The House on Sunset Lake (15 page)

Chapter Nineteen

After a few minutes spent chatting to Donna’s husband Frank, Jennifer snaked her way around the side of the house to the far reaches of the back garden, where the party crowds had thinned.

She needed a few moments of quiet. She was not naturally gregarious, so being the centre of attention, making small talk with the dozens of family friends her parents had invited, felt quite exhausting. Besides, she needed some space to think. Donna’s revelations had shocked her. Her mother was a complicated woman, but she couldn’t believe she had told so many lies. Perhaps Sylvia had been embarrassed about her background, and her family’s poverty, but her story about Ethan Jamieson – assuming Donna had been telling the truth – was a complete fabrication.

She was by the pavilion now, which looked like a beautiful antique bird cage in the dark. It was soothing out here, and thoughts of her mother started to dissolve, until the sight of the Lake House taunted her again.

You have to go and say goodbye, she told herself, downing the flute of champagne she had brought with her.

A tear ran down her cheek as she spotted a light on in the house. She imagined Jim packing, his music on loud. She wondered if he was looking across the lake too, watching the lights of the party and feeling as sad and regretful as she was. She doubted it.

Jim Johnson had a wild and passionate heart – it was one of the things she liked most about him. When he cared, he cared deeply; whether it was about his music, or an opinion, he was prepared to put himself out there. He was not the type of guy to let awkwardness or embarrassment stop him from doing something, unless it was the sort of embarrassment that stemmed from regret.

The moon shimmered across the water and she felt her shoulders sag. She had escaped New York at the beginning of the summer to get some clarity in her life, but now, two months later, things seemed more confused than ever.

‘Hey.’ She heard a voice behind her and turned round, her heart thudding with hope. She was disappointed to see that it was Connor.

‘What are you doing out here?’ She laughed awkwardly.

‘Looking for you,’ he said, taking a step towards her in the pavilion.

The space between them seemed to contract. It was an oppressively hot night, but the air seemed to have been sucked out of the tiny glass building. She felt uncomfortable being in such a close, confined space with him, and pushed her hair back behind her ear.

‘Great party.’

‘My mom would have settled for nothing less,’ she smiled.

‘Marion told me you decorated the terrace yourself. It looks good.’

‘I didn’t think men noticed things like that,’ she teased.

‘Well I did, and I’m proud of you.’

‘I wanted it to look photogenic. I did some filming for the documentary.’

‘About the documentary,’ he said guardedly. ‘I’ve got some news.’

She felt her mood lift. The last time she had been in New York, Connor had told her about his new friends and acquaintances in the city, one of whom was a film editor who had worked on all sorts of exciting projects and had offered to help Jennifer cut her documentary together. She had hours of footage, was happy with the interviews but Bryn Johnson had been right when he had said that without structure and editing, her tapes were just rambling introspection. Jennifer had been thrilled when Connor said he would set up a meeting, and had been waiting all week for at least a name or contact number where she could reach him.

‘Your friend, the editor. Did you speak to him?’ she asked breathlessly.

Connor paused.

‘Well, I spoke to a friend. Another friend.’

‘Is he an editor too?’ she asked. She was aware that the clock was ticking. David Wyatt was already making noises about ending her allowance, and Jennifer planned to enter her film into three competitions whose deadlines were fast approaching.

‘I haven’t even done a rough cut yet, and if your friend can’t help me, then I need to find someone else as quickly as I can.’

Connor took another step forward.

‘Look, Jen. I’m not being funny, but entering festivals is amateur stuff. What you really want is a job in the industry, and I think I’ve just sorted you out.’

She didn’t agree with what he was saying but still felt her brow crease with curiosity.

‘You’ve met David Clarke. On my course; we watched the rowing with him once. His brother Richard owns a production company. Makes very successful short films. Anyway, I mentioned you to him and he wants to talk to you. Thinks he might have something.’

‘What sort of films?’ she asked suspiciously. She had never known Connor to have any friends that worked in the creative industries, and now he seemed to have lots of them.

‘Films,’ he shrugged. ‘For the corporate sector. Did something very interesting recently for one of the big oil companies, some digital presentation as part of their sales prospectus.’

‘Oh,’ she said, feeling herself deflate.

‘What did you expect?’ he said, frowning. ‘An internship with Spielberg? Look, this is where the money is, right here.’ He pointed to the ground for emphasis. ‘Corporate videos. The printed word is dead – within ten years, once this internet thing really takes off, we are all going to consume our information visually. Films, pictures, razzle-dazzle.’

Jennifer felt herself become emotional.

‘Connor, this isn’t the sort of film-making I had in mind. If you could get in touch with your editor friend, that would be amazing,’ she said, but he clearly wasn’t listening.

‘To be honest, Jen, when you first told me about this documentary idea, I thought it was a bit ridiculous,’ he said dismissively. ‘But I’ve come to realise that actually it’s brilliant. Go and learn the trade with Richard Clarke, then we can set up on our own. Video marketing. I can tout for business with the banks. You can do the creative side. We can own the financial marketing sector by the new millennium.’

She started to shake her head. Her breathing was shallow and she felt trapped inside the confines of the pavilion.

‘Connor, have you not been listening to a word I’ve said this summer?’

He held up a hand. ‘I admit it. The gig is in New York. Of course it is. Everything is in New York. I know you hated it at Lucian’s, but I think you hated working in a gallery and it coloured your view of the city. This will be different,’ he said with a smooth reassurance that she almost believed.

‘We should probably talk about this another time,’ she said, not even looking at him.

‘No, I think we should talk about it now,’ he said with quiet, steely authority.

He was close enough to take her hands, and guided them to his chest.

‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I love you and I want us to be together in New York. I want to be with you. We belong together.’

An unusual hesitancy appeared in his voice. Connor was never anything other than one hundred per cent confident, but right now there was something different, and it scared her.

He let go of her hands and reached into his pocket. Her heart was pounding as he produced a small black velvet box, and she knew this wasn’t any old twenty-first-birthday present.

‘I know we’re young,’ he said lifting the lid of the box. ‘I know in an ideal world we might wait a while, but when you know, you know, right? Doesn’t matter if you’re twenty-one or forty-one.’

She looked down at a dazzling oval diamond, flecked with blue and silver in the soft moonlight. It was a beautiful stone, a beautiful ring, but her heart felt heavy as she gazed at it.

‘Jennifer Wyatt, will you marry me?’ Connor said, an increasingly confident smile pulling at his lips.

‘Wow,’ she said finally, her voice a croak.

‘I chose it myself, but we can change it if you’d prefer a cushion or emerald cut.’

She took a sharp intake of breath and steadied herself. Then she put her hand over the velvet box and shut the lid with the palm of her hand. For a moment she just looked at him, hoping he would get the message, hoping that she wouldn’t have to say anything, but his expression soured, demanding that she explain herself.

‘I can’t, Connor.’

‘Why?’ he asked incredulously.

She knew she couldn’t say anything without it sounding hurtful. Besides, she didn’t even know the answer herself.

‘I’m just not ready for this.’

Connor’s nostrils trembled as he cleared his throat.

‘I’m only asking you to marry me,’ he replied, obviously thrown. ‘We don’t have to walk down the aisle just yet. It can be a long engagement. My brother was engaged to Vanessa for three years before they got married.’

‘And divorced another three years after that,’ she said cynically.

The silence seemed to stretch out for ever.

‘Do you still love me?’ he asked finally.

Jennifer closed her eyes. There was no easy answer to that question. Perhaps she did love Connor. She certainly used to. Countless times she had felt a smug happiness when she had visited him at college, and they had watched the football, or the rowing. He’d stood behind her and put his arms around her waist and she’d known what other girls were thinking: how lucky she was to be dating the handsome Connor Gilbert, to be wearing his letterman’s sweater, to be going home with him at night. She hadn’t felt like that in a long time, though. Not this year, certainly, when exams and revisions had kept them apart most weekends, and she hadn’t really missed him.

It was not the first time she’d thought their relationship was one of convenient geography and timing. They had gone to the same school, were on the same sailing circuit, went to college in the same state. But finishing Harvard seemed to have given Connor additional purpose and taken his life off in another direction; he was moving faster and travelling further away from her, and she didn’t want to follow him on the journey.

‘Connor, this is just such a surprise,’ she said, trying to explain herself.

‘Do you love me?’ he repeated.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, because it seemed the easiest response. She certainly didn’t want to create a scene at her own birthday party, and she was aware of guests drifting down towards the pavilion.

He suddenly looked less despondent. ‘So you’ll at least think about it?’

‘Of course I will.’

‘Are you coming back to the house, then?’ he said more briskly.

‘I was just taking time out here for a few minutes.’

‘Don’t be too long,’ he said, his mouth a firm, tight line as he put the ring box back into his jacket pocket and walked back to Casa D’Or without another word.

Chapter Twenty

Jennifer watched Connor’s figure recede towards the brightness of the house and she felt wretched inside.

‘Crap,’ she whispered under her breath, but she wasn’t really sure who or what she was referring to.

She didn’t know why she had just said no to him. It certainly didn’t feel right to accept his proposal of marriage. Jennifer had never been the sort of dreamy, romantic girl who had spent her whole life fantasising about this moment. But as she took a moment to think about why she had turned him down, she knew that she should have been feeling love and hope in her heart when she had opened that velvet box, not dread, and for that she had made exactly the right decision.

Fireflies were dancing in the darkness like tiny showers of gold, miniature meteors. On any other night Jennifer would have watched them with joy and wonder, but she just wanted to get back to the house.

Already the crowds had begun to thin. Ten o’clock, she discovered, glancing at her watch. The oldest guests would be dispersing first; others would mutter about babysitters and early starts. Her fun friends like Jeanne and Pete could possibly be relied upon to party into the night, so too the out-of-towners billeted in a nearby hotel, although Sylvia had told Jennifer that she expected the party to be over by midnight, and she did not doubt her mother would have Casa D’Or cleared by then.

A cooler breeze began to ripple through the trees, and Jennifer decided to go inside for a cardigan.

Threading through the guests, she walked up the steps on to the terrace, not looking where she was going until she walked into someone who steadied her with a hand.

‘Jim,’ she said, gasping in surprise. ‘You’re here!’

‘Well, you did invite me.’

She started to laugh nervously.

‘I should have known you’d be fashionably late.’

‘I don’t know it’s too fashionable in these parts. Southern manners and all,’ he grinned.

‘Have a drink. Have champagne,’ she said, taking a glass from a passing waiter and thrusting it giddily into his hands.

‘Happy birthday,’ he said, not taking his eyes from her.

‘A big day. I can now officially buy alcohol.’

‘It’s a strange old country, the United States of America,’ he
said, shaking his head and smiling. ‘You can buy a gun at sixteen, but you have to wait until you’re twenty-one to get a beer.’

‘We have our quirks,’ she said, still thrilled that he was here.

‘I got you something,’ he said, handing her a small packet wrapped in Barbie paper.

‘Cute,’ she said, taking it from him.

‘I thought so.’

‘Can I open it?’

‘No,’ he said unconvincingly.

‘I’m going to open it,’ she smiled, her eyes taunting him.

There was no card, and once she had ripped off the gift wrap, a cassette tape sat in her hand.

‘A mix tape?’

It was a question, because she wasn’t sure. It was of the blank cassette variety, but it could have been a recording of the sounds of Savannah, or a soundtrack for her documentary, for all she knew.

‘I prefer the English vernacular. A compilation tape. I think it gives it the gravitas it deserves.’

A piece of file paper folded into quarters accompanied the tape. She opened it, and recognised Jim’s bold capital letters.

‘Twenty-one songs,’ she said out loud.

Jim’s cheeks coloured a little. ‘There’s some good stuff on there,’ he shrugged. ‘Stuff I thought you might like. Songs to make you happy, songs to make you feel sad, songs to make you feel like you can conquer the world.’

‘Music can do that,’ she said quietly.

‘You’re learning.’

Her eyes trailed down to read the playlist, but Jim touched the paper awkwardly.

‘Don’t look at it now. Not when there’s free champagne to drink.’

He didn’t meet her gaze, and suddenly she felt a jolt of excitement, a suggestion that the mix tape contained something that was perhaps of significance. Thoughts that he didn’t want to share, not yet, not in public. The idea was so exciting, she felt butterflies in her belly.

‘When are you leaving?’ she asked quickly.

‘Tomorrow night. We’re flying to New York. Dad’s got a meeting with his agent. We’re flying home the day after.’

‘Maybe we can do something,’ she said tentatively.

‘We leave for the airport at six.’

She wasn’t sure if he was rebuffing her or subtly suggesting a time.

She steeled herself and opened her mouth.

‘I need to tell you something, and then I need to ask you something.’
A voice in her head spoke the words she wanted to say first.
Connor has proposed to me. But I am in love with you, Jim Johnson, and I need to know if I am feeling all these things by myself.

A deep baritone interrupted her thoughts.

‘And here’s the birthday girl,’ said a voice she recognised, accompanied by a heavy hand on her shoulder.

She turned and saw Bryn Johnson. In her highest heels she was almost as tall as him, and inches away from his purple claret-stained lips.

‘Wonderful party, Jennifer. I’ve just met a senator.’

He took a canapé from a passing tray.

‘Are you going to miss us, then?’ he asked mischievously.

She could smell the alcohol on his breath and wished that he would leave.

‘I just want to put this gift somewhere safe,’ she said, interrupting him. ‘I won’t be a minute,’ she added, fixing her attention on Jim.

She pushed her way through the crowd, up the sweeping hall staircase, then looked back, trying to catch Jim’s eye, wanting to reassure him that she would be back almost instantly. Instead she saw Connor, and she felt guilty, furtive, with the mix tape in her hands. Connor mouthed some words to her, and she smiled as brightly as she could, nodding to indicate that she would be back in a moment, and ran the final ten steps to vanish out of view.

She relaxed when she reached her bedroom and closed the door, kicking off her high heels for a few moments, enjoying the sensation of having her feet liberated. Perching on the edge of her bed, she opened the piece of paper again, her eyes scanning the list, her heart looking for secret meanings in the titles.

There were a few tracks she recognised. Happy tunes like De La Soul’s ‘The Magic Number’, which they had played in the truck; others were more soulful fare. Thankfully there was nothing sexually suggestive – no ‘Let’s Get It On’ or ‘Feel Like Makin’ Love’ – or had that left her strangely disappointed?

Her eyes drifted to the bottom of the page, and she stopped in her tracks.

‘Oceans’ – Jim Johnson.

She almost laughed out loud as she realised that Jim had written a song for her. Her heart was beating hard as she remembered that night in Savannah by the Bonaventura cemetery.

You’ll have to write me a song.

If you play your cards right.

He had been flirting with her even then, but Jennifer had not allowed herself to believe it. She could see now what she had been denying all summer. She hadn’t spent time with Jim because of her documentary; she had done the documentary because of him. And yes, she had found a creative passion, something that she loved, that she could see herself doing professionally one day, but it had been Jim by her side, cajoling and inspiring her, that had made it so special.

She took a deep, steadying breath and decided she would not be missed downstairs for another few minutes.

There was a small tape player on her desk and she slotted the mix tape inside. Her finger pressed the fast forward button and she ran the tape until she reached the song she was looking for. The track before, an REM number, faded out, and then it was Jim’s song.

There was a simple guitar intro, then other instruments were laid on top. A piano, and something with a soft and haunting timbre that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Jennifer knew little about music, about music production, but she could recognise the effort that had gone into the recording.

He was singing now, and she immediately realised how good he was. His voice was delicate, but it had a depth and strength that was mesmerising. She listened to each word as he painted a picture, a story with his lyrics.

Never knew how big the ocean was

So wide it makes me blue

But I won’t let it stop me

From thinking about you
 . . .

Emotion shivered in her throat, tears welling in her eyes as she felt, for the first time in her life, beautiful and loved. Although her looks were often commented on, she had never really felt desirable. Connor made few remarks about her appearance these days; her mother was generally only critical.

But right now, it was impossible for Jennifer to deny that Jim was speaking to her through his song, and as she closed her eyes, lost in the warmth of his words, she knew that all she wanted was to be with him, to feel his arms around her, his lips on hers. She didn’t care that he was leaving tomorrow, because if she could right a whole summer of wrongs – denial and fear and naïvety, all those things that had stopped her from acting on her desire – then perhaps they could work out a way of being together. An ocean didn’t have to come between them.

She wanted to listen to every word, every bar, but she knew that she had heard enough. Her finger pushed the stop button and she stood up with a renewed sense of purpose.

She knew that her mother would go mad about her daughter starting a relationship with the boy next door, but Jennifer didn’t care any more. Sylvia had lied to her and manipulated her, but she wasn’t going to let her hold her back any longer.

As Jennifer descended the long, sweeping staircase, she saw David Wyatt at the bottom, beaming at her. He held out his hand, palm upwards, as if he wanted her to place her hand in his. She smiled at her beloved father, although she was impatient. She wanted to find Jim, and from her vantage point on the stairs, her eyes surveyed the crowd, trying to search him out.

‘We’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ said David as she reached the bottom step. It was a further moment before she noticed that more people were assembled in the hall than had been there ten minutes earlier. Her mother, very upright, was standing next to Connor, locked in clandestine conversation. Jennifer met their gaze and they both smiled, but she felt a sudden ominous sense that something was happening that she did not yet know about.

She heard the noise of the party fade as her father tapped a spoon against his wine glass.

‘I was going to say a few words to wish my beautiful daughter the happiest of days,’ he began. ‘But it appears that we are celebrating more than Jenny’s twenty-first this evening.’

He beckoned towards Connor, who stepped forward, proud, triumphant, as the words rang in Jennifer’s head and the room seemed to spin.

‘Please raise your glasses to Jennifer and her boyfriend Connor, who have just got engaged . . .’

The whole party erupted into applause. Glasses were clinked, and in the distance Jennifer could hear the sound of champagne corks popping. The cacophony of sound faded as her vision homed in on one face in the crowd. Jim Johnson was standing at the back of the room, a full head taller than everyone else. Their eyes met, but his expression was flat, unreadable, and then he turned away and disappeared out of the front door that was open like a portal into the darkness.

Jennifer took a step forward, but in her haste she fell into Connor’s arms. He caught her and didn’t let go. There had been times when his bulk, his solidity, was safe and reassuring, but now his grip felt like a vice.

‘Are you OK?’ he whispered through her hair.

She pulled away so she could look at him directly. Her face was so close to his that she could see the pores on his nose and her own reflection in the darkness of his eyes.

‘I never said yes,’ she said, so quietly that no one else could hear her.

‘We can talk about this later,’ he said, his hands still gripping her arms.

She glanced away and could see her mother watching, her satisfied smile taunting her.

‘Pumpkin, I am so happy for you,’ said her father as she pulled away from Connor. She tried to smile as brightly as she could, but she could feel tears stinging the backs of her eyes. She loved her father so much, but really, did he know her so little?

‘Who told you?’ she said, trying desperately to hold it together.

‘Connor asked for my permission weeks ago, but I didn’t know when it was going to happen. Then your mother said he asked you just a few minutes ago in the pavilion and you said yes.’

Jennifer pushed her front teeth down into her lip and nodded tightly.

‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said, ignoring the well-wishers who lunged forward to offer their congratulations.

She took big gulps of air as she stepped outside. It was a warm night, and as she breathed, it was as if there was no oxygen in the air. Her eyes scanned the gardens at the front of the house. Lights studded along the edge of the drive gave just enough illumination so that she could make out movement, a figure who was almost at the gate of Casa D’Or’s walled garden.

She knew it was him and began to run. One heel twisted under her, making her stagger, so she kicked off her shoes and hopped on to the lawn, sprinting faster across the soft grass.

‘Wait!’

Jim turned round, both hands thrust in his pockets.

She was panting slightly when she reached him, trying to compose herself, not knowing what to say.

A car drove past them, its bright headlights almost blinding them, and they stepped out of the way as it disappeared down the drive. They were standing in front of a long line of cars, an overflow parking lot for the party guests. One of them was Jim’s red pickup truck. She knew that the second he got in, revved the engine and drove off, she would almost certainly never see him again.

A soft breeze rustled through the live oaks, and in the distance she could hear the jazz band striking up an inappropriately playful tune.