The House on Flamingo Cay (17 page)

Moving soundlessly over the yielding sand, intending to search out the Stuyvesants, she heard a low sound—like a woman’s smothered laugh—coming from behind the pavilion. Involuntarily, she paused and glanced that way. What she saw made her draw in a sharp breath of pain. Hidden away from the rest of the party by the broad screen of the tent, a man and woman were locked in a passionate embrace. That, in itself, did not shock Sara. But, even in the dim starlight and the glow of the colored lanterns, she recognized the spangled flounces of the woman’s Spanish costume. And although he had his back to her and his face was hidden, the man was very tall and there was the glint of a gilded ring in his left ear.

* * *

Next morning, watching her sister drink the early tea, Sara said quietly, “I want to go home, Angela.”

The older girl set down her cup. “Home?” she said blankly.

“To England—to London.” Rising from the end of her bed, Sara moved across to the window. She was already dressed and had borrowed some of Angela’s foundation cream in attempt to camouflage the telltale signs of a sleepless and anguished night.

Forcing herself to .sound matter-of-fact, she said evenly, “There isn’t any further point in my staying on, do you think? You’ve achieved your object and, I’m getting rather homesick.”

“But we have no home in London now.”

“Oh, I expect I shall soon pick up the threads again. I can get a room in a hostel for the time being, and finding a job won’t be difficult. I might try one of the secretarial agencies—you know, working in different offices where they’re short-handed through illness and so on. I’ve always thought it would be more interesting than sticking in the same old rut.”

“But you don’t need to work now,” Angela objected. “Surely you realize that Conrad and Emily are expecting you to come with me? Why, you’ll have a wonderful time—parties, dates, trips to New York.”

“You know I can’t live on them. I wouldn’t feel comfortable.”

“You wouldn’t be living on them. As my younger sister, you’re entitled to a place in my home.”

Sara bit her lip. “No, I want to go back to London,” she said flatly.

“Now look here, Sara, I know you haven’t approved of ... of all this,” her sister said, after a pause. “But there’s no point in being pigheaded. You can’t possibly return to England on your own. I should be worried stiff about you. It might be different if we had any close relatives, but we haven’t. You
have
to come to the States. Emily said last night that she thinks we might as well follow Conrad right away. Probably on the late afternoon flight to New York tomorrow.”

Sara turned to face her. “I don’t
have
to do anything,” she retorted. “You’ve arranged your life. Now I’ll fix mine. If you’re worried about what the Stuyvesants will think—well, I’m sure you can think of some feasible explanation. So please don’t let’s have a row. I’m going home and that’s that.”

Angela was silent for some moments, her slim gold-tipped fingers plucking at the coverlet.

“You can’t go home, my dear,” she said at last. “At least, not unless you’re prepared to get Emily to pay your fare.”

“What on earth do you mean? I’ll use my return ticket.”

Angela examined her knuckles. “You haven’t got one,” she said finally. “I didn’t book return flights.”

“I don’t believe it! You ... you
couldn’t
have been so foolhardy.”

Her sister shrugged. “It’s easily proved, my dear. Just ring up the airline and check.” She lifted the telephone receiver and offered it. Then, when Sara ignored the gesture and continued to stare at her with the blankness of shocked incredulity: “If you’d given it any thought, you’d have worked it out for yourself. The outward flight took almost half our money. To have paid for return tickets would have left us with practically nothing. I didn’t tell you before because I knew it would worry you. Now ... well, it doesn’t matter any longer.”

It was in that moment—as Angela leaned calmly back on the pillows and reached for a cigarette—that Sara understood the terrible pressure of anger that drove people to physical violence. If her sister had evinced the least hint of contrition, or even made a show of defiance to cover some inward guilt, she might not have minded so desperately. But, faced with this casual complacency, she was shaken by such a gust of rage that it took all her control not to seize Angela’s shoulders and shake some compunction into her.

Instead, with set teeth and hands that trembled with fury, she dragged her cases out of the luggage closet and began frenziedly stuffing them with clothes. She had only one clear thought—and that was to get away from both her sister and the Stuyvesants as fast as she could pack.

“Now look here, Sara, it’s too silly to fly off the handle. If we were stranded I could understand it, but as things are—” Angela’s tone was edged with irritation now and she sat up again.

Still quivering with pent-up anger, Sara snatched some underwear out of a drawer and jammed it into her case. In a couple of minutes she had stripped the dressing-table of everything that belonged to her, and was starting on the wardrobe.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” Angela asked acidly.

“I’ve no idea—but not with you to the States,” Sara flung back at her.

Perhaps she realized then what she had done, or perhaps it was the sight of her own dresses slipping from their hangers as Sara ransacked the wardrobe that made Angela slide out of bed.

“Oh, sweetie, do
try
to see sense,” she began, more placatingly.

“Sense!” Sara grabbed some shoes and rammed them on top of her frocks. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. Sense, to you, means getting your own way, doesn’t it? Well, you’ve got your way. You’ve got a rich husband and a doting mother-in-law and all the luxuries you’ve always wanted.”

“But not only for myself—I want them for you as well,” Angela put in swiftly.

“Thanks very much—but I’m not the luxury type.” Sara banged down the lid of the suitcase and snapped the locks. Then she marched into the bathroom to collect her toilet things.

“Now, Sara, listen to me! All this melodrama won’t solve anything,” her sister protested, following her. “I can‘t see why you’re so set against going to the States with us.”

Sara stuffed her toothbrush into the wet pack. “It’s simple enough,” she said coldly. “Ever since we came here I’ve been living a complicated lie. I don’t like it and now I’ve finished with it. I realize that my departure may seem a little odd to the Stuyvesants, but as I said before, you’ll just have to think up some explanation. Say I’ve gone home, if you like. It doesn’t much matter what you tell them. They’re capable of swallowing almost anything.”

“But you can’t walk out! How can you? You haven’t any money.” Angela was genuinely concerned now. She had never seen the younger girl sound so determined and immovable.

“As long as I can type and take shorthand I doubt if I’ll ever be destitute,” Sara said tonelessly.

“Are you counting on Stephen to help you?”

Sara brushed past her, lobbed the wet pack into the smaller of the two cases and rolled up her night-clothes. “From now on I’m counting on myself.”

“I suppose the real reason why you don’t want to come to America is because of Stephen,” her sister said sharply. “Oh, don’t pretend you haven’t a clue what I’m talking about. It’s obvious that you’re mad about the man. You never were any good at hiding your feelings. I should think the whole hotel knows how you feel about him.”

A slow agonized flush crept under Sara’s tan, and her mouth trembled. But she went on filling the case until all her possessions were packed. Then, with the last remnant of control, she said quietly, “Goodbye, Angela. I hope you find your promised land.”

“Sara—wait! I didn’t mean—”

But, as Angela moved to catch her arm, Sara drew quickly aside. Then, carrying the two suitcases, she walked steadily out of the room and along the corridor.

* * *

When Peter Laszlo returned to his bungalow some time after eleven o’clock at night, he took a shower, then shrugged into a thin silk dressing-gown. Mixing himself a drink, he strolled on to the patio for a last cigarette.

He was surprised and mildly intrigued to find a girl asleep on one of the loungers It was not until he switched on a table lamp that he recognized Sara Gordon. A moment later, her eyelids flickered and she blinked uncertainly up at him.

“Hello, Sara. What brings you here?” he asked curiously.

Roused from the heavy slumber that follows emotional exhaustion, Sara struggled into a sitting position and rubbed her eyes. It was some seconds before she could gather her wits, and as she remembered why she was here, a shiver ran over her.

Without preamble, she said huskily, “Peter ... Peter, could I possibly stay here tonight?”

Later, when she could review the situation with some detachment, she wondered if any other man would have taken the appeal so calmly.

True, Peter’s eyebrows had lifted a fraction, but there had been only the briefest hesitation before he said equably, “But certainly, if you wish it. Now let me get you a drink and something to eat. I think we will be more comfortable in the sitting-room, don’t you? There is a cool wind coming up.”

And even when he had poured her a glass of brandy and returned from the kitchen with coffee and a plate of chicken sandwiches, he did not attempt to question her presence or its cause, but sat quietly smoking in the opposite chair.

The brandy steadied and revitalized her, but then she realized that as she had had practically no food all day it could also make her lightheaded. So it wasn’t until she had eaten several of the sandwiches and drunk a cup of coffee that she began haltingly to explain her predicament.

“So if you could let me stay here tonight, tomorrow I’ll be sure to find a job,” she ended hopefully. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go—except the police station.”

“On the contrary, it is very little to ask. You must know you are welcome to stay here,” Peter said gently. Then, with a wry smile, “But I think it would be better if you would allow me to lend you some money. Even at this hour, I expect we can get you into one of the other hotels.”

Sara flushed. “You mean people would talk if they saw me leaving in the morning. I’m sorry, I hadn’t thought of that.”

He shrugged. “For me, it would be of no consequence. My reputation is such that it would only confirm their suspicions. But for you it is another matter.”

Tired and distressed as she was, Sara shrank from the prospect of leaving the bungalow and going to a strange hotel. “Oh, Peter, please let me stay. If you don’t care about gossip, I’m sure I don’t,” she said wearily.

He was silent for a moment, his glance resting thoughtfully on her anxious face and noting the droop of her shoulders.

Then he nodded and rose to his feet. “Come, you will feel better after a bath, little one. And in the meantime, I will prepare a bed for you. It is not very likely that anyone will know you have spent the night here.”

Later, when a warm bath had soothed away some of her physical fatigue, Sara found Peter waiting for her in the small bedroom at the end of the passage.

“It is not very elegant, I’m afraid,” he apologized. “I use this mainly as a store-room, but at least the bed is quite comfortable. Now, if you will take these tablets, I think they will help you to sleep soundly.”

Obediently, Sara took the two aspirins and drank the water he offered her. If he had put her to sleep in the garage she would not have minded. After one of the longest days of her life, no bed had ever looked as fresh and inviting as the low-built single divan with clean white sheets turned over a patterned Dutch blanket.

“You’ve been terribly good about this, Peter. I only wish I hadn’t had to involve you,” she said unhappily.

He put his arm around her shoulder and gave her an encouraging hug. “Try not to worry too much. Tomorrow, everything will look different. Goodnight, little one. Sleep well.” And, dropping a kiss on her hair, he pushed her gently towards the bed and left her.

But, in spite of the aspirins and her weariness, it was a long time before Sara finally drifted into sleep. Lying in the unfamiliar bed, with moonlight filtering through the blinds and marking silver bars upon the polished pine block floor, her thoughts were a wild confusion of doubts and anxieties. But it was not her estrangement from her sister or regret for her rash departure that troubled her most deeply. Furious at her own weakness, she knew that the core of her misery was her feeling for Stephen Rand. Even now, when all her concern should have been for the rift with Angela, the very thought of him had the power to stir her unbearably. And, with a stifled moan of pain, she knew that she would have given her whole soul to have been able to turn to him now and receive the comfort that, instead, she was taking from Peter.

When she woke up, the room was golden with sunlight. A few minutes later there was a tap at the door and Peter came in with a breakfast tray. He was dressed and shaved and looked as if he had been up for some time.

“Oh dear, is it very late? You should have given me a call,” Sara said apologetically as she reached for her dressing-gown.

“It is only ten o’clock. The rest will have done you good.” Peter put the tray across her knees and pulled up a chair. “You don’t mind if I stay while you eat? I have some news for you.”

“A message from Angela?”

He shook his head. “You think she will guess you have come to me?”

“I don’t know. It depends whether she knows I have no money on me. What is the news, then?”

“I think I have found a job for you. It would be only a temporary one, but it would give you a chance to—what is the phrase?—to get your bearings?”

“Oh, Peter, that’s terribly kind of you. What kind of job is it?”

“I may smoke?” he enquired. Then, when he had lit up, “There is a woman I know who has a small shop off Bay Street. I telephoned her this morning to ask if she knew of any vacancies, and it so happens that her own assistant is ill with jaundice. She has suggested that I take you to see her this afternoon. The wage is not much, you understand, but enough to cover your needs in the immediate future. If you are agreeable to each other, Madame will accommodate you in her own house.”

“But I’ve never worked in a shop. I have no experience,” Sara said uncertainly.

“No matter; it does not require much skill. Madame will be there to supervise.” He glanced at his watch. “Now I must go to my pupil. You will be all right on your own here until lunch-time?”

“Yes, of course. I don’t know how to thank you,” Sara said gratefully. She colored. “I feel very badly about imposing on you like this, Peter. I must be one of the last people you want to have on your hands.”

“Because of Angela?” he asked drily.

Sara nodded.

“Tell me, do you think she will go through with this
marriage de convenance
now that you have refused to accompany her?” he asked quietly.

Sara pushed her fingers through her hair and gave a long sigh. “I don’t know. I think it’s quite likely. Being rich seems to have become a kind of obsession with her. She’s changed so much that I hardly know her any more.” She hesitated. “Peter, do you still...?” She stopped short, wishing she had held her tongue.

For a moment his expression was cold and guarded. Then his mouth relaxed into a bleak smile. “Yes—foolish, isn’t it? I had not thought at my age to have become as enamored as a callow youth.” Then, with a swift change of topic, “Oh, my butler will arrive shortly to clean and prepare the lunch. His name is George. If there is anything you need, just ask him.”

“Won’t he wonder what I’m doing here?”

“He will draw the obvious conclusion, I’m afraid,” Peter said wryly. “But perhaps I can intercept him as he comes and tell him to take the day off.”

“Oh, no, please—it really doesn’t matter.” But in spite of her effort to control it, a painful flush crept under her warm gold tan.

Peter reached out a hand and touched her rosy cheek. “Poor Sara! You ought never to have been embroiled
in all these stratagems. I hope it does not succeed in disillusioning you,” he said gently.

When, by mid-morning, the butler had not arrived, Sara concluded that Peter had headed him off. She forced herself to go down to the beach for a swim, then returned to the bungalow and set about making a meal. Fortunately the refrigerator was well stocked with both canned and frozen foodstuffs.

In the afternoon, Peter took her to see the proprietress of the dress shop, and in spite of her inexperience, Madame Elsa agreed to engage her.

“Sara, are you very sure that you have done the right thing?” Peter said seriously, when they went back to the bungalow to collect her cases. “I understand how you feel about this marriage, but isn’t it a little drastic to cut yourself off from your sister? At least let her know that you are safe. She must be very worried by now.”

“I doubt it,” Sara said tautly.

“Would you like me to see her for you?” he suggested quietly.

She glanced at him. “Do
you
want to see her again?”

He would not answer that. “I don’t want you to regret that you did not go with her.”

“I shan’t regret it,” Sara said resolutely, and Peter did not pursue the issue.

He could not guess that Sara had one last shred of hope that, by disappearing, she might rouse her sister to realities. Even now, with so much hostility between them, she couldn’t believe that Angela would fly off to the States without attempting a reconciliation. And she felt certain that, when a check at the other hotels failed to trace her whereabouts, Angela was bound to contact Peter.

All the next morning, as she worked in Madame Elsa’s boutique, Sara expected to see Angela coming through the door. But as she busied herself with the tasks her employer had given her and the hands of the clock crept slowly forward towards noon, her hopes began to falter. It just wasn’t possible—it
couldn’t
be—that Angela would leave matters as they stood.

Whatever bitter taunts and foolish recriminations had passed between them, they were still sisters, still bound by a life-time of affection.

It was nearly two o’clock before Madame Elsa returned from lunch and Sara was free for an hour. She rushed to the nearest cafe and asked to use the telephone. But Peter was not at home, and a sing-song West Indian drawl—presumably George, the butler—informed her that he had left no message and that hers was the first call to the bungalow that day.

Sick with apprehension, Sara replaced the receiver and fumbled in her purse for some more coins. It was pointless to hold out any longer. The gamble was becoming too dangerous.

As soon as the operator connected her with the hotel, she said huskily, “I want to speak to Miss Angela Gordon, please. Room 33.”

“One moment please, madam.” There was a brief pause, then the switchboard girl said, “I’m sorry, madam, Miss Gordon is not here now.”

“Not there? You mean not in her room.”

“Miss Gordon has left the hotel, madam.”

“But she
can’t
have. Where has she gone?” Sara said wildly.

“I’ll connect you with reception, madam. Hold the line, please.”

There was a second pause before another smooth voice said briskly, “Reception desk. Can I help you?”

Sara was stammering now. “Please ... I—I have to get in touch with Miss Gordon. You must try to find her,” she said urgently.

“I’m sorry, madam, but Miss Gordon isn’t with us now. She checked out yesterday evening,” the voice said, with polite regret.

“But where did she go?” Sara demanded.

“I understand Miss Gor—” The reply was cut off by a sharp clicking sound. Then a third voice—this time a deeper male one—said sharply: “Sara? Where are you?” It was unmistakably Stephen.

Sara recoiled. Her knuckles were white on the receiver and there was the shrillness of hysteria in her voice as she said desperately, “Never mind where I am. Where’s Angela? I must speak to her. I
must
!”

Angela left on the evening plane to Miami with Mrs. Stuyvesant. She told me some cock-and-bull story and left a letter for you. Now where the hell are you, and what the devil’s going on?” Stephen retorted furiously. “Sara, for God’s sake—”

But Sara had already cut the line. Frozen with disbelief, her mouth beginning to tremble, she slumped limply against the wall. And then, as one of the waitresses came forward to ask if she were ill, she gave a choked murmur of despair and walked out into the street.