The Unexpected Baby(54)

When Pilar began clattering round with the mop and bucket Elena took her fruit to eat in the garden under the shade of a giant fig tree. Pilar would fetch her if Jed phoned. Though she had by now stopped hoping that he would.

Responsibly, he had arranged for her to have all the help around the house and garden she needed, and had probably told Pilar to see she ate properly. He had done his duty by her and his brother’s unborn child. He would want little or no further contact.

By the end of the afternoon the ache in her heart had become permanent, the feeling of loss so acute it was difficult to contain. Surely his business in Seville wasn’t keeping him away this long? If he’d meant to return he would have done so by now. She had a thumping headache from listening for the sound of his car.

Tomás had set off back to the village on his rusty old bicycle, and Pilar was heading through the courtyard, pushing her moped, on her way home, turning to call over her shoulder, ‘I have made you Polio con Tomate; be sure you eat it.’

Standing in the doorway, Elena made herself smile and promise to eat the chicken in tomato sauce. She didn’t want the Spanish woman to guess how despairingly unhappy she was.

Then she heard the sound of an approaching engine and her smile turned to one of wobbly relief. He had come back!

Her legs turned to something resembling water vapour and she sagged back against the doorframe, her stomach full of nervous flutters as she saw him appear in the arched doorway in the outer wall. Even though her eyes were misted with emotion she could see how drawn he looked, how tired. He stopped and exchanged a few words with Pilar, then walked towards her, the severity of his expression enclosing her rapidly beating heart in ice.

Nothing had changed in the last thirty-six hours.

He walked past her, into the coolness of the hall. She followed. At the entrance to the sitting room he made a curt after-you gesture with one hand. ‘Shall we talk?’

It was what she wanted, but her heart was somewhere under the soles of her feet, heavy and aching. The coldness of his voice, his eyes, everything about him, told her he was about to say something she couldn’t bear to hear.

She clung to the back of a chair for support. Her legs were shaking so badly. He put his briefcase down on a table and told her, ‘As you’ll have gathered, the Casalses will give you all the help you need around here. And I spoke to Catherine last night and told her you’d decided to wait here until the birth. It is your home, the place you’ll feel most comfortable in.’

He pushed his hands in his pockets and turned to stare out of the open windows, as if he’d seen enough of her. ‘I’ll be flying out to New York tomorrow and staying for four weeks, maybe five. I’ll let you know. After that I’ll check up on you from time to time, and nearer the birth I’ll be with you. We’ll book into a hotel in Cadiz. I’ve checked out a private maternity unit on the outskirts, and booked you in. I’m sure,’ he said coldly, ‘you went into the logistics of getting proper prenatal care when you first decided you wanted a child.’

She’d listened to him outlining his plans for their sterile future, the unemotional delivery of the words stunning her into silence. But now she blurted anguishedly, ‘Jed! Don’t do this to us!’

He turned then. Slowly. His eyes were empty, as if no one lived behind them. ‘My dear,’ he drawled, ‘I don’t believe I’m the one doing anything to “us.’”

He shifted his attention to the briefcase on the table, opening it, pulling out an all too familiar package. ‘This is yours. I hope you’ll dispose of it more sensibly next time. When I left here yesterday morning,’ he said in a terse explanation, when he met her puzzled stare, ‘I scoured the village and found his vehicle outside that run-down-looking pension. Considering the earliness of your assignation, I thought he might be staying nearby. I persuaded him to hand this back.’ He dropped the package on the table with a look of mild distaste. ‘And I hope it won’t come as too much of a disappointment, but you won’t be seeing or hearing from him again. I got the message over to him in a way that not even he could misunderstand.’

He snapped the briefcase shut. ‘I’ll phone you from New York.’ And he walked out.

Elena let him go. There was no point in following him, arguing, pleading. Jed Nolan had made up his mind and there was nothing she could do or say that would alter it.





He phoned from New York, faithfully each week. Elena’s despair turned to hopelessness, and then to dull apathy. His questions were bluntly to the point, and it was all she could do to drag out her responses.