The Island Villa, page 26
“Parent-child relationships can be complicated.” She knew that better than most.
“I’m an adult.”
How many times a day did she tell herself the same thing?
She thought about her own parents. “But you’re still their child and that alters the way they see you, and behave toward you.”
“I wish I’d had a straight conversation with them,” he said. “It was only after my father died that I realized he was right about many things. I was chasing money and clawing my way up a ladder I assumed I wanted to climb. Whenever he pointed out that my life didn’t include the one thing I’d loved more than anything—the water—I dismissed it. I thought I knew best. Turns out I didn’t. I wish I’d paid more attention to his point of view. I wish I’d listened more.”
She felt a twinge of guilt. She hadn’t tried that hard to see her parents’ point of view, had she? She’d just assumed they were making a mistake and tried to find a way to make them both see it.
Resolving to try harder, she followed him through the gardens. They were wilder than the gardens in her mother’s villa, less structured, but no less attractive for it. Two large lemon trees pressed close to the path, heavy with fruit.
She was thinking that maybe she wasn’t as physically fit as she’d thought when the path opened onto a pretty terrace and there was the house.
She stopped, enchanted. The walls of the house were a pale stone and the wooden shutters were painted a vibrant shade of blue. Geraniums tumbled joyfully from terracotta pots and a vine clambered over a wooden trellis, shading a seating area overlooking a pool and the beach beyond. She imagined sitting out here on a summer evening, watching the sun set over the ocean. “It’s perfect.”
“I think so. Come and see inside.” He was still holding her hand and she didn’t pull away as he led her into the house.
It was simply furnished, decorated mostly in white with touches of cobalt blue, which reflected the color of the sea and sky that stretched beyond the windows. She could imagine it cool in the summer, and cozy in winter.
The master bedroom had French windows overlooking the terrace and the beach far below, and there was a small second bedroom that he was using as a study.
She blinked. “You use three computer screens?”
“I used to work in tech. There are some things I can’t give up. I still do some freelance work to boost the income from the boat business. I enjoy the variety.” He led her back downstairs to the kitchen and opened doors that led directly onto the terrace. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
He poured two cups, put two diamond-shaped pieces of honey-soaked baklava onto a plate and carried it out to the terrace on a tray.
Adeline slipped on her cover-up and stretched out on one of the comfy outdoor sofas. “This is bliss. The position is incredible.”
“Yes. It’s been interesting seeing it change through the seasons,” he said. “You should see it in spring. The place is covered in wild orchids.”
She assumed it was a random comment, and not an invitation but part of her almost wished it had been an invitation.
What was happening to her?
She took a piece of baklava, tasting the flaky sweetness. “This is delicious. Your mother made it?”
“Of course.” He picked up his coffee. “I could pretend I chose the house for its views, but the truth is I bought it because there are reliable onshore winds in the afternoon. The sailing is the best.”
“I’m just pleased you found somewhere that works for you.” She slid off her sandals and curled her legs under her, nursing her coffee in her lap. “The house must have been here when we came to this beach all those years ago.”
“Yes. But I only discovered it later.” He put his cup down. “What happened after you left all those years ago? Fill in the gaps for me.”
Comfortable in the shade, she told him how she’d gone to live with her father in London, about how difficult it had been to be sent away with no warning. How witnessing her father’s distress had affected her deeply. How her connection with her mother had been torn and never really mended.
And he listened closely, paying attention. “I couldn’t believe you left so suddenly. I asked my mother about it at the time because I was upset that I’d lost my friend.”
She felt a stirring of warmth inside her.
“And what did she say?”
“That your mother was doing the only thing she could possibly do in the circumstances.” He rested his arm across the back of the sofa. “And then she refused to talk about it again. But she started bringing Cassie over to our house often. And when I asked her about it, she said that Catherine had to work. I could never figure out why her father didn’t look after her. Not that I didn’t love little Cass, but it seemed odd to me. Rob Dunn wasn’t working. He used to hang out at the bar on the beach most days. I saw him whenever I went to help my dad.”
Adeline thought back to that time.
“I remember so little about him. I don’t remember spending any time with him when I lived here.”
He gave her a long look. “I often wondered—” He stopped and she frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing. More coffee?”
“No thanks. What were you going to say?”
“It’s not important.”
“Stefanos—” she leaned forward “—we always told each other everything.”
He pulled a face. “As you reminded me, that was a very long time ago.”
“It feels like yesterday.”
“Yes,” he said. “It does.” His gaze connected with hers, his eyes velvety dark.
She felt her heart alter its rhythm and with some effort she shifted the conversation back.
“I thought I had a clear recollection of that day my mother told me I was going to live with my father. Leaving the island, Cassie and y—” She almost said you and stopped herself in time. Revealing that she’d missed him was too much even for her new, more open self. “But when I talked to my sister, she made me question it.”
“Your sister would have been two years old?”
“Yes. But my mother has talked about it with her. And what she said didn’t make sense.” She paused, embarrassed. “Sorry, this must be very boring for you. You’ve already endured more than enough of my family drama.”
“And I’ve shared my family drama with you, so don’t stop now. What didn’t make sense?”
Adeline put her cup down and shifted in her seat. “Cassie told me that after one of my visits when I was older, my mother cried after I left. Sobbed. And when Cassie asked her what was wrong, she told her that life could sometimes be very complicated. She said she missed me.” And Adeline hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that. “If she missed me, why did she send me away? I don’t know what that means.”
“Have you asked her?”
“No.” There were some questions that were better not asked. “It’s all in the past, isn’t it? I thought it was best to move on. It’s not as if anything can be changed now.”
“Maybe not, but sometimes understanding something can help.”
“Maybe.” She uncurled her legs and stood up, conscious that she’d been dominating the conversation. “You promised me lunch and swimming.”
“I did.”
The afternoon passed far too quickly. They had lunch at a little taverna up the coast in a cove that could only be reached from the water. The food was as good as he’d promised, and they sat and chatted for ages, and then returned to the beach below his house.
They swam for a while and then Adeline returned to the beach. She reached into her bag for her bottle of water, and saw her e-reader there. Cassie’s book was waiting for her.
Her heart sank. She had to read it. She should start the book now, while she was with Stefanos and her mood was good.
She opened the book, started reading and lost track of time.
“Whatever you’re reading, it must be good. I’ve been trying to attract your attention for the past five minutes.” Stefanos draped a towel around his neck and sat down next to her. Droplets of water clung to his lashes and the shadow on his jaw.
“It’s Cassie’s book. It’s a love story inspired by my mother’s relationship with Rob.”
His smile faded and his gaze searched hers. “And you’re all right reading that?”
“I didn’t think I would be, which was why I thought I’d start it now with you here. But it’s good.” She glanced at her phone, surprised by how much time had passed.
Stefanos was frowning. “The story is based on your mother’s affair?”
“Yes, although obviously it’s fiction and that part isn’t the focus. It’s really about their love story.” And something about the writing had tugged at her. She’d felt their love and their urgency and desperation to be together. “This is going to sound weird, but for the first time ever, it gave me some insight into why two people might want to be together despite the obstacles.”
He seemed amused. “Are you telling me you don’t believe in love?”
“I do, but I don’t have a traditionally romantic view of it. I think when you feel an instant connection with someone across a crowded room, that’s physical attraction, not love. And I don’t think there’s such a thing as the one. How can there be? There are eight billion people on the planet. If there was only one person for us, we’d all be single.”
He laughed. “That’s true.”
“But despite that, I’m still loving this story. I don’t know what that says about me.”
He leaned across and brushed sand from her leg. “It says you’re turning into a big old romantic, Dr. Swift.”
“Okay that’s a scary thought.” Laughing, she slid her e-reader back into her bag. “I’m relieved, to be honest. I was dreading reading it, but it’s a heartwarming story, although obviously I haven’t reached the part where he dies.”
“Death does have a tendency to interrupt things.” Stefanos rubbed his hair dry with a towel. “Does your mother know about this book?”
“Yes, but she hasn’t read it yet. Cassie only gave it to us late last night. She’s probably reading it right now.”
He draped the towel round his neck. “You don’t think it will upset her, given that she’s remarrying your dad?”
“I wondered about that. I think Cassie wondered too, although to be fair, our mother didn’t share what was happening so there’s no blame attached to Cassie. I was scared of reading it, but there are no triggers for me.” There was nothing controversial in it. Nothing that seemed too personal. Just a straightforward love story that ended in tragedy. From what she’d read so far, she felt reassured. And also relieved, because part of her had been dreading that this might drive a wedge between her and her sister.
“So you think your mother will be okay with it?”
She smiled at him. “The one thing I do know about my mother is that she is an incurable romantic. I can say with complete confidence that she is going to love the book.”
19
Catherine
Catherine leaned over the toilet and lost the contents of her stomach.
“Catherine?!” Andrew hammered on the bathroom door.
She sank down onto the floor and leaned her head against the cool tiles of the bathroom, trying to settle her insides.
Her life and her lies had caught up with her.
She crawled back to the toilet and retched again. Andrew rattled the door.
“Catherine? Are you okay?”
No, she wasn’t okay.
The pages of Cassie’s novel were strewn across the floor where she’d dropped them. Page 96 had slid to the opposite side of the bathroom and page 208 had somehow drifted inside the walk-in shower, the print gradually blurring as droplets of water from Andrew’s earlier shower soaked through the paper. The other pages were an untidy jumble, mixed up, out of order. It didn’t matter. She knew she was never going to read the words again.
People said you could leave the past behind and move on, but it wasn’t true. You could pretend to move on, you could say to yourself I’m doing great, but that thing you were trying to forget was always there in the corner of the room, waiting to pounce.
“Damn it, Cathy.” Andrew banged the door and she staggered to her feet and held onto the washbasin.
She stared at herself in the mirror. This is your fault. You did this.
That was what happened when you wrote romance for a living. It became harder to separate fact from fiction. You spent so much time in the land of happy endings that you forgot it was a job, and thought it was life. You started to think that anything was possible and maybe Prince Charming really would have searched his kingdom for the woman who was dumb enough to wear a glass slipper (glass? Seriously?).
She made it back to the toilet just in time and dimly heard a scraping sound and then the sound of the door opening.
“Cathy, sweetheart?” Andrew was on his knees next to her, holding her hair back, stroking her shoulders and telling her that everything was going to be fine, which she knew for a fact wasn’t true because everything definitely wasn’t fine and she couldn’t see how it ever could be again.
She heard the sound of taps running and then felt the bliss of a cool flannel against her burning forehead.
“Was it something you ate? It couldn’t have been lunch. We both had the lamb and I’m fine.” He noticed the pages scattered across the floor. “Is that Cassie’s book? Is this about the book?”
It wasn’t about the book, exactly. It was about her life. Her choices. Her mistakes.
“Andrew...”
“It’s the book that upset you?” He stooped and gingerly retrieved a couple of the discarded pages. “I’d made up my mind I wasn’t going to read it.”
“Don’t. It’s all fiction. What are you doing...?” she gasped as he scooped her up in his arms.
“I refuse to have a conversation this important on the floor of a bathroom, even if that floor is Italian marble.” He carried her into their bedroom and lowered her gently to the bed. “Now tell me exactly what has upset you. Has she somehow found out the truth?”
“No, it’s not that. She has told the story almost exactly the way I told it to her. And the writing is wonderful.” If she weren’t feeling so ill and traumatized, she would have been impressed. Her baby had written a book! “The characters leap off the page. She has real talent.”
“But?”
“But I wish she hadn’t used her talent on this particular story.” Her eyes filled. “She thinks it’s a way of immortalizing her father.”
Andrew’s smile was twisted. “And if ever there was a man who doesn’t deserve to be immortalized, it is Rob Dunn.”
“Exactly.” Her voice was a whisper. “This book celebrates him, Andrew! He’s a hero in this story. And I don’t want to celebrate him. I want to forget him, but now I’m never going to be able to because he’s right there in print. It’s as if he’s mocking me from beyond the grave.”
“You’re shaking.” Andrew removed his shoes and lay down on the bed next to her. He pulled her into his arms. “Sweetheart, we’re not celebrating him. We’re celebrating Cassie’s book. Which is fiction. The story can’t possibly be close to the truth because you haven’t told her the truth.”
Yes, it was fiction. She knew it was fiction because she was basically the one who had written it. Ironic, really. Cassie had used the stories she’d told as inspiration, which meant that Catherine had inadvertently contributed to her daughter’s book. If she’d had a better sense of humor she might have laughed.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand.” He stroked her hair gently. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’ve tried to put it behind me. That’s what you do with a mistake, isn’t it? Forgive yourself and move on. That’s what people say. I haven’t forgiven myself, but I have tried to move on.”
He held her tightly. “And you have.”
“No. And now I never will. This book has made sure of that. If it’s a success, and with the Mighty Madeleine pushing it and a publishing deal that big, they’re going to support it with a massive campaign so it will be a success, everyone will be talking about it. People will ask me about it.”
“Only if they know you’re connected, and they don’t need to know that.”
“She’s dedicated it to her parents.” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word us. “Us” implied a team, and she and Rob had never been a team. “Of course they’re going to know.” Occasionally, Andrew’s optimism exasperated her, but at the same time she was grateful for it. She needed it. She’d lost her ability to trust, not just people but her own judgment. She envied people who genuinely believed everything would turn out fine. Once, she’d been like that. She’d believed good things happened to those who deserved it. That most people were good underneath. She’d thought she was living a romance, exactly like her books. It had taken a while for her to realize she was in a horror story and that trust was like virginity—once you lost it, you lost it. Gone. Andrew hadn’t lost it. He still believed in the goodness of people and that life was very likely to turn out just fine, so she’d strapped her fragile, cynical self to him, hoping that his optimism was robust enough to carry the weight of both of them. There was nothing wrong with that, was there? It was like splinting a broken leg. You did what you had to do.
He hesitated. “All right. Let’s say you’re right about that and maybe you are, because no one knows more about publishing than you do, but Cassie’s story isn’t your story, is it? If it’s inspired by everything you told her, then it doesn’t begin to touch on the truth. She has the official version. The version you created for her. No one is going to know what really happened.”
