’s photograph beside her bed and looks at it every night. Perhaps she kisses it—we do not know, do we? It’s her secret and even I would not ask her about it.’

Clare, white to the lips, had tried to interrupt but her mouth was dry; her tongue seemed paralysed.

‘Is that right?’ Luke turned to Clare, an incredulous expression in his eyes.

What should she do? It seemed imperative
that she tell Luke the truth—that she did
not
have Frank’s photograph by her bed, nor even have a photograph of him with her. But what of Mrs Weedall? She had believed Clare when she had told the lie, saying—in order to make Mrs Weedall a little happier—that she did have a photograph of her son beside her bed. ‘Well,’ rasped Luke harshly, ‘have you an answer to my question, Clare?’

She stared at him, unhappily aware that he would put his own interpretation on the convulsive, uncontrollable trembling of her mouth. ‘Yes,’ she whispered faintly at last, ‘I do have Frank’s photograph beside my bed.’

‘My God!’ Revolted, Luke got to his feet. ‘You’re maniacs—both of you!’ And on that wrathful note he turned on his heel and left them.

‘You’re going home!’ Phil stared at his sister uncomprehendingly. ‘This is sudden, isn’t it? What’s happened?’

‘I want to go home with Mrs Weedall.’ Scalding tears pricked the backs of Clare’s eyes, and her heart felt dead. To go home, back to the life which—she now knew—was a wasted one, a life controlled by the overwhelming pity she had always felt for Mrs Weedall. Clare could not help this feeling of pity; it was something stronger than herself, dominating her life, depriving her of the ability to seek for happiness.

Happiness. . . . Bitterly she knew she had come very close to real happiness, because she
felt sure that, at first, Luke had a deep affection for her that could easily have strengthened to love. In fact, at one time she was convinced that he did love her, and that he was only waiting until he could be sure she had shaken off her memories before asking her to marry him. Yes, she had come so very close to happiness.

‘You want to go home with Mrs Weedall?’ Phil’s angry voice broke into her train of thought and she looked up at him. They were in the private sitting-room of the suite which Phil, as manager of the hotel, had been given on taking up the post.

‘She asked me if she could stay for three months. That was yesterday. I made up my mind definitely this morning, and when I told her she decided to come with me.’ Her thoughts wandered again, to last evening when Luke and Stella had come to the Rusty Pelican for dinner and dancing.

Luke had never once cast his eyes in Clare’s direction, but later, when Stella had obviously gone to the powder-room, he came over to Clare and said harshly, ‘I think that, under the circumstances, you will want to be released from that work I asked you to do for me.’ Clare had nodded dumbly and Luke had merely said, ‘That’s settled, then,’ and walked away, a cold and merciless expression on his face.

Luckily Phil was not there at that particular time, so Clare was spared the questions that he would inevitably have asked.

‘I suppose,’ Phil was saying furiously, ‘that
your first stop on landing in England will be that grave?’

‘Don’t be like that with me,’ quivered Clare pleadingly. ‘I’m n-not happy at going home, Phil, but it’s the only thing I can do under the circumstances.’

He frowned then, his anger leaving him as he looked with deep concern into her ashen face.

‘Clare—love, what is it? Surely you can tell me?’

‘No . . . I can’t tell anyone. . . .’ To her great consternation she burst into tears. ‘I’ll—g-go to my room—’

‘No, you won’t!’ Phil’s voice was equally as authoritative as Luke’s had been when he was speaking to Mrs Weedall. ‘You’ll stay here until I’ve learned what this is all about.’

She shook her head, bringing out a handkerchief and drying the tears, but only to make way for more. ‘I won’t tell you!’ she cried, ‘so you needn’t ask me!’

‘It’s something to do with Mrs Weedall,’ he persisted. ‘She’s been wearing you down with that same old sob story she wore you down with before, when you were at home! I’m not letting her get away with it,’ he added determinedly. ‘I shall go to her straight away and tell her to leave!’

‘It isn’t Mrs Weedall’s fault,’ denied Clare swiftly. ‘You’ll be making a mistake if you accuse her.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ returned Phil almost brutally. ‘You’re my concern while you’re here
—I promised Mum and Dad that I’d take good care of you. What are they to think if you go back—broken-hearted like this? I’d no right to let that woman come here—’

‘Phil, please don’t! You’re mistaken in believing that Mrs Weedall had anything to do with my decision. She wanted to stay for three months. You know that—so how can she be the cause of my wishing to go home?’

‘I’m very sure you don’t
wish
to go home, Clare. You’ve been so settled and happy here until that woman put in an appearance!’

‘I admit she’s upset me at times,’ returned Clare frankly, but went on to say again that Mrs Weedall had definitely not influenced her in this decision to return to England.

‘She
is
the cause of your deciding to go home,’ asserted Phil, ignoring her words, ‘because there’s no one else who could be the cause.’ He was furiously angry, something most unusual for Phil. ‘Why did she have to come here in the first place? And another thing,’ he added as the thought crossed his mind, ‘what about the work you’re supposed to be doing for Luke? Are you going to let him down?’

‘He’ll get someone else.’ Mrs Wesley . . . ? Yes, it seemed to be a foregone conclusion, decided Clare, swallowing the ache of despair that had settled in her throat.

‘He’s not going to be very pleased about this, Clare. You already know he was as mad as I was when he knew that Mrs Weedall was coming over here.’

‘You still believe it was she who influenced me, don’t you?’

‘I’m sure of it—and Luke will agree with me!’

‘Luke’s already had his say—’

‘He has?’ Phil looked interrogatingly at her. ‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘I didn’t want to burden you with my troubles.’

‘It’s what I’m here for.’

She hesitated, but only momentarily. ‘He overheard Mrs Weedall talking yesterday and didn’t like what she said. And as usual he adopted that high-handed manner, almost as if he had some control over me, but this time it was directed mainly at poor Mrs Weedall; she was dreadfully upset, and when he had gone she was almost in tears.’

‘It doesn’t take much to bring Mrs Weedall to tears,’ was Phil’s disparaging comment. ‘However, I’m not interested in the wretched woman’s emotions,’ he went on in the kind of heartless voice his sister had never before heard him use. ‘What was she saying that made Luke annoyed with her?’

Clare paused, but decided it would be less fatiguing to tell Phil the whole truth, seeing that he was in this determined, almost agressive, mood. He listened without interruption, his mouth tightening as she proceeded to relate all that had taken place. ‘It was just unfortunate that he overheard,’ she said finally.

‘This photograph?’ frowned Phil shaking his head. ‘You haven’t a photograph of Frank with you. Mother told me in her letter that she was
thankful she had been able to persuade you to leave them behind.’

Clare nodded her head. ‘I did leave them behind,’ she agreed, then went on to tell him the reason why she had told Mrs Weedall that she did in fact have a photograph of Frank beside her bed. ‘At the time it didn’t do me any harm,’ she added, ‘but I never thought she’d conclude that I—I kissed it every night—’ She broke off, thinking of Luke’s reaction and not blaming him for it. ‘Luke m-must consider me—me morbid—’ Again she stopped, this time to seek for a handkerchief to dry her eyes. Phil, having moved over to the window, was standing with his back to it, a most odd expression on his face.