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But the years had gone by, and now Benny was dead, too. She’d been sure the world had long forgotten her. Well, forgotten Julia Harvey, at least, she reflected ruefully. Julia Harvey was long gone. She was Julia Stewart now: amateur artist and professional writer. Why couldn’t they leave her alone? Why couldn’t they let it rest?
But something told her they wouldn’t. Even if she had convinced that man—what was his name? Neville something or other—that she didn’t know where Julia Harvey was, she felt sure he’d be back. He was only a minion, after all. He’d said he’d come from London, that he’d been given her address as San Jacinto. What if they sent someone else, who remembered her? Not a brash young reporter who’d still been wet behind the ears when she was young.
All the same, she had changed—quite a lot, she consoled herself firmly. Once she had thought nothing of spending a thousand dollars on a beauty treatment, but these days her hair was unstyled and bleached by the same sun that had aged her veranda. The skin that a generation had raved about was tanned a tawny brown and, although she was still slim, her hips were broader, her breasts much fuller since she’d had Jake.
She looked what she was, she decided grimly. A thirty-seven-year-old single mother, with no pretensions to glamour. Whatever that reporter had hoped to find, she hadn’t fulfilled his expectations. He’d been quite prepared to believe that she couldn’t possibly be his quarry.
Sweat was trickling down between her breasts now, and, lifting her arms, she swept the weight of her hair from the back of her neck. Although she wore it in a braid most days, today she had left it loose, and she tilted her head to allow the comparative freshness of the breeze to cool her moist skin. Perhaps she ought to consider having air-conditioning installed, she reflected, but she’d miss the freedom of leaving all the doors and windows open. Still, if the media was going to start beating a path to her door again, she might be forced to lock herself in.
If she stayed...
The percolator had switched itself off behind her and, refusing to worry about the matter any more, she went back inside. The terracotta tiles felt almost cold after the heat outside, and the air was fragrant with the trailing plants and pots of herbs she cultivated on her windowsills.
Looking at the herbs reminded her that she would have to go over to George Town before the end of the week. Although San Jacinto had its own thriving little market beside the harbour, most manufactured goods had to be brought from Grand Cayman, which was a three-hour ferry ride away. Julia owned a small dinghy, which she and Jake sailed at weekends, but it wasn’t suitable for carrying supplies. Generally she and Maria, the island woman who shared the housework with her, visited the capital of the Cayman Islands every couple of weeks. It was a pleasant outing, shopping for stores and having lunch in one of the many excellent restaurants.
George Town was where Jake attended school, too. He boarded there throughout the week with the headmaster and his wife, coming home at weekends, from Friday through to Sunday.
He hadn’t liked it at first. During his early years Julia had tutored him herself, and Jake hadn’t been able to see why she couldn’t go on doing so. But it was for another reason that Julia had insisted on his attending St Augustine’s. Although her son had friends on San Jacinto, she knew he needed the regular company of children his own age. Besides, her life was so solitary. It wasn’t fair to let him think that he didn’t need anyone else.
Carrying her mug of coffee with her, Julia trudged back to her office and resumed her seat at the word processor. A couple of weeks ago, Harold’s adventures had filled her with enthusiasm, but now it was difficult to keep her mind on her work. Anxiety, apprehension, fear; call it what she would, she was uneasy. A horrible sense of foreboding had gripped her, and she couldn’t quite set herself free.
* * *
By the end of the following week, Julia was feeling much better. Time—and the fact that she was sleeping again—had persuaded her that she had been far too alarmist about her visitor. So what if the man had come here? So what if he’d asked questions about her? She’d given him his answer. There was no reason for him to come back. After all, she was the only Englishwoman of her age living on the island, and he might think a mistake had been made. It was unusual, perhaps, to find a woman living alone out here. And people were always intrigued by non-conformity. Maybe that was how conclusions had been drawn. Conclusions which she hoped she had persuaded her visitor were incorrect.
But such thoughts were still depressing, and she avoided them. Only occasionally now did she wonder why anyone should have chosen to look on this island. Where had they got their information? Who still knew where she was?
It was late afternoon when she finally turned off the word processor. Normally she would have worked on until suppertime, but it was Friday and she had to meet Jake from the ferry. Fridays were always special, with her son’s return and the prospect of the weekend ahead to look forward to. She seldom worked when he was around. They enjoyed spending time together.
Earlier in the day, she had prepared Jake’s favourite meal of pizza followed by sticky toffee pudding and ice-cream, and all she had to do when they came home was put them in the oven. Not the ice-cream, of course, she thought humorously as she set the kitchen table for two. Anything cold had to be kept in the freezer, or else it dissolved into an unappetising soup.
It was getting dark when she left the villa, but she knew the route to the small town of San Jacinto blindfold. She had driven this way countless times before, though it never failed to charm her.
Her villa was at the south-western end of the island, approximately five miles from the town. The road wound its way inland for a distance, twisting among palms and flowering shrubs before seeking the coastal track again, where shallow cliffs and rocky outcrops made fantastic shapes in the fading light. It was a narrow road, sprouting weeds in places, and always at the mercy of the crowding vegetation. Unlike other islands, there was no shortage of water on San Jacinto, and plants and shrubs grew lushly in its rich, verdant soil. Julia was always fascinated by the orchids. She’d never seen them growing wild before.
She passed no one on the road, though she did pass several other dwellings. The island doctor, Henry Lefevre, and his wife, Elena, lived next door, and further along the coast she skirted the Jacob plantation. Bernard Jacob grew sugar-cane and sweet potatoes, producing his own very potent spirit that he exported to the United States.
The tiny village of West Bay, where Maria lived, was on the way, too. When Jake was home he spent a lot of his time in West Bay, playing with Maria’s two sons and three daughters. Julia had always been thankful that he had Maria’s children to play with, though the fact that he was an only child occasionally caused some friction.
Jake could never understand why, if she had had one child without a husband, she couldn’t have two. She knew he would have loved a brother or sister of his own. But Julia had no intention of making that mistake again.
San Jacinto was roughly horseshoe-shaped, with the port of San Jacinto situated on the inner curve of the stretch of water known simply as the Sound. To reach the town, Julia had to cross the island at its narrowest point and then negotiate the descent from towering cliffs, which were the highest point on the island.
The town was busy. The return of the ferry, which only ran three times a week, was always a source of some excitement to its inhabitants. San Jacinto got few visitors, but the islanders were sociable people and there was always the anticipation of meeting someone new.
Julia, however, avoided newcomers whenever possible. Fortunately, those tourists who did come were obliged to stay at one of the two boarding establishments near the harbour, and although they could hire Mokes for touring the island her property was sufficiently remote to deter trespassers.
The ferry was in sight across the bay, and Julia parked her open-topped four-by-four beside the sea-wall and sat for several minutes just enjoying the view. With the sun sinking steadily behind the cliffs, the sky was a brilliant palette of colour. She could see every hint of red, shading through to magenta, with a lemony tinge to the clouds that heralded the night. They had a short twilight on the island, though not as short as it was nearer the equator. Here it was a much more civilised transformation, with a velvety breeze to offset the heat and cool her perspiring skin.
‘You expecting company, Mrs Stewart?’
Ezekiel Hope, who ran one of the island’s two hotels, had come to prop himself against the bonnet of the Mitsubishi, and Julia gave up her contemplation of the view to get out of the vehicle and join him. She had stayed at the Old Rum House herself, while the villa was being dealt with, spending the latter half of her pregnancy on his veranda, sunning herself in one of his rattan chairs.
‘Just my son,’ she said now easily, drawing a navy sweater about her shoulders. She glanced towards the quay, where the ferry was steadily negotiating its docking. ‘Are you expecting visitors too? I suppose it is the season.’
‘Just one visitor,’ replied Ezekiel carelessly, flexing his gleaming biceps beneath the thin cotton of his vest. Zeke, as he was commonly known, was proud of his muscular torso. Although he was in his sixties, he assured everyone that he could still hold his own with the most obstreperous of his customers.
Julia refused to be alarmed by his answer. Nor had she any intention of asking who his visitor might be. She had heard that that man—Neville? Yes, Neville Hager, that had been his name—had stayed at the Old Rum House too when he was here. And she had no wish to draw attention to the fact or arouse Zeke’s curiosity.
‘You had another visitor yourself, couple weeks ago, didn’t you, Mrs Stewart?’ Zeke remarked after a moment, thereby restoring all of Julia’s fears. ‘Said he was looking for a Ms Harvey, isn’t that right?’ He shrugged. ‘I told him we didn’t have no Ms Harvey on the island, but he seemed to think you might be able to help him.’
‘But I couldn’t,’ said Julia shortly, and Zeke gave her an apologetic look.
‘I know that. And I hope you didn’t mind me telling him you were the only English lady we got living on San Jacinto, Mrs Stewart,’ he added. ‘If’n I hadn’t, someone else surely would’ve. And it’s no secret, is it? I mean, you’ve been here a long, long time.’
‘A long time,’ agreed Julia tightly, looking rather apprehensively towards the ship. Would Jake see her here, if she didn’t go to meet him? she wondered. She’d prefer to keep a low profile until the other passengers had disembarked.
To her relief, Zeke wandered off as the alighting travellers came down the gangplank. Many of the passengers were islanders, returning from a day-trip to Grand Cayman. On the days the ferry ran, it was possible to arrive in George Town at lunchtime, do some shopping, and catch the late afternoon sailing from the harbour. From her vantage point along from the quay, Julia recognised several of the local women, laden down with carrier bags.
She saw Jake at once. Although he was dark, like the other children, his hair was straight, not curly. At present he insisted on wearing it long on top and short at the back, and his ears stuck out endearingly. But in his school uniform of white shirt and maroon shorts his appearance was unmistakable anyway, even if his tie was loose, his collar was unbuttoned and his jacket was draped untidily over one shoulder.
She had started towards him when she saw the man following him down the gangplank. Among so many dark and suntanned faces his comparatively pale olive-coloured skin was a notable contrast, and she guessed this was the visitor Zeke had spoken about. That it wasn’t Neville Hager was some comfort. If his paper was going to continue its enquiries, it had evidently decided to send someone else. But wasn’t that a paranoid conclusion? she chided herself. The majority of visitors to San Jacinto came because of the good diving. And some of them came alone, from England and the United States.
Suppressing the impulse to stay where she was, Julia continued towards the quay. Jake had seen her and he waved cheerfully, his haversack banging against his legs as he quickened his pace. He really needed a new haversack, she thought, noticing how the old one was bulging at the seams. Jake stuffed everything into that bag: school-books, trainers, computer games, the lot! Not to mention his dirty laundry, which Julia knew from previous experience would be rolled up at the bottom.
‘Hi, Ma,’ he said disrespectfully, but the hug he returned was as eager as she could have wished. He handed her his haversack then, and skipped away towards the Mitsubishi. Until she’d taken him home and fed him, that was as much as she could expect.
‘Julia?’
She was turning away, not thinking about anything but her son, when she heard the soft, disbelieving whisper behind her. She had been so intent on behaving naturally, she’d briefly forgotten the man who had come off the ferry behind her son.
The voice wasn’t familiar, but her head turned almost instinctively towards that hushed recognition. She should have ignored it, she thought later, but he’d caught her off her guard, and she’d admitted the fact by her actions, if not by word of mouth.
‘My God—it is you!’ the man said again, incredulously, and Julia felt the ground shifting beneath her feet.
‘Hello, Quinn,’ she managed, while the world she’d created crashed around her. ‘You’re looking well. Are you on holiday?’
CHAPTER THREE (#u8e07ff22-181f-50b4-a785-a4af6985fabf)
QUINN sat on the veranda of the Old Rum House, drinking a glass of the strongest punch he had ever tasted. And he needed it, he thought ruefully. God, imagine that! Meeting Julia Harvey herself as soon as he stepped off the boat. Hector would say it was a bloody miracle. And it was. He just hadn’t come to terms with it yet.
Inside the hotel he could hear the preparations for the evening meal getting under way, and there was a delicious aroma of foreign herbs and spices. Mr Hope—Zeke—had asked if fresh papaya and a conch chowder would be suitable for supper, but Quinn barely remembered what he had said in response. His thoughts had still been focused on the familiar, yet unfamiliar woman he had met on the quay, and he hoped he hadn’t looked as stupefied as he’d felt.
Thank God he hadn’t had to make conversation with the other guests, he reflected now. There were only two of them: a young couple from England, Zeke had said, who’d arrived a couple of days ago, and Quinn suspected that they were here on their honeymoon. They were seated on a couch at the other end of the veranda, murmuring together in low, intimate voices, and every now and then there was a pregnant silence that spoke volumes for itself. They made Quinn feel unbelievably old, and a rather large gooseberry into the bargain.
Not that he wanted company, he reminded himself, taking another stiffening mouthful of the rum. Right now he was having to cope with the fact that Hector’s information hadn’t been wrong, and that was not something he could take lightly.
Even now he found it incredible to believe that the woman he had seen earlier was the Julia Harvey he had known. Oh, she had recognized him, so it had to be her, but she was nothing—nothing—like he had expected.
Yet what had he expected? He’d hardly believed Hector’s story to begin with, and he’d been half prepared to find it was all a wild-goose chase. But what the hell? A trip to the Caribbean in February was no hardship and, in spite of Susan’s aversion to the idea, he had been curious.
And now? Now he didn’t know what he felt. Meeting her like that had certainly robbed the situation of any fantasy, but he was no longer sure he wanted to pursue it. She had changed so much, and although she had been perfectly polite he could tell he was the last person she had wanted to see.
His own reaction had been no less astounded. It was like being confronted by a dinosaur when you’d believed they were extinct. Not that Julia looked like a dinosaur. Her appearance was unique. He couldn’t get over how young she looked—how unsophisticated, how natural.
How old was she? he wondered. She had to be thirty-five at least. But she didn’t look it. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. She’d evidently stopped cutting her hair, and the sun had streaked its silvery blondeness with shades of gold and honey. She’d put on some weight, too, though that suited her. And her skin was tanned now, instead of the magnolia-white that the studios had demanded.
He took another swig of his punch and shook his head, as if by doing so he’d make some sense of the turmoil in his brain. Julia Harvey—and not just Julia Harvey but her son as well. For God’s sake, had her disappearance been due to nothing more than the fact that she’d got married? And if so, why hadn’t she just announced the fact? She wouldn’t have been the first woman to give up a successful career for love.
For love...
His glass was empty, and rather than disturb his amorous neighbours Quinn picked it up and ambled into the foyer of the small hotel. The reception desk was unmanned, but he could hear the sound of glasses clinking to his right, and when he turned in that direction he found himself in the subdued lighting of a bar.
This part of the hotel was evidently used by the locals, and there were one or two of them there already, propping up the bar and filling the air around them with the aromatic smoke of a rather doubtful tobacco. A radio was tuned to a calypso station, and Zeke himself was serving his customers. He looked cheerfully in Quinn’s direction when he came in, his mouth widening knowingly as he saw his empty glass.
‘You want some more of that, Mr Marriott?’ he enquired, indicating the glass, but although Quinn was tempted he shook his head. He had the suspicion that Zeke and his cronies encouraged visitors to partake rather too freely of the local spirit, and then got a good-natured enjoyment out of the hangovers they cultivated. Quinn had no desire to spend tomorrow nursing his head and, setting his glass on the bar he accepted a Mexican beer instead.
‘Dinner be ready pretty soon,’ Zeke declared, running a damp cloth over the counter. ‘You hungry, Mr Marriott?’
Quinn grimaced. In truth, he was tired. Back home, it was already well after midnight, and although he’d tried to doze on the plane from London weariness, and a certain sense of anticlimax, was getting to him. This wasn’t the way he had anticipated this assignment to go, and the knowledge that the initiative had somehow been taken from him niggled at his conscience.
Why hadn’t he challenged her when she’d spoken to him? Why hadn’t he admitted, there and then, that he had come here to find her? She was probably suspicious, so why hadn’t he told her? Instead of making some inane remark about enjoying a rest?
But, ridiculously enough, she had been the last person he had expected to see at that moment. His mind had been full of the problems he faced in trying to find her, and meeting her on the quay like that had left him feeling stunned. Much like the first time he’d seen her. She’d stunned him then as well...
He gave an inward groan. How could he have been such an idiot? She’d completely mangled his brain. He’d stood there feeling as immature and callow as the youth he used to be, and by the time he’d pulled himself together she’d gone.
‘Going to get some scuba-diving in while you’re here, Mr Marriott?’
Zeke’s enquiring voice brought him out of his reverie, and, realising he was being rude, Quinn made a determined effort to gather his scattered wits.
‘I—why, maybe,’ he conceded, still not sure how best to handle this. He knew Hager had made no secret of his enquiries, but Quinn preferred a more subtle approach. If Julia was living anonymously on San Jacinto, she had her reasons. And until he’d had the chance to talk to her—properly—he’d rather not advertise why he had come.
He tried to remember everything Hagar had told him. He’d said he’d been told there was no Julia Harvey living on the island, but that there was an Englishwoman, who might have been mistaken for her. Unfortunately, he hadn’t said what she was called. Just that she wasn’t who they were looking for, so he’d abandoned the search.
Of course, Hector had been of the opinion that whoever Hagar had spoken to had been lying. That you couldn’t remain hidden all these years without having an efficient means of defence. Oh, God! Quinn’s lips twisted. What if Neville had actually met the lady without recognising her? She certainly looked nothing like those old pictures. But he wouldn’t like to be in Hager’s shoes if Hector found him out.
‘South Point,’ Zeke put in helpfully now. ‘That’s where you’ll find the best diving. Harry—that’s Harry at Harry’s Hire ‘n Dive—can give you all the gear you need. You’re planning on hiring a Moke, aren’t you? You’ll need one to get around.’
‘Oh—I guess so.’ In truth, Quinn hadn’t given a lot of thought to how he was going to get about the island.
‘I thought so.’ Zeke gave him an approving nod. ‘Another beer, Mr Marriott?’
* * *
In spite of the conviction that he wouldn’t sleep, Quinn actually slept very well. He opened his eyes the next morning feeling considerably rested, and apart from a slightly muggy head there were no unpleasant after-effects of the rum punch.
A shower in the tiny bathroom disposed of the mugginess, and by the time he’d pulled on narrow black jeans and a matching T-shirt he felt ready to face the day. He even felt more optimistic this morning, though he had yet to decide what his next move would be.
One thing was certain: whatever Julia had thought of his behaviour the night before, he was no longer the impressionable teenager he had been ten years ago. She might believe she could still intimidate him—and who could blame her?—but she would soon realise that he was a man now; he wasn’t so easily dazzled. Besides, his experience of women was more extensive these days. He was certainly not the idealist he’d been before.
He phoned Susan before going down for breakfast. Although it was only seven o’clock in San Jacinto, it was lunchtime in London, and he caught her at the apartment, before she left for Courtlands.
As soon as his mother had learned what he was planning, she had insisted that Susan spend the weekend with them. Quinn suspected that part of Lady Marriott’s insistence was due to a desire to hear more about it than the little he’d told her, and, if Susan was still in Suffolk when he got back from the Caribbean, she was fairly assured that he’d come and fetch her. And incidentally tell his mother what had happened on his trip.
Isabel Marriott was still endearingly loyal where Julia was concerned. She had always defended her decision to drop out of the limelight, and although she had been disappointed that she hadn’t been taken into Julia’s confidence she had always maintained that the younger woman must know what she was doing.
‘It must be a man,’ she had confided to Quinn wistfully, unaware how that news had affected her son. ‘It’s always a man, darling, when someone like Julia abandons her friends and family. What other reason could there be? I just wonder who he is.’
Which was why Quinn had felt bound to tell her what he was doing. And, like her son, Isabel had had reservations as to the propriety of his mission. She was of the opinion that if Julia wanted to remain anonymous she should be allowed that privilege. She had never liked the part of his work that placed him in the category of investigator. She’d have been far happier if he were like his brother, Matthew, content to breed his fox-hounds and supervise the estate.
‘Darling!’ Susan answered his call at the first ring, and he felt a momentary sense of guilt for not having made the call the night before. But after seeing Julia he’d been in no mood to be sociable, and he’d consoled himself with the thought that it had really been too late. ‘Did you have a good journey?’
Quinn assured her that he had, and then went on, ‘I’m just about to go down for breakfast. It’s a beautiful morning, I’ve got a view of the Sound from my window, and the temperature’s in the seventies already.’
‘Lucky you!’ Susan’s tone was just faintly hostile. ‘I wish I could have gone with you.’
‘So do I,’ agreed Quinn smoothly, though that wasn’t strictly true. But they’d had this argument before, and it was easier to be sympathetic when there was no chance of her taking him at his word.
‘Do you mean it?’
Evidently the distance had mellowed her mood, and Quinn took the opportunity to work on it. ‘Of course I do!’ he exclaimed. ‘But it is a business trip, Suse. I don’t expect to have much free time. Hector wants me back in the office on Wednesday.’
‘I suppose.’ Susan sounded philosophical now. ‘So, have you had any success with your enquiries?’
‘I only got in last night,’ declared Quinn evenly, aware of the equivocation. ‘Um—when are you leaving for Courtlands?’
‘In about half an hour, I think.’ Susan paused. ‘Will you ring me there later?’
‘Well, maybe not today,’ said Quinn evasively. ‘I don’t know where I’ll be, do I?’ That, at least, was true. ‘I’ll try and ring at this time tomorrow. If you’re out, I can always leave a message.’
‘Where will I be?’ exclaimed Susan, her irritation evident again. ‘Unless you think Matthew might be persuaded to run away with me. That is if I can prise him away from his blessed kennels, of course. I just hope your mother has invited some other guests for the weekend. If not, I’m going to have a pretty boring time.’
Quinn made some reassuring comment, and then, excusing himself on the grounds that he was wasting Hector’s time and money, he brought the call to an end. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to Susan, he told himself. It was just indicative of his impatience with what he had to do.
He breakfasted on the veranda, alone. There was no sign of his fellow guests this morning, but that didn’t surprise him. If they were on honeymoon, food was unlikely to trouble them. It would probably be around lunchtime before they put in an appearance.
A couple of hot rolls, spread with apricot conserve, and several cups of strong black coffee later, Quinn’s spirits felt somewhat fortified. He’d refused the blueberry pancakes the young waitress had been sure he’d choose in favour of the lighter meal. In truth, he didn’t have much of an appetite either. He felt empty, it was true, but with apprehension, not hunger.
Zeke appeared as he was leaving the table, and it crossed his mind again that the hotel proprietor could probably save him a lot of effort. But Neville had said that the woman he’d approached lived at the other end of the island, and until he’d checked that out he was loath to state his intentions.
‘You going swimming, Mr Marriott?’ Zeke asked, with friendly enquiry, and Quinn used the opportunity to check out the whereabouts of Harry’s Hire ‘n Dive. Whether he was going to be successful or not, he definitely needed some transport, and a Moke sounded ideal for his purposes.
Half an hour later, he was bouncing up the steep hill out of San Jacinto town. The rear wheels of the little vehicle seemed to leave the road altogether in places, and he was forced to concentrate on his driving to keep it on the track.
All the same, he couldn’t help noticing how delightful the little town looked from this angle. Pink-splashed roofs, gardens lush with greenery, all jostling for space among hedges bright with scarlet hibiscus. There was an abundance of light and colour, of scents and smells, and exotic spices, teasing his senses with their sharp aroma. Even without the sparkling waters of the Sound the scene would have been dazzling, and the heat from an unguarded sun was already hot upon his shoulders.
Yet, for all that, there was still an unsettling sense of apprehension in his gut. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was disturbed at the prospect of seeing Julia again. To succeed where Hager had failed, he assured himself grimly. He refused to allow any other reason for the turmoil inside him.
