With a wry smile, she leaned against the stone balustrade of the terrace. In front of her, and fringed with tall palm trees, was a sweep of lush green lawn and a turquoise swimming pool with sunbeds placed invitingly around it. Vibrant flowers of scarlet and fuchsia pink tumbled from stone urns and classical statues stood guard at strategically placed points.
None of which, to Romily’s mind, could compete with the natural beauty of the mountainous backdrop. In the early morning light of dawn, Mount San Jacinto glowed in the roseate blush of the rising sun. High above it was an unbroken sky washed with pale lavender. It was an astonishingly beautiful sight. The arid air was already warm and fragrant with orange blossom. The guest house in which she was accommodated was entirely separate but lacked nothing in the way of comfort or luxury. A maid – amiddle-aged Mexican woman called Clara – had shown her from the main house to where she was to sleep and had impressed upon her that if there was anything she wanted, any time of the day or night, she had only to pick up the telephone and ring through her request.
For all its impressive extravagance, Casa Santa Rosa didn’t feel real; it resembled a film set. Any moment she expected to see actors take up their positions and cameras start to roll.
She stepped back inside the guest house and telephoned her request through for her breakfast. Minutes later she reappeared on the terrace in her swimsuit, a towelling robe slung over her shoulder. An early morning swim seemed entirely appropriate. Especially as it would be something she wouldn’t be able to do once she was back in Melstead St Mary.
She swam with a determined front crawl stroke, length after length, her arms slicing through the water, her legs kicking hard. She was perfectly used to spending long periods of time away from home, whether it was doing book research, or carrying out speaking engagements while promoting her latest publication, but for some reason she felt she had been away too long this time.
Island House had been her beloved home for more than two decades; it was the longest she had lived anywhere. Prior to that she had lived a nomadic life. The place held so many memories for her, some heartbreaking memories, but many happy ones too. It had been an oasis of respite during the war, not just for Romily, but for all those she had taken under her wing – those who worked for her, like Florence, Lottie and dear old Mrs Partridge; her stepchildren Hope and Kit, and their extended family, including Annelise and Isabella, and not forgetting Stanley, the evacuee. He had come to Melstead as anine-year-old boy,stick-thin and homesick for London, thoroughly convinced he would never get used to living in the country. Now he was a grown man ofthirty-two who said he could never live anywhere but Melstead St Mary. Island House had been the making of him, he often said. It had been the making of them all, Romily believed.
Bored with front crawl, she flipped over and proceeded to swim on her back, her gaze fixed on the cloudless blue sky above her. Stretching her arms over her head, her thoughts reverted to the reason she was here.
According to Gabe and Melvyn, Red St Clair had written for three of the major studios, Paramount, MGM and Columbia. ‘Of course, he’s never really needed to work,’ Melvyn had said, ‘not after inheriting a fortune from a printing company founded by his grandpappy.’
‘And don’t believe all the stories in the gossip columns about him never being seen unless it’s on the arm of some glamorous socialite,’ Gabe had added. ‘He’s really not that superficial.’
He sounded like trouble to Romily. Big trouble.
When finally she’d tired of swimming, she swam to the shallow end of the pool and stood in the sun squeezing the water from her hair. Going over to where she’d left her towelling robe, she wrapped it around her body. For a woman of her age she liked to think she was in reasonable shape. Her legs (one of which bore a palesix-inch-long scar) and arms were still toned, and her stomach was pleasingly flat. She was lucky that she had one of those metabolisms that magically kept any excess pounds at bay.
She was just thinking she should telephone home to see how everybody was, when Clara, the maid from last night, appeared with her breakfast. Placing the tray on the table in the dappled shade of the orange tree, the woman passed Romily an envelope. ‘This just arrived for you madam. It was hand delivered.’
Alone, Romily opened the envelope.
Dear Romily,
Unavoidably delayed! Will have to delay our meeting this morning until one o’clock. I’ll book us a table at La Bella Vista. You can’t miss it, it’s next door to the El Mirador on North Indian Avenue.
See you there!
Red St Clair.
Unimpressed by the appalling handwriting, and by the rude and presumptuous content of the brief message, Romily’s hackles rose skywards. This, she thought grimly, did not bode well. Mr St Clair was clearly far from reliable. And far from being a man of good manners.See you there,indeed!
Once more she doubted the wisdom of being here. She should have stuck to her original plan and flown straight home to Island House.
Chapter Five
Melstead St Mary
October 1962
Annelise
The train journey home from Oxford was always long and tortuous and when Annelise stepped onto the platform at Melstead St Mary and saw Stanley with his dog waiting for her, her spirits lifted in an instant. She didn’t have that many friends, not what she would call close, but she counted Stanley as her oldest and dearest friend. She hadn’t been home since Easter, so she was particularly pleased to see him again.
Putting down her suitcase, and after making a fuss of Tucker, she hugged Stanley warmly. ‘You look well,’ she said, taking in hiscollar-length hair,open-necked shirt andsandy-coloured corduroy jacket.
‘And you look tired,’ he said, holding her at arm’s distance and studying her face with a frown. ‘You’ve been overworking, haven’t you, burning that candle at both ends?’
‘You’re a fine one to talk when it comes to working long hours.’
‘I guess we’re just two of a kind,’ he said with a grin. It was a grin she knew of old. As children, she had always looked up to Stanley, eight years her senior, like she would an older brother. She must have made such a nuisance of herself, always trailing after him, wanting him to play with her. All these years on she could remember so vividly him pulling her along on a sledge in the snow of the garden at Island House. Or teaching her how to climb a tree or ride a bicycle. Not once could she remember him ever telling her to leave him alone, not even when he became a teenager and the age gap showed obvious signs of widening. Then, as if out of the blue, he was suddenly a man, whereas Annelise was still a child. She smiled to herself, thinking how eager she had been to catch him up, to be an adult too.
Carrying her case for her, his arm linked through hers as Tucker scampered on ahead, they walked out of the station.
‘New car?’ she asked, when Stanley unlocked the boot of a pale blue Triumph Herald and stowed her luggage inside.
