ISLAND OF LOVE Page 3

  She bit back a sharp report. “I won’t,” she said sweetly.

  “All right, then, I’D check with you later in the week.”

  Before she could say anything the telephone clicked loudly in her ear. As she replaced the receiver, she had to smile to herself. In spite of his denial, she knew quite well he’d only called to check on her personally, not the story at all, and it touched her to see this unŹexpected caring side to him, an aspect of his character he normally kept very well concealed.

  Suddenly the brief scene in the office with him on Friday after his telephone conversation with Claudia popped into her mind. She’d been too busy with her preparations for the trip ever since to have given it much thought, but now, after talking to him, she reŹcalled quite vividly just how he had looked at her, and how that look had made her feel.

  The furthest thing from her mind during the years she had worked for him was any thought of attraction between them. She knew she wasn’t his type. The long string of blondes that trooped in and out of his life during those years was clear evidence of that. He’d never come remotely near making a pass at her, or even looked at her as though she was a desirable woman.

  Until Friday. Was it because she had mildly asserted herself for the first time in living memory? Had there really been a glimmer of interest in her as a woman in those dark eyes, or was it only her imaginaŹtion? More to the point, was she attracted to him !

  At the mere idea of that unlikely event, she laughed aloud in the silence of the empty room. Might as well put her neck in a hangman’s noose as get too near that devouring flame. Talk about playing with fire!

  In any event, she felt much better after talking to him, not nearly so desolate as she had before he called, and she suddenly realized she was ravenously hungry. She’d eaten practically nothing all day, only the sketchy breakfast she’d choked down in her apartment that morning. Later she’d drunk half of a really awful cup of coffee on the ferry, and its dregs were still churning bitterly in her empty stomach.

  She went into the kitchen and rummaged in the cupboards for a while, but all she could find were some stale crackers and a jar of peanut butter. DeŹciding she wasn’t that hungry, she retrieved her suitcase and handbag and carried them down the narrow hallway to her old bedroom.

  She was curious to see what her father had done with it after she left. Boarded it up, most likely, anxious to obliterate every trace of her. Her footsteps creaked on the worn floorboards, as though no one had walked that way for years.

  Inside, the curtains were drawn shut, the room pitch dark. She switched on the bleak overhead light and scanned the room, once again filled with a vague feeling of apprehension. Her eyes darted over the familiar objects—her old dresser, the little pink flowered slipper chair by the window, the braided rug her mother had made, the narrow bed, which, she saw to her surprise, was made up.

  Undressing quickly, she put on her nightgown, turned off the light, and slid in between the icy sheets.

  There was frost on the ground the next morning, with a bright sun shining in a deep blue sky. Anne was awakened by the soft guttural “twee-twee” of the mountain chickadees, punctuated by the piercing

  squawk of a Stellar’s jay high in the branches of the towering firs that surrounded her father’s property. Her property now. She’d slept heavily, dreamlessly, and her brief sense of disorientation at finding herself in a strange bed vanished the moment she got her first tangy whiff of saltwater and tide flats.

  She opened her eyes to a room filled with sunshine. Tossing the covers aside, she slipped out of bed and went over to the window. The eerie shapes and forŹbidding darkness had been replaced with the bright clear landscape so familiar to her from her childhood.

  Down below was the pasture where the sheep had grazed, and beyond the meadow stretched the ever-present slate blue water of the islands. Farther westward, past the haro Straits, rose the huge land mass of Vancouver Island. To the south, beyond the Strait of Juan de Fuca, towered the majestic snowŹcapped Olympic mountain range on the Washington mainland.

  The smaller islands stretched out as far as the eye could see, like emeralds set in a sapphire sea, an inŹcomparable sight, surely one of the most beautiful in the world, and for the first time since she’d arrived Anne began to feel at home.

  She was also freezing. The bare wooden floor was cold on her feet, and she shivered in her thin nightŹgown. The whole house was like ice and the cold seemed to penetrate to her very bones.

  After a quick wash, she dressed hurriedly in black woolen pants and heavy white turtleneck sweater. As she brushed her short dark hair in front of the mirror over the dresser, her eye was caught by an old snapshot stuck in the bottom corner, cracked and fading, the edges torn. In the picture were three people—Anne

  herself in the middle, and on either side of her, towering over her, Ben and Victoria Poole. She prised it away from the glass, and as she examined it the exact details of that day were as clear to her as though it had been yesterday.

  They were standing in the sunshine on the rocks below the high cliff of Smugglers Cove, the surf pounding in the background. Her mother had taken the picture. In fact, it must have been the summer she died, since Anne looked to be around eighteen. Ben was grinning into the camera, his thick wiry mane of golden hair blowing in the breeze, and Victoria, not much shorter than her husband, was smiling up at him.

  As she gazed down at the old photograph, all the old overpowering adolescent feelings rose in her again, sweeping over her in great waves. Ben had been her ideal of what a man should be—father, brother, friend, husband, lover. Everything had changed now, and she had a sudden strong urge to see him again.

  It was still quite early, only a little after nine o’clock. Even though her empty stomach was growling omŹinously, Anne still couldn’t face those stale crackers, so she slipped into her red down-filled parka and set off for the village to pick up some groceries.

  Halfway there she came to a crossroads. To the left, down a steep cliff, was Smugglers Cove. To the right, about half a mile distant through a thick wooded copse, was the Poole house. She stood there for a moment, debating, tempted to turn onto that second path. But it was too soon. Better to let their first meeting happen naturally.

  It was the off-season in the village, free from the tourists who descended on it between the end of May

  and the first of September, and only a few shops stayed open. In the center of the one main street sat the Mystic Harbor Hotel, run by the Sorenson’s, and kept open marginally for the natives all year-round.

  It used to be the local meeting place for the vil-lagers during the long winter evenings when even the hardiest fishermen visiting the island were rare. Whole families would gather in the large dining room—local fishermen whose living depended on their catch, sheep ranchers like her father, shop owners, a few retired people—to play cards, listen to the amateur musiŹcians, even dance a little, the men on one side of the room drinking, the women on the other knitting and gossiping.

  As Anne went up the weathered wooden steps that led to the wide front porch, she wondered if the Sorensons even ran the hotel any more. She stepped inside and glanced around the empty foyer. Nothing had changed.

  She started down the narrow corridor that led to the dining room, which also looked exactly as she reŹmembered it, ten square wooden tables covered in red checked cloths, the small raised platform at the far end where the local musicians played, the tall narrow windows overlooking the sea with the same faded patterned draperies hanging limply on either side of them.

  She stepped through the swinging door into the warm kitchen to be greeted by the delicious aroma of fresh baking in the air. Carl Sorenson was there bending over the sink, scouring out a muffin tin. At the sound of Anne’s footsteps, he turned around slowly and stared at her blankly for a moment. Then

  the light of recognition dawned in his pale blue eyes, and he gave her a smile of genuine welcome.

  “If it isn’t Anne Came
ron!” he said. “You’ve come home.”

  “Yes, I’ve come home,” she said with a smile. “Temporarily, at least. It’s nice to see you again, Carl.”

  “You’re looking fine, Anne,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron. “Pretty as a picture and all grown up.” He held out a hand.

  “Why, thank you, Carl.” She grasped his hand and shook it warmly. “I was wondering if I could get some breakfast before I do my grocery shopping. There’s nothing at the house fit to eat.”

  “Sure thing, Anne. What would you like? Bacon and eggs all right? There are fresh blueberry muffins.”

  She sat down at the table in the center of the room. “That sounds great. What I’d really like right now is a good cup of coffee. You always did make the best, better than anything I’ve had in Seattle.”

  He flushed, pleased, and poured her a cup from the steaming pot on the stove. While she drank it, he set a place for her at the table, then went back to the stove to start her breakfast. As he fried the bacon and cracked eggs into the pan, he chatted with her over his shoulder.

  “I was real sorry about your dad. We all miss him a lot around here. Had a great turnout at the funeral, though. Too bad you had to miss it.”

  “Yes, it was,” she said in a tight voice. “I was out of town when it happened, and didn’t get back until it was over.”

  Carl gave her a long close look, then heaved a sigh. “He always regretted it, you know. What he did. He

  was wrong, and I told him so many times. He often thought about calling or writing to you, but that stiff-necked pride of his wouldn’t let him do it.”

  “Never mind. It’s ancient history now. Besides, can you believe it? He left everything to me after all.”

  “Well, that’s only fair. No matter what his faults, John Cameron always tried to do the right and proper thing.”

  “Yes,” she replied slowly. “I suppose you’re right.”

  When she saw the look on Carl’s face, she was imŹmediately sorry for her grudging tone. “Don’t mind me, Carl,” she apologized. “I just got in last night and am still a little dazed.”

  “Well, take it from me, in his own way your father really cared about you, Anne. And he was proud of you too, the way you managed to make your own way in the world, educated yourself, got such a fine job, and never once came begging for help.”

  How on earth did he know about all that? Anne wondered as Carl went to the counter to dish up her breakfast. It had always seemed to her that she was as good as dead to her father from the minute he caught her… But there was no point in rehashing that.

  “Here we are, then,” Carl said, setting her plate down.

  She tucked in with gusto. “Tell me, Carl,” she said between bites, “what’s been going on around here since I’ve been away?”

  “You probably know Victoria Poole died about a year ago.”

  “Yes, I heard. I was so sorry. How is Ben taking it?”

  “About what you’d expect,” Carl answered gruffly. “At first he was like a madman. We were all afraid he’d do himself an injury.” He shrugged. “Then he seemed to calm down after a while, and now he pretty much just keeps himself to himself.”

  “He always was something of a hermit.”

  She debated asking Carl’s advice about the interview Jerry wanted her to get. If she knew Carl he would be as silent as the grave about it, but she didn’t dare take the chance that Ben would hear it from someone else before she had a chance to approach him.

  She drained the last of her coffee and rose to her feet. “Well, thanks for the breakfast, Carl.” She hesŹitated, somewhat embarrassed. “How much do I owe you?” she finally said. “Or shall I pay Emma at the desk?”

  He waved a hand in the air. “Don’t bother. This one’s on us. You can pay for the next one.”

  “Thanks again, Carl. You’ve saved my life.”

  With a little wave, she went back through the dining room to the foyer. At the front door she stopped for a moment to put on her jacket and scarf, when it sudŹdenly flew open, barely missing her by a few inches and almost knocking her down.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Did I hit you?”

  Anne looked up to see a tall young woman standing before her. Her face was reddened by the cold, her forehead creased with anxious concern. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but at the moment she couldn’t quite place her.

  Anne smiled. “No, you just missed me. It was my fault anyway. I should know better than to dawdle right in front of the door that way.”

  The girl had taken off her red knitted cap and was shaking out a thick mane of long blond hair. “Say,” she said now, giving Anne a close look. “Don’t I know you?”

  Anne laughed. “As a matter of fact, I was just thinking the same thing.”

  “You’re Anne Cameron, aren’t you? I heard you were coming back. I’m Linda Sorenson.”

  Anne could only stare, wide-eyed with disbelief. “Little Linda Sorenson?” The statuesque girl stood at least four inches taller than her own five feet six. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Not so little any more. I guess ten years makes a lot of difference, especially between nine years old and nineteen.”

  The girl was perfectly lovely, very tall, with a full rounded figure her tight red sweater did nothing to conceal, a creamy flawless complexion and all that gorgeous blond hair. Anne had to wonder how two such colorless people as Edith and Carl Sorenson could have produced such a beauty, and the very next thought that crossed her mind was that she was exactly Jerry Bannister’s type.

  “You’ve been living in Seattle all these years, from what I hear,” Linda was saying now. “Working on a magazine?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Lucky you,” Linda said wistfully. “I’d do anything to get out of this backwater.”

  “Well, why don’t you? I did.”

  Linda shrugged. “No money. No education. No talent.” She laughed. “I sound pretty useless, don’t I?”

  Anne was about to comment that she was so decŹorative, she didn’t need to be useful, but just then she heard Carl call to his daughter.

  “Linda, did you get those bills in the mail?”

  Linda sighed wearily. “Yes, Pa.”

  “Well, I have some typing I want you to do.”

  Linda rolled her eyes and gave Anne a look full of meaning. “I’d better go. But I hope I’ll see more of you while you’re here.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I could use some pointers on how to get out of here.”

  Anne went outside and down the steps to the street, heading for the grocery store next door for supplies. She stopped on the path out in front for a moment to button her parka, and when she looked up again she noticed the tall figure of a man, half a block away. As he came closer she could see that it was Ben Poole, and he was walking straight toward her.

  She watched him as he approached, tall, his head down, a little stooped now, his massive head of golden hair turning a little gray, until he was now only a few yards away from her.

  When he finally glanced up at her, she was shocked by the dull glaze in his once bright blue eyes. His face was haggard, his massive frame seemed shrunken, and a sudden rush of pity for him swept over her. He looked as though he’d been in a terrible accident or just recovered from a severe illness.

  “Anne?” he said. “Anne Cameron? It is you!” He came closer, his arms outstretched.

  “Hello, Ben,” she said.

  It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to be in his arms again, made her feel really at home for the first time since she’d arrived. He bent over to

  kiss her on the forehead, then released her and stepped back, scanning her face with an artist’s careful appraisal.

  He smiled. “It really is you. You’ve come back. I can hardly believe it. What a wonderful surprise! When did you get in?”

  She laughed. “You mean you didn’t know I was coming? Sounds like the local grapevine has broken down. I thoug
ht surely the whole island would know not only that I was coming, but the exact moment.”

  A cloud passed over his face. “Well, I stay pretty much to myself these days.”

  She could have bitten her tongue out for reminding him of his loss. “As a matter of fact,” she went on brightly, hurriedly, “I just got in last evening.”

  “And how long will you be staying?”

  “Oh, that depends. I have to settle some of my father’s affairs. You know, decide what to do about the house, what I want to keep, that kind of thing. I haven’t even started. Arnold Pembroke is taking care of most of the details for me.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to mention the inŹterview, but by now that project had faded into inŹsignificance in the sheer joy of just being with him again. Besides, it was too soon. If she started pushing him right away he’d never agree to it.

  She looked up to see him staring at her. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you,” he said. “You look wonderful, Anne.” He raised his shaggy eyebrows. “All grown up, in fact. Very polished. Big city life seems to agree with you.”

  “Oh, it has its compensations,” she said with a nervous laugh. “As well as its drawbacks.”

  She was somewhat at a loss for words, uncertain how to broach the subject, yet knowing it had to be got out of the way. She reached out and put a hand on his arm.

  “Ben, I was so sorry to hear about Victoria. I would have written, but…” She shrugged, unable to explain.

  “I understand,” he replied quickly. He seemed as anxious to drop the subject as she. He gave her a sad crooked smile. “We’re pretty much in the same boat, aren’t we?”

  For a moment she didn’t understand his meaning. Then it dawned on her that he was speaking of her father, and she had to smile.

  “Oh, that’s hardly the same thing. My father and I weren’t exactly on loving terms.”

  He gave her a searching, quizzical look. “Perhaps not,” he said at last. “But it was a loss all the same. Perhaps more than you realize.”

  To her amazement, she felt hot tears sting behind her eyelids. Maybe he was right. Or maybe it was just self-pity. She was all alone in the world now, utterly alone—father and mother both gone, her only brother killed years ago. No husband, no children, and no prospects of either. Only a career that was going nowhere.