Souls Dryft Read online

  Bring him back to me.

  Abruptly my mother snapped her compact shut and jumped in her seat, her demeanor changing from stiff anger to exaggerated fawning. "Richard! There you are. Do come and join us for tea, won’t you?" She always put on that voice for people she thought she ought to impress. Beaming, she was victorious. It was a set-up. "We’ve got enough here for a family of four," she gushed, "but I have to watch my figure." She gave a girlish titter, and I cringed with embarrassment.

  Richard hesitated, but then crossed the lobby with his long stride.

  When my mother exclaimed, "Hurry, before Grace eats all the cakes," he cast me one of his twitchy smiles; one quarter amused, one quarter terrified, and one half bewildered. Declining the offer of cake or sandwiches, he sat beside me and drummed nervously on the other arm of the sofa.

  I sneezed violently and he looked down at his knee. "Bad cold," he stated flatly.

  "From living in that drafty hovel," my mother exclaimed. "We’ve all warned her, but she won’t listen."

  He discreetly flicked meringue powder from his knee.

  "She’s always been so stubborn," said my mother, as if I wasn’t there. "When I think of all those terrible fights we had. Oh," she threw her hands up, "the teenage years were the worst. Miss Sulky Face used to sit up in her room for hours. Lived in her own world."

  "Aren’t all teenagers like that?" Richard asked cautiously. His leg moved against mine. I stared straight ahead, trying to breathe normally. Act casual. Act casual. But I couldn’t think straight while he was this close. I almost couldn’t even move.

  She rambled on without pause, evidently not noticing her eldest daughter frozen to the chintz sofa, quietly expiring. "Now all this business over the house. It’s thick-headed stubbornness. She’s trying to make a point for the sake of it. She doesn’t want the place really. After all, what will she do with it?"

  They all looked at me, as I stuffed the last piece of meringue into my mouth.

  "Really, Grace," she continued. "You can’t possibly stay there. You haven’t even got electricity upstairs, and downstairs it works temperamentally."

  I mumbled, "I’m getting that fixed."

  Even my father groaned at that. "Grace, think of the expense."

  My mother interrupted, "There’s no point telling her anything practical. Grace knows it all, doesn’t she?" She waggled her head. "Honestly, Richard, you’d think we raised a spoiled princess for a daughter."

  I laughed and tea came out of my nose. Passing me a paper napkin, Richard said, "I suppose we all have to fight for something."

  "And Grace fights for all the wrong things, just to spite us, I’m sure."

  Richard cracked his knuckles, increasingly uncomfortable. Now he knew what I put up with for thirty-three years and he’d see he dealt with no fainting lily. I’d had years of training.

  After a brief rest, my mother started again. "Nothing new on the job front then?"

  "Actually, yes," I replied. "I’m working at the village shop."

  Her eyes darted from side to side, as they did whenever her snobbish sensibilities were wounded. She raised her cup, but couldn’t bring herself to drink. "Well, that’s putting your college degree to good use."

  "It’s a job," I protested. In fact, working at the village shop gave me the opportunity to catch up on all the local gossip and also made me quite a celebrity, with my party trick of knowing the exact calorie count in every chocolate bar. "And it gives me time to write," I added. "I’ve been writing quite a lot." Richard turned his head to stare at me, eyebrows raised in mock curiosity, like those of a guest at a dreary cocktail party, obliged to seem interested in the obnoxious host’s daughter. "It’ll soon be finished." I threw him a look, a warning that he would soon be safely tucked inside those pages where he belonged, not out here causing me problems.

  He smiled, very slowly. Villainous pirate!

  "That’s nice, dear," my father said. "I’m sure it’ll be very good."

  There was a short, frigid silence. My mother looked down at her handbag and exclaimed wearily, "I don’t know where we went wrong."

  I realized my nails were digging into my knees.

  She sighed. "If she had a daughter to raise. Then she’d understand."

  No one spoke. Inside, I coiled, shrank, screamed a little. How easy it was for her to wound me still, at my age. I saw the sudden realization dawn in her wide eyes. She hadn’t meant to say it, but when her temper was up, her frustration with me at an apex, words like that came out of her too quickly, mechanically, and she didn’t think until it was too late.

  "I can give you a ride back to the house, Grace," said Richard quietly — the one person there who didn’t know.

  "Thanks." He must have felt me trembling on that small sofa and I was ashamed. "I’d rather walk."

  "Three miles?"

  "You know how stubborn I am."

  We always kept it very formal and awkward in our family; warm hugs and other displays of affection might make other people think we cared about one another. So, when we parted that afternoon, Dad squeezed my hand and I gave him a little peck on the cheek. I forgave him for betraying me. Poor, innocent that he was, he couldn’t see the wood for the trees. My mother, however, I could not forgive. Not yet. Perhaps later, over a glass of wine, while I sat in my garden, listening to the gentle doves – maybe then I could let it go and forget. Until the next time she poked at my unhealed wound.

  As I crossed the Inn courtyard, Richard was sitting in his car, engine purring. He drew alongside, let down his window and shouted, "No wonder you’ve got a cold, if you don’t button your coat."

  Sighing, I walked faster, my coat rebelliously flapping open.

  "Why don’t you swallow your pride and get in? Stop cutting off your nose to spite your face.”

  "It’s my specialty." I replied sweetly. "Didn’t my mother tell you?"

  "The ambush back there wasn’t my idea."

  "You can stop trying to get around my family with bribery."

  "Bribery?"

  "Know this, smarty pants," I bent down to look through his window, "I will never give up my claim."

  "You have no claim," he replied, equally resolute.

  "Then why do you feel guilty enough to apologize to my father?"

  "I felt sorry for you. Your great uncle promised you something that wasn’t his to give. I’m sorry you have to be disappointed."

  My humiliation soared to new heights. "So now I’m poor, sad Grace, a creature to be pitied, as well as watched over in case she does something crazy, like stick a fork in her eye."

  "Grace, will you—"

  "Better watch the road, Dick."

  Finally losing patience, he put his foot down, leaving me behind.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The rain unleashed a riot of scents from the garden and the walls of the house. Even as I came down the lane, the sweet fragrance of orange blossom greeted me, running out to the lane, like an eager child who couldn’t wait for my return. The ivy glistened and the old stone water trough was near to overflowing, raindrops dimpling my reflection in the surface. For once there was no banging and drilling going on inside the house, but there was shouting and plenty of it, and all from one voice.

  Today, something finally goaded him into losing that well-guarded temper. "What the Hell’s going on here?" he demanded, meeting me in the yard.

  I put on my bravest face, because he was unfairly handsome with his hair all wet and sticking to his brow, raindrops caught in his eyelashes. "We had a small leak. Why? What do you care? You want the place flattened anyway."

  "And where did you find this alleged electrician?"

  "He’s a local man." After tea with my mother and a three-mile walk home in fine drizzle, I was in the mood for a scrap. I made sure to remind him he was a foreigner and didn’t belong.

  He gave me a supercilious little bow, waving me toward the house. "After you, ma’am."

  Sarcastic bastard.

&nb
sp; Inside, he lectured me about the state of the new wiring, which had, it seemed, broken every building code in existence. Anxious to prove him wrong, I flicked on the nearest light switch and blue sparks shot up my arm. The workmen, who seemed to have formulated the same unjustified opinion that I was an uppity wench, all snickered spitefully into their tea flasks.

  Richard walked back out into the rain and I followed, stomping across the puddles. "You made your point, big nose," I yelled, "but I’m not made of money and I have to save it where I can. And I’m not backing out now. I’m committed to this. This house is everything to me." I was getting shrill now but I couldn’t help it. Everything piled in on me today and, weakened by this head cold, I couldn’t fight back. "You don’t understand, Richard, this house is …" I choked back a sob that tried to shame me into a flood of tears, "…the most important thing in the world to me. I spent the best days of my childhood here, and I always…always…wanted to live here, but I wasn’t allowed to stay. I had to go, and I won’t leave again. I won’t!"

  I’d told him I’d wait there for him. Didn’t he remember? I did. I remembered it all now. More unhealed wounds. Words left unsaid.

  Suddenly he turned and looked at me.

  "I’m staying," I repeated, trying to keep the pitiful quake out of my voice. "I love…I love this house."

  He raised a hand to his eyes and rubbed wearily. Finally, he said, "But you can’t cut corners, Grace. Ask me before you do anything like that again. Please! You have no experience with a project like this. I suppose you just blundered on ahead because you’re too proud to ask for help." When I muttered under my breath, he exclaimed tersely, "This is about your safety. You can’t compromise on that. I won’t let you!"

  I sniffed meekly. "No need to shout."

  "Damn you, woman," he muttered, his frown perplexed as he passed me a small packet of tissues from his pocket. Meanwhile the workmen trickled cautiously out of the house, sidling across the yard to their vehicles. One by one, they pulled away, making their escape, while he was busy lecturing me. He drew his fingers back through his hair. "At least no one got hurt. I’ll bring someone in to put it right."

  "Why?"

  "If you insist on staying here, you’d better be safe."

  "I suppose you think I’m a liability, is that it? Something might happen to me and you’ll be sued."

  He rolled his eyes. "Will you let me send in a proper electrician or not? It’s one word Grace – yes or no?"

  I struggled. "Fine."

  Although I expected some sneering comment about getting blood from a stone, he was mercifully silent. Over his shoulder, I saw his car was the last vehicle left in the lane. It was after five o’clock and the rain fell harder now. The house, for which I’d just confessed my love, watched and waited, plotting.

  "I can’t pay for another electrician," I said.

  "I’ll pay."

  "To fix up a house you’re going to destroy?"

  He gave no answer to that, but looked at me with those dangerous blue eyes. "I’ve got to go."

  I wondered where to. Who to. I shrugged, feeling miserable and hot.

  Ducking his head against the rain, he trotted over to his car. Much to my surprise, he came back a few seconds later with a small, white, paper bag from the passenger seat. He handed it to me. "A few things for your cold." He must have stopped at the pharmacy in the village on the way out to the house after the "ambush" at the Inn.

  "Thanks," I exclaimed, genuinely amazed. "You shouldn’t have."

  "Someone’s got to look after you," he replied. "Since you’re doing such a bad job of it." He dashed away, back to his car, leaving me in the yard, clutching my little bag of goodies.

  The house and I watched him try to start the engine for several minutes, while it rolled over and played dead. He got out and lifted the bonnet – the way people do, pretending they know something about cars.

  I called out, "Are you hoping to frighten it into life?"

  The gate, which must not have been latched properly, blew open a few inches and behind me the house sighed impatiently.

  "You’d better come in out of the rain," I shouted, for it fell harder now and the wind picked up.

  He didn’t argue, but took one last angry look at his engine, then came back to the house.

  Since the plumbing was currently on hiatus again, I had nothing to offer but whiskey, which he knocked back in one swig, while marching up and down trying to get a signal on his cell phone.

  "It won’t work," I told him. "Not while it’s raining."

  He gave me one of his grim frowns, swinging the phone over his head in all directions.

  "It’s true," I said evenly. "No one around here can get a signal when it rains."

  He was still doubtful, but why would I lie about it? The phone line hadn’t been run to the house yet, so without his precious cell phone he was well and truly stranded.

  "There’s nothing you can do now, so you might as well relax, Richard."

  "Relax?" he exclaimed, looking slightly nauseous.

  * * * *

  Just when he thought it was easing up, the rain suddenly found a new burst of energy and threw itself hard against the windows, rattling the crooked glass panes with a calypso beat. Muttering words like "damn monsoon" and "out in the Godforsaken middle of nowhere", he paced angrily for about an hour until, having downed several more whiskeys, he finally slumped to the sofa, his head in his hands.

  "You don’t spell it like that," I said again, pointing to the letter tiles on the board. "It’s S E Q U E. There is no W in it."

  He dragged his fingers up through his hair and groaned.

  "Come on, Richard. Do try to concentrate." I was in control now. I tried not to let it go to my head.

  "Where’s the dictionary?" he demanded, dropping his hands to his knees.

  "Well, I haven’t got one here, but I…"

  "Then it’s just your word against mine and I say that’s how it’s spelled."

  He’d disrupted the entire game by refusing to sit still and not one single word – his or mine – went uncontested. Occasionally he glanced at the score pad and his lips grew white around the edges. As my score went up in leaps and bounds, while his wallowed sluggishly, the knuckle cracking was almost continuous. "You don’t lose often, do you?" I laughed.

  He tried being offhand. "I don’t usually play these…games."

  "Why? Because you don’t like to lose?"

  "Because I haven’t the time to waste."

  I reached for my glass of wine. "Maybe you’d be a better speller – and a better sport – if you spared the time to play once in a while. Didn’t you ever play games growing up?"

  "Who with?"

  "With whom," I corrected.

  I heard his teeth grinding.

  "What about your brother?" I said. "Didn’t you play games with him?"

  Scratching his big nose, he frowned down at the board. "No." He immediately closed off, tipping the remainder of his tiles into the box lid and leaving me to deduct from his score. Now he reached for the cell phone again, desperately poking at numbers like a mad scientist with a calculator.

  The rain wasn’t letting up and, as I pointed out, even if he did get a signal on his phone, the garage wouldn’t be open now. He would have to wait until morning.

  Groaning again, he fell back into the saggy cushions and let his eyelids drift shut.

  Well, the pirate was in my custody. What to do with him now?

  "We could play charades," I suggested merrily.

  "You have got to be kidding!"

  I ran through my list of board games and they all met with the same moan.

  "Well, what do you suggest then?" I cried, frustrated. "Strip poker?"

  His eyes opened.

  "That was a joke," I said. "What sort of woman do you take me for?"

  Eyes narrowed, he reminded me that the idea was mine, not his. "It must have been in your subconscious," he added slyly.

  "Men!" I ch
uckled. "Is that all you think about?"

  He waggled his finger at my innocent jumper. "Women! You always want it both ways – a man to admire the way you look, just so you can slap him down when he does. Lead him on and then push him away again."

  I gasped. "I never…what are you going on about?"

  "Don’t pretend, Grace. You know exactly what you do to me." Even as the whiskey loosened his tongue it seemed to wind his body into an ever tighter knot, as if he desperately clung on to some creature he held inside, fearing it might suddenly spring open and sprawl all over my couch. "You and that damned red dress," he added, talking, apparently, to his glass.

  I watched him thoughtfully. "This is all about my dress? The red jersey one I wore on our blind date, when I got caught in the rain?"

  "You should have buttoned your coat over it," he muttered. "I told you."

  "Indeed you did. You wouldn’t shut up about it."

  Sighing heavily, I finished packing the scrabble game, aware of his eyes watching me still with that deep, searching curiosity. It always left me with the impression I’d been lightly frisked. Tonight – probably encouraged by red wine – that steady gaze left me feeling just plain manhandled.

  "We may as well go to bed now then," I said.

  He almost dropped his glass.

  "And I’m aware of how that sounded," I added hurriedly, "but you know exactly what I mean."

  The idea worked its way over his twitching lips and all the way to his eyes. He sat back, his hands splayed on his knees. He had very large hands. "I’m not sleeping on this sofa. It’ll play havoc with my back."

  "You don’t have to sleep on the sofa. There’s a bed made up in the spare room."

  As I carried the bottle and wine glass to the kitchen counter, I thought about him sleeping in that room across the hall from mine. Glancing back over my shoulder, I caught him looking at me with a doubtful expression that must have been an exact replica of my own.

  "What’s the matter?" he demanded. "Don’t you trust me?"

  But it wasn’t him I didn’t trust. It was Genny — and her habit of taking over my body.