“I feel I’m being punished.”
“Whatever for?” He felt her hands grip his sweater.
“I’m frightened, Harvey.”
“What about?”
“I’ve done something terrible.” She drew away and looked into his eyes. His heart lurched to see the terror in hers.
“Tell me, love, what have you done?”
She thrust a trembling hand against her mouth as if fighting to contain an awful secret and shook her head. “I can’t …”
“Whatever it was, I’ll understand. I know you so well, Marina. Nothing you could do would make me think less of you.”
“I’ve never told anyone, not even Grey.”
Harvey considered it a minute. There was something wild in her that he’d never seen before. A flash of someone he didn’t recognize. “If you want to confide in me, I won’t tell a soul, I promise.” His words were like a rope to a drowning woman, and she seized them with relief.
“I trust you, Harvey.”
“I know you do.”
She took a deep breath, about to share the burden of her secret at last.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. They stared at each other in alarm, like conspirators caught hatching a plot. There was nothing they could do. The moment was lost. As the door opened the air was sucked out of the room and with it all the tension that had been steadily building. Marina’s resolve deflated like a soufflé. She raised her bloodshot eyes to her stepson, who now stood in the doorway.
“Sorry, have I interrupted something?” he asked. He was used to his stepmother’s mercurial nature and wasn’t in the least surprised to see her crying on Harvey’s dependable shoulder.
“No, carry on,” she said, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand.
“We’ve just had a booking from Charles Rueben.”
Marina paled. “The Charles Rueben?”
“Yes, booked in for two nights with his wife, Celeste.”
“Really?”
“I thought you should know.”
“Have you told your father?”
“He’s out.”
“When are they coming?”
“Friday the twelfth of June.”
She ran a hand through her hair. “There’s only one reason why he’s booking in.”
“To take a look,” said Jake.
“With a view to buying it.”
Harvey’s face darkened. “Who is this man?”
“He’s bought up some of the finest hotels in the world,” Marina replied.
“Good Lord,” Harvey sighed. “Do you think he really wants ours?”
“Perhaps. Why else is he coming to stay?”
“Why doesn’t he send a gofer?” Jake asked. “I mean, why bother to come himself?”
“Oh, that doesn’t surprise me. That’s very Charles Rueben. He’s a famous micromanager. He probably just wants to check us out.”
“What shall we do?” said Jake, scratching his head.
“We shall entertain him in the same way that we entertain all our guests,” Marina told him, and there was a steely edge to her voice.
“And if he makes an offer we can’t refuse?” said Jake.
“Never say ‘can’t,’ Jake.” She stood up. “That is one lesson my life has taught me, which I had all but forgotten. I won’t forget it again.”
Laughter bubbled across the lawn from beneath the cedar tree.
“Oh you do have a good sense of humor, Brigadier,” said Pat, dipping her brush into green paint.
The brigadier ran his eyes over the four women positioned in front of their easels and decided that they were rather good company for an old fellow tired of being on his own.
“You’d better behave, Pat,” said Grace. “Teacher’s coming.” Pat chuckled into her chins as Rafa wandered behind her to look at her progress.
“Not bad,” he said, scratching his bristles. “I can feel the happiness and nostalgia in your tree.”
“Can you?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes, I can.”
“Reminds me of my girlhood,” Pat said wistfully. “The only difference now that separates me from who I once was is my cranky old body. I still feel exactly the same inside.”
“I try not to look in the mirror,” said Veronica.
“You’re very quiet, Jane,” said the brigadier.
“I’m concentrating,” she replied.
“Can I have a look? I need to stretch my legs.”
“If you must. It’s not very good.”
The brigadier stood up and lumbered over. As he stood beside her he caught a warm whiff of roses. He dilated his nostrils to catch another, but the breeze swept it away before he was able to savor it. He peered at her painting. “It’s more than good,” he murmured, recognizing something melancholy in the misty pinks and grays she had used. Unlike his painting, however, there was a hopeful feeling in the way she had painted the sky. “I think it’s jolly good, Jane.”