Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (147 page)

“You seemed to have turned away from me. It was such a … such a shock. I felt I didn’t know you, that there was something in you I hadn’t been aware of. That you turned to me, all those months ago, only because I was there, and we had common interests, and — ”

There was a brief silence and then, “But it wasn’t enough, after all. What we had was only a substitute for you. I’m not an Anthony Cavendish, Jan. Maybe you need an Anthony Cavendish.”

“I don’t, I don’t,” I cried. “I think he’s marvelous, yes. A little too marvelous, maybe. Like … I don’t know, a bronze sculpture. Like Cellini’s Perseus, all gleaming in the sun … and you stand there and fall in love with that statue. I know I fell in love with Perseus when I was in Florence. I used to go and look at that statue every single day. I worshiped it. But it was only a statue.”

I swallowed. “It was like that with Tony. You can understand that, can’t you?”

There was a considerable silence, but then his voice came on again. He said yes, he supposed he could understand it, though it had hurt him to see me so beautiful for someone else.

“It hurt like hell,” he told me. “As it will hurt me if you find another statue to fall in love with.
You
can understand
that
, can’t you?”

“There won’t be another statue,” I promised. “Eric, I won’t let you go if there’s a chance you still feel the same way about me. You’re home to me. You’ve become my home.”

“Are you crying again?” he asked.

“No. Yes. Wait a minute — ”

“Never mind, I’m hanging up now anyway. I’ll be on my way. Depending on the traffic … well, I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

“For good?” I asked.

“Until death us do part.”

I sat there, in the gathering dusk, and started waiting. It would be hours. But he was on his way. Eric and I were both coming home to each other.

And my thoughts were orderly now. It didn’t matter about the Lestranges. I was not the intruder in their lives: they were the intruders in mine. They were, truth to tell, almost enemies … even Caroline, for having created the situation that had plunged us all into turmoil.

For a while even Eric had seemed to be an enemy. He hadn’t been there when I needed him: he hadn’t seen me through the virulent time of illness that had come over me. He should have seen that I was sick, that Tony Cavendish was a virus I had caught. You had to have antibiotics for a virus … an antidote … and Eric could have been that antidote. He shouldn’t have walked out and left me feverish and sick.

But I knew that was unfair. Eric wasn’t my keeper. He loved me and needed me. But he wasn’t responsible for my actions. As I wasn’t responsible for his.

You grew up slowly, I thought, tired and spent, and you fought maturity every step of the way. It was so much easier to stay young, immature, and unresponsible. It was painful to gain insight, painful to walk into the future. We would all, I thought, prefer to be children forever.

• • •

When I couldn’t sit still any longer I got up and lit some lamps, had a snack in the kitchen, standing up while I ate, tried to read, and gave it up as a bad job. I made a drink but only sipped at it, and then put it down with distaste. I kept looking at my watch, then getting up to check it with the other clocks.

Depending on the traffic, Eric had said.

I got up abruptly and went to the bedroom. I shed my clothes and got into a swimsuit. I went out the back door and walked to the hill. I had nothing to fear now. Eric was on his way. I wouldn’t be alone any more.

I went down to the beach because I wanted to say good-bye. Good-bye to my tenure here, which was just about up. It was a farewell to what I had thought my stay here would be, a peaceful summer in a rented cottage. It had turned out differently, disastrously, but I thought it would be all right now, and I was intent on bidding a wry adieu to what could have been a perfect, unmarred summer.

I was thoughtful and pensive, and it was a lovely night. Soft and tender, and brilliant with stars overhead. The moon was filling out, its contours ripening: it shone down with a cold, clear effulgence that bathed the earth and water. A pleasant breeze stirred the sand grass, making plaintive sounds in the night. Other sounds filtered through the silence — the call of a shore bird, harsh and wild, the distant baying of a dog.

And over and above all that, the sound of the sea, its ceaseless murmuring, the pounding of the surf as it broke on the shore, the sigh of its retreat as the water receded.

I walked to the water and stood at its brink. I stopped there, straining my eyes to find a horizon, searching for dark shapes that might be ships. I passionately loved that dark, measureless expanse which held in its depths things that had once belonged to men. And been lost below the surface in storms that had shipwrecked many people throughout time.

The stern, implacable sea.

I was so caught in thought that I didn’t hear anything at first. I don’t think I ever did hear anything: I believe I simply sensed another presence on the beach. But I was suddenly aware that I was no longer alone.

I turned, with a swift lurch of the heart in my chest, and put out a hand, in a defensive gesture, as if to ward off something perilous.

He stood there, limned in the moonlight, motionless and — etched as he was against the background of sea and sky — magnificent. As if the pose were deliberate, meant to impress its grandeur on me. As if he were giving me a gift. He knew he was stunning. How could he help but know? He knew the shock it gave. He must have known that all his life.

A gift of fatal attraction …

I could look at him now and savor his appearance, but see it with clear eyes, without being blinded. Anthony Cavendish had lost none of his splendor for me: Eric’s phone call hadn’t changed that. He was every bit as glorious as Cellini’s Perseus.

But I could see him dispassionately now. I could even remember — and vividly — my infatuation for him, my thralldom. But my feelings had undergone a profound change. There was no sexual adoration, no aching lust. Tony was only a mortal now: the golden god had vanished.

I felt, in my miraculous recovery, sorry for him. The necromancer had lost his magic touch. The prince had become the frog: the fable had reversed itself.

Yet I was not pleased to see him. I had really wanted to be alone, to have this half hour for myself. I was feeling almost reborn …
new
, in an almost mystical way, as if Eric and I were starting out all over again, thanks to the gods, and the mistakes we — or perhaps I — had made were in the past. The slate had been wiped clean. We had been granted another chance, and this time things would be better. This time we would reach for the stars.

Yet Tony
was
here, and my fleeting resentment vanished. I felt a kind of empathy for him. He was a wanderer, a loner, and rather touching, really, in spite of his magnificence. I thought, who really mattered in his life?

Caroline?

Maybe not even Caroline. Maybe only Caroline’s money.

Why, he’s a desolate personality, I thought, and went up to him. “Hello,” I said cheerfully. “I can’t stay very long, but shall we have a swim before I go back?”

“Yes, love,” he answered, and together we walked into the water, breasted the waves, and struck out.

The water was far from calm, but manageable. He was in the lead, with me following, and I didn’t object to it. I thought it would be best for his ego to have the ascendance.

It was precious little to give him.

I thought of how I had desired him, how nearly I had become his lover.

But I had not. There had been something more important in my scheme of things.

Eric Sloane. Eric …

My mind was filled with Eric Our reunion. What I would say to him.

“You’re not crying again?” I could hear him asking.

“Happy tears, I guess.”

Eric was coming back. He was coming back.

I trailed him in the water. I was in the most exquisite mood, my life to rights again, and I had only sympathy for Tony. I wanted to tell him that I wished him only the best.

I tried to frame the words as we swam: “You see, Eric and I … so, Tony, I apologize for — ”

It would not be easy, but it would have to be said.

We cut through the cold biting water, almost side by side now, and I heard his breathing at times. It was invigorating, the bracing water, and the moonlight, and the blaze of the stars, white and dazzling. Salt sea smell, and my eyelashes stuck together with wet.

This man was my friend, my might-have-been lover. It
would
be difficult to tell him that things were different now.

I was hoping it wouldn’t be too awful. I pictured his cold fury, his anger. I didn’t want any more trouble.

I was quite upset when Tony, nearing me in the water, reached out and touched me. His hand landed on my shoulder, and then he drew up close beside me and slid an arm around my neck.

It was a preamble to what he assumed would be a night of love on the starlit sands. A gesture I took to mean,
let’s go back now and do what we came here to do
.

My heart gave an uncomfortable little leap in my chest. It wouldn’t be easy, I reflected. To tell him it was no go, and I was miserably sorry, but —

And then the involved explanation. Oh, don’t let him be hurt … or nasty, I was thinking, and I tried to free myself from his tentative embrace.

I was being awkward in my strokes because his arm kept hindering me. I thought it was my own slight struggle that sent my head under. Or that a current had me in its grip. That there was some undercurrent I hadn’t counted on. When I started to plummet down I was vastly astonished. I also had a horrid feeling of loss of control. Because I swallowed a lot of water, I found myself coughing and spewing when I surfaced again.

I was a damned good swimmer, and had no fear of the water. I had been raised by people who knew their way around as swimmers. When I was little more than a baby I had been ducked and taught.

I took a deep breath, which started me coughing again, and I tried to elude his arms. He was trying to put both of them around me now, but I wanted to be free to get my bearings. I pushed him away rather roughly, said, “I have to go back, I must have a cramp or something.”

He didn’t answer. I thought that was odd, but put it down to a lack of comprehension. He didn’t realize I was in a bit of trouble. So I said it again. “Let’s go back, I seem to be tiring.”

Still he didn’t answer. But his arms clamped firmly around me as if, after all, he did realize my plight, and wanted to come to my aid. And yet, and yet … his arms were too
closely
around me, and he wasn’t helping at all. On the contrary, he was making everything more difficult, and I told him so.

“No, Tony,” I protested. “That’s not the way … you’re only smothering me. I can’t breathe.”

“Sorry,” I thought he would say, but he didn’t. He just looked back at me, with a kind of half smile, and his arms stayed around me, tighter now.

“Let go,” I said. “You’re hindering me, Tony. I’ve got a mouthful of water.”

I coughed, and pushed at him.

He still didn’t release me. I became vastly irritated, and tried to wrench away. This proved impossible, and, with a kind of mild astonishment, I stopped struggling and stared at him.

What was the matter with him? Didn’t he see that —

And then, in a flash, I got the picture. I was gasping and spitting out water, and suddenly I had a glimpse of his face. That face which had once meant so much to me. This face was intent, quiet, and implacable … and those arms were not trying to help me. Those strong, virile arms were, incredibly, like tentacles, winding around my neck and shoulders, and
preventing
me from moving.

I felt his power then, with surprise and the ghastly onset of fear. His strength was turned against me; he wanted to —

He wanted me to go under again.

He wanted me to —

To drown!

The blood drained away from my head and I felt faint. I wanted terribly to touch bottom, feel something solid underneath me.

I said, “Tony?”

It was a desperate plea.

There was no answer from him. Just that quiet, steady gaze. Calculating, taking his time, and, oh, so silent. If he had said something … if I could have heard his voice. Saying anything … something terrible, maybe, but
something
.

I’m sorry, but this must be done …

I knew for sure now. It was something he had to do. Get me out of the way, out of his way. Because I had interfered with his plans. If a new will was about to be drawn that left him out in the cold, then I was to die.

He was desperate now … a new will might be Caroline’s last, this time.

I could hardly believe it. That he would actually kill for money …

I was this man’s prey, I must be disposed of. If I were dead, I couldn’t inherit.

I took him by surprise. It was instinctive, a primal gesture. My leg shot up and I kneed him in the groin. There was a sharp intake of breath, then a long-drawn groan, and I knew I had hurt him.

I felt a primitive elation. I really hurt him, I thought savagely, and I felt his arms around me relaxing. As they loosened, I followed up my advantage.

I eeled away and plowed through the water. Momentarily disorientated, I started in the wrong direction, away from the shore. I realized my error almost at once, and changed course. There was the beach, getting nearer.

I wanted to look over my shoulder. He must be recovering from my attack. And shortly he’d be behind me.

But I couldn’t lose time looking back. And all the while my mind was racing, teeming with thoughts. One minute I was counting strokes … four, five, six … the shore came closer. In the next minute pictures flooded into my mind, like montages in a film.

He had wanted to do this earlier … all those jaunts on the beach, those midnight visits … he had been thinking of doing this … thinking of getting rid of me. And each time he had gotten cold feet.

No one knew we had been down here.

He could have done it at any time.