Snowfire

Which was probably why the accident had happened, she acknowledged now, even though she had never blamed Stephen for any of it. She had already been sleeping badly, and the extra hours at work she had been putting in, in an effort to keep other thoughts at bay, had taken their toll. She shouldn’t have been driving. She should have taken a taxi to the station, and caught a train to Basingstoke. But she hadn’t. She had driven—straight into one of the concrete pillars supporting a bridge over the M3. Or at least, that was what they had told her. She didn’t remember anything after leaving the office.

Of course, Stephen had been sorry then. He had come to see her in the hospital, when she was still strung up to so many machines that she must have looked like a marionette. She could have her divorce now, he’d said. He wouldn’t oppose it. He’d contact her solicitor straight away, and get the thing in motion. It wasn’t until later that she’d wondered at his speed.

By then, by the time she was lucid enough to understand that she was lucky to be alive, she had had other problems to contend with. Not least the news that, although her skull was evidently thicker than it had a right to be, and her wounds would heal, and her broken limbs would mend, her left leg had suffered multiple fractures, and it was unlikely she would ever run again.

She remembered she’d tried to joke about not being able to run before, but, as time went on, she realised what they had been trying to tell her. Her left leg had been crushed, badly crushed, and, although all the skills of modern surgery had been brought to bear, the tendons had been damaged quite beyond repair.

Physiotherapy had helped a lot. That and her determination to walk again. When she first left the hospital she had had to get around on crutches, and for weeks she had struggled to and from the clinic in an ambulance. But gradually she had been able to put the crutches aside and manage with a walking-stick, even taking up her job again, although that had been rather harder. Her leg ached if she had to stand for any length of time, and the stress of both the accident and the divorce had taken a toll on her defences. Eventually, she had had to accept that if she wasn’t careful she was going to have a complete nervous breakdown, and the senior partner at Hallidays had suggested she take a holiday.

Olivia knew he had had something different in mind from the east coast of southern England. The West Indies, perhaps, or South America. Somewhere where the sun was hot and life was lived at a slower pace. Somewhere she could relax, and restore the tattered remnants of her existence.

Of course, her colleagues didn’t know the whole story. They had assumed that Stephen’s defection had precipitated this crisis. But the truth was that the weeks of inactivity had given Olivia time to re-evaluate her life, and, despite a sense of frustration at her weakness, she was no longer sure of what she wanted.

For so long her career had been the yardstick by which she had measured her success. She had wanted to become a lawyer, and she had succeeded. She had wanted to be offered a partnership, and that, too, was within her grasp. So why did it all seem so empty, somehow? What had happened to the ambition that had sustained her for so long?

She had tried to tell herself that it was the old biological thing again. That, however pointless her marriage to Stephen had become, it had still been her best chance to fulfil herself as a woman. If she had had a baby, would things have been different? They had never taken any precautions, but it had evidently been not to be. Maybe she couldn’t have children. Maybe that was why she felt so empty now. Or was it, as Conor had said once, that she had got hard in her old age? But then, he had wanted to hurt her, and undoubtedly he had succeeded.

Conor …

Leaving the window, Olivia crossed to the dressing-table and seated herself on the padded stool in front of the mirror. As she examined her pale features without pleasure, she wondered where he was, and what he was doing now. It must be—what?—nine years since she’d seen him. In fact she had only seen him that one time since he had gone to live in the United States.

She grimaced. It was not a visit she remembered with any affection. At seventeen and a half, Conor had changed totally from the sensitive boy she had known. He had been loud, and cocky, and objectionable, full of his own importance and brimming with conceit. He had been in London with a group of students from the college he attended in Port Douglas, and he had arrived at the house she still shared one night, already the worse for drink.

To Olivia, who was used to the Conor she knew from the letters he had occasionally sent her, he was almost a stranger, bragging about the life he led back in Florida, impressing her with the parties he went to, the car he drove. He was arrogant and brash, decrying the room she had furnished with such care, and disparaging her lifestyle compared to his. He had said she was a fool to spend all her time working, that he was glad he’d got out of England when he had. And when Olivia had defended herself by taking a stiff-necked stance, he had accused her of getting hard in her old age.

Oh, yes. Olivia traced the curve of one eyebrow with a rueful finger. That visit had not been repeated. Indeed, it had taken her quite some time to get over it, and when there were no more letters she wasn’t really surprised. Who’d have thought it? she mused. That two years should have made such a difference. But then, he had been young, she conceded, as she had done numerous times before. Perhaps it had been his way of dealing with the situation. There was no doubt that losing both his parents had been quite a blow.

Still, in spite of the lapse in communication, she did continue to think about him sometimes. Particularly times like this, when she was feeling rather low. Which was probably why she had chosen to come to Paget, even though, since her grandmother’s death five years ago, she had no connection with the place. She hadn’t wanted to go anywhere hot and noisy. She supposed what she’d really wanted to do was return to her roots.

A final grimace at her appearance, and she was ready to go downstairs. The trouble with very dark hair, particularly the unruly variety, was that it accentuated any trace of pallor in her face, she thought ruefully. Since the accident it had grown so long that she was obliged to confine it in a knot at her nape, and even then it contrived to escape every hairpin. She looked like a witch, she decided, all wild hair and black-ringed eyes. It was a reminder—if any reminder was needed—of why she had always kept her hair short in the past.

She left the walking-stick propped by the door. Slowly but surely, she was managing to do without it for a little longer every day. Eventually, she told herself, only the slight dragging of her foot and the ugly scars that would never completely disappear would be all that remained of her trauma. And in three weeks she’d possess her decree absolute, and Stephen would no longer play any part in her future.

Poor Stephen, she thought, with an unwarranted sense of pity. He hadn’t been able to wait to dissociate himself from any responsibility for what had happened to her. He had got quite a shock when he saw her in the hospital. He must have been afraid he was going to be tethered to an invalid for the rest of his life.

Men! She shook her head regretfully as she closed her door behind her. Her experience of the opposite sex was that a woman should not rely on them. Olivia determined that, whatever she decided to do, she would not be taken in again. She was free—or she would be in three weeks—over twenty-one, and independent. What did she need a man for?

Since she was the only guest staying at the inn right now, Mrs Drake always made a fuss of her after she’d negotiated the narrow, twisting stairs that led down to the lower floor. Seating her at the much-coveted table in the leaded window embrasure, the publican’s plump wife rattled through a series of questions about how she was, whether she’d slept well, had she everything she needed, and, finally, what did she fancy for breakfast this morning?

As she only ever had coffee and toast, that question was really academic, but, as always, Olivia answered her, adding a polite enquiry as to her and Mr Drake’s health.

’Oh, we’re in the pink, as they say, Mrs Perry,’ Mrs Drake assured her, as she usually did. ‘But it’s a raw morning, that it is. Tom thinks we’ll have more snow before nightfall.’

’Do you think so?’ Olivia glanced out at the chilly scene beyond the windows. There were few people about, and those who were had their collars up against the wind as they hurried along the flagged quayside.

’So he says,’ agreed Mrs Drake, raising her pencilled eyebrows. ‘Now, you’re sure you wouldn’t like a bit of bacon and an egg? A bit of dry toast doesn’t seem to have much sustenance in it. Not at this time of the year.’

Her speculative gaze swept critically over her guest’s slim figure, and, in spite of the bulkiness of her sweater, Olivia knew she had been assessed and found wanting. Mrs Drake wouldn’t say so, of course. Olivia’s attitude had not encouraged familiarity. Nevertheless, she was aware that they were curious about her. But for once her disability had provided a useful barrier.

’Just toast, please,’ she insisted now, accompanying her refusal with a smile. And Mrs Drake stifled her opposition, taking her dismissal with good heart.

The daily newspaper Olivia had reluctantly ordered when she checked in was lying beside her plate, and although she wasn’t much concerned with the politics that had made the headlines she felt obliged to pick it up. There was no television in her room here, even though Mr Drake had said he could arrange for one if she wanted it, and, despite the fact that she had politely declined his offer, it did seem rather childish to cut herself off completely.

She flicked idly through the inner pages, scanning the gossip columns with assumed interest. But the activities of the latest hot property in the pop world seemed aimless, and her eyes drifted back to the Drakes’ cat, washing its paws on a pile of nets across the way.

A man strode past the window, hands thrust into the pockets of a leather jacket, his collar tipped against the weather. He was a fairly tall man, solidly, though not stockily built, with fairish hair and skin that was browner that it should have been in this chilly part of the world.

The landlord emerged from the inn as he was walking past, and the two exchanged the time of day. It was a brief encounter, not least because Tom Drake was in his shirt-sleeves, and Olivia guessed the state of the weather had been mentioned. But, as the man lifted a hand to rake back his sandy hair before continuing on his way, she was struck by his resemblance to Conor Brennan. It was a fleeting glimpse, of course, and she guessed there must be dozens of men around who might be said to resemble the youth she remembered. Even so, it was an amazing coincidence, coming as it had on the heels of the thoughts she had had earlier.

Which was probably why she had imagined the resemblance, she conceded to herself now, as Mrs Drake returned with her toast and coffee. She was tempted to ask the woman who Mr Drake had been speaking to, but to do that would invite exactly the kind of questions she was hoping to avoid. It would mean admitting some connection with the village, for why else would she be interested in one of its inhabitants unless there was some reason why she might know him?

In any case, she didn’t know the man. It had just been a momentary aberration. If Conor had come back to this country for any reason, surely he would at least have tried to get in touch with her? He might not have her address, but he still knew where she worked.

Her appetite had been negligible since the accident, and this morning was no exception. But the pot of coffee was very welcome, and she managed to swallow half a slice of toast. Then, leaving the warm fire that was burning in the dining-room, she went back up to her room. She had decided to go for a walk. So long as she wrapped up warmly, she would enjoy the exercise.

But today she didn’t walk around the harbour and out on to the breakwater as she usually did. Nor did she venture across the salt marshes, which, even in winter, provided a veritable haven for birds. Instead, she decided to test her leg by walking inland, up Paget’s cobbled streets to where houses clustered on the hillside. It was further than she had ventured before, but it was time she took a look at her grandmother’s old cottage, she told herself. She refused to admit what her real intentions were. But anyway, what was wrong with being curious about who was living in the Brennans’ house these days? she argued. It was years since it had been sold to pay for Conor’s education.

Her thigh was aching by the time she reached Gull Rise. And the irregular row of Victorian dwellings looked much the same as she remembered them. They were mostly cottages—some terraced, like her grandmother’s, and others independently spaced. The house the Brennans used to occupy was bigger than the rest, but Olivia remembered Sally saying they had got it fairly cheaply, because it had needed so much doing to it. The young couple had spent their first few years at Gull Rise renovating the place, and by the time Conor was in his teens it was a home to be proud of.

It still was, Olivia saw poignantly, her eyes flickering over her old home and settling on the house next door. She felt an unfamiliar ache in her throat. Someone had cared enough about it to keep the exterior bright and shining, she noticed. The woodwork was newly painted, and the drive was clear of weeds.

She halted a few yards from the house, on the opposite side of the road. With the collar of her cashmere coat pulled high about her ears, and her gloved hand shielding her face, she didn’t think anyone would recognise her. Besides, most of her grandmother’s old neighbours had either died or moved away, and the gauntness of her own features would deceive any but her closest friends.

There was a car parked in the drive, she saw—a small Peugeot, with current licence plates. And, even as she watched, a young woman came out of the house and unlocked the car, before pausing, as if someone had attracted her attention. Her blonde head tipped expectantly towards the door of the house, which she had left ajar, and, leaving her keys in the car, she sauntered back.

Her actions spurred Olivia to life. For heaven’s sake, she chivvied herself irritably, was she reduced to spying on other people for entertainment? The house was lived in, and evidently by someone who cared. She had satisfied her curiosity, and that was all she needed to know.

But, as she turned away, a man appeared in the doorway across the street. A tall man, with light hair, wearing a black leather jacket. Seen face on, his resemblance to Conor was even more striking, and with a sense of alarm she realised it was him.

But, it couldn’t be, her brain insisted, refusing to accept the evidence of her eyes. Conor didn’t live in England, he lived in America. There was no way he could have bought this house and settled down here. It was too much of a coincidence. Too incredible to be true.

And yet she lingered, aware that her injured leg was cramping beneath her. Dear God, how was she going to find the strength to walk back to the harbour? she fretted. If she didn’t move soon, she was going to collapse on the spot.

But the truth was that the sense of panic she was feeling was as much psychological as physical. Whoever the man was—and the young woman was kissing him now, running a possessive hand down his cheek, and saying something that brought a grin to his lean face—he wouldn’t appreciate the thought that she had been prying into his affairs. If it was Conor, he evidently had no need of her assistance.

But it hurt that he should come back to England without even letting her know. She had been his surrogate aunt, for heaven’s sake. His parents had been her close friends. And she had known Conor since he was two years old! That should have meant something to the boy he had been.

Of course, he wasn’t a boy any more, she acknowledged ruefully. He was a man, and an extremely attractive one at that. Even from a distance, she could see he looked bigger and stronger than his father had ever been. And the young woman, with her silky blonde hair and long, unscarred legs, evidently thought so, too.

Olivia’s lips tightened. Who was she? Who were they? If it was Conor, was this his wife? And why should it mean so much to her? He obviously didn’t desire her approval.

Sucking in her breath as a sharp, stabbing pain shot up her thigh, she made a determined effort to extinguish her curiosity. It was nothing to do with her, she told herself grimly, endeavouring to put one foot in front of the other. She could look in the phone book when she got back to the inn. In fact, she wished she had just done that in the first place. Then she could have made up her mind to ring, or not to ring, without any knowledge of his status.

Tears sprang to her eyes as the wind swept a sudden gust of sleet into her face. Oh, great, she thought bitterly, as the frozen flakes stung her cheeks. This was all she needed: soaking to the skin!

Afterwards, she was never sure how it happened—whether her leg had simply given out on her, or her foot had slipped on a thread of ice. But, whatever the cause, she found herself falling, hitting the pavement heavily, and scraping her gloved palms.

It was so humiliating. She had never considered herself a particularly graceful creature, but she had never been as clumsy as she was now. Landing on her bottom, she felt a jarring sensation all up her spine, but she knew she should be grateful she hadn’t fallen on her leg.