Images Of Love

Mrs Newman seemed unnecessarily pessimistic about her son’s condition. ‘He says he’s quite well,’ she replied, plucking at the leather on the back of the seat in front. ‘But you know how independent he is. I keep my own counsel. I have my own opinion. I know what his doctors say. But it’s not a subject I’d advise you to discuss with him. At least—’ she paused, allowing her eyes to move to Tobie once more, ‘not in front of—strangers.’

‘But he’s—no worse?’ Mark insisted, his hand finding Tobie’s in gentle reassurance, and his mother shrugged.

‘Were it not for the lingering amnesia, I’d say he is as recovered as he’ll ever be,’ she responded succinctly, and when Tobie’s head jerked towards her, a mocking smile tugged at the comers of her mouth. ‘Didn’t Mark tell you, my dear?’ she enquired, with what Tobie was almost convinced was malicious amusement. ‘Robert still suffers a mental blackout of everything that happened immediately before the accident. He’s lost six whole months of his life. Isn’t that a shame?’

CHAPTER TWO (#u8b0472ee-8709-5b51-9bc4-ab3f91782c9b)

ROBERT’S villa lay on the south-west side of the island, above the tiny manmade harbour. As they came down the winding road towards the sea again, Tobie saw its sprawling green-tiled roof, and realised it was much more than the comfortably-sized bungalow she had envisaged. It was much bigger, for one thing, and set on different levels, it looked more like a Spanish hacienda, with the large circular swimming pool providing a focal point. The walls were colour-washed in pastel shades, and overgrown with clinging vines and bougainvillaea, and as they drew nearer she could see the white shutters bolted back against the walls, and the arched courtyard below the patio. It was, without doubt, the most beautiful house she had ever seen, and in other circumstances she would hardly have been able to contain her excitement. As it was, she felt a bewildered sense of confusion, and was troubled by the knowledge that Mark’s mother was not as ingenuous as he imagined her to be.

As the sleek convertible entered the tiled courtyard, Mark pointed down to the harbour below them, where a tall-masted sloop lay at anchor. ‘The Ariadne,’ he told her whimsically. ‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’

‘Th-that’s Robert’s yacht?’ Tobie ventured.

‘The same,’ agreed Mark lightly. ‘Fancy a sail?’

‘Per-perhaps.’ The car had come to a halt, and Tobie avoided his mother’s eyes as she climbed out. ‘I—it’s not what I expected.’

‘What did you expect, Miss Kennedy?’ enquired a low voice from somewhere behind her, and her whole body froze in an attitude of consternation. ‘Some kind of motor launch, perhaps? Something I can control with my hands? Or am I being unkind, and you didn’t mean to be tactless?’

‘Rob!’

Mark’s ejaculation was both impatient and enthusiastic. Turning quickly to face the man whose wheelchair had rolled so silently up behind them, he shook his hand energetically, unknowingly giving Tobie time to gather her scattered senses. He obviously shared her disconcertion at his brother’s unexpected appearance, but he could have no idea of the traumatic effect Robert’s arrival had had on her. She had expected to be shocked, she had expected some kind of physical reaction; but nothing had prepared her for the emotions that swept so devastatingly through her as she encountered those achingly familiar features.

He hadn’t changed, or at least, not a lot. He was thinner, perhaps, and there were streaks of grey in the night-dark hair that brushed the collar of his open-necked denim shirt, but he still possessed those disturbingly uneven features that combined to make such an attractive whole. He was looking at her now in frank appraisal, but there was no element of recognition in that coolly admiring glance. He was looking at her as a man might look at the girl his brother was expected to marry, and she knew with a wrench that that was the cruellest cut of all.

Her eyes dropped lower, over the long legs, folded on to the chair’s footrest, jean-clad and casual, but without the strength they had had when he first walked into the gallery less than four years ago, and she knew a pain like nothing she had ever known before. Oh, God! she thought in agony, I did this to him! And he doesn’t even know me!

‘Let me introduce you,’ Mark was saying now, shaking his head over Robert’s unconventional method of greeting his guests. ‘This, as you’ve already divined, is Tobie. Tobie, allow me to introduce you to your favourite artist—Robert Lang!’

‘Painter, Mark,’ Robert inserted dryly, holding out his hand towards her in apparent friendliness. ‘How do you do, Miss Kennedy? You’ll have to forgive my not getting up. It’s not so easy as it used to be.’

‘How—how do you do?’

Somehow Tobie articulated the words, withdrawing her hand as swiftly as possible from the firm coolness of his. Hers felt hot and sticky, and even that slight contact had left her feeling weak and shaken.

‘Call her Tobie,’ Mark intervened, putting a possessive hand on her shoulder. ‘She’s going to be your sister-in-law, Rob. Don’t you approve?’

‘Very much.’ Robert was polite. ‘And a fan, no less. Tell me, Miss—I mean, Tobie—are you an expert?’

Tobie swallowed with difficulty before replying. ‘I—I just know what I like,’ she said, giving the stock answer, and Mrs Newman moved forward authoritatively to take charge of Robert’s chair.

‘Come along,’ she said. ‘I think we could all do with a drink, don’t you? Henri, ask Monique to fetch some iced lime juice to the patio, and tell her we’ll eat in an hour.’

‘Yes, m’m,’ responded the black man, who had chauffeured the car from the landing strip and was presently unloading their cases on to the courtyard, but as Mrs Newman attempted to wheel his chair forward, Robert dislodged her fingers with an impatient gesture. It was the first sign he had shown of any irritation with his condition, and Tobie intercepted the sympathetic glance that Mark and his mother exchanged. Curiously enough, their attitude irritated her, too, and she was not surprised when Robert countermanded his mother’s instructions.

‘You can wheel me up to the verandah first, Henri,’ he said, his tone brooking no argument. ‘I’ve already asked Monique to provide refreshments, so you can attend to the luggage.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Henri’s dark face creased into a smile, but Mrs Newman’s expression was less easy to read as they all began to move towards the house.

There was a slope beside the steps that ran up from the courtyard to the patio above, and although Robert’s electric chair could come down in safety, he needed assistance to reach the upper level. Following behind, Tobie felt her nails digging into her palms as she climbed the short flight of steps, and then anxiety was suspended as she had her first real sight of the villa and its surroundings.

The house itself was built on Spanish lines, as she had first suspected, with low-hanging eaves, and grilled balconies, and a winding iron staircase, attached to the main building, giving access to an upper floor. The various levels of the house ran out in different directions, and all the rooms had long windows, opened wide to the sun, and the salt-scented breeze that dispelled the humidity. In front of the villa lustrous Italian tiles surrounded the poolside area, with wooden caba?as set among vinecoloured trellises providing changing rooms. It was even bigger at close range than she had anticipated, and she became aware that Robert was watching her and her reactions to it.

‘Welcome to Soledad,’ he said, with wry humour, as Henri was dismissed, and he propelled himself across the sun-dappled patio. ‘What do you think of my house—Tobie? Would you say it was wasted on a cripple like me?’

‘Rob!’

‘Robert!’

Mark and his mother spoke simultaneously, but Tobie knew he expected her to answer. It was a natural question, after all, albeit an uncomfortably candid one, and Mark had warned her of his sarcasm.

‘I don’t think you believe you’re a cripple, Mr Lang, any more than I do,’ she ventured carefully. ‘And no one who appreciates beauty as you do should be denied such magnificent surroundings.’

‘You know I appreciate beauty?’ he mused. ‘How would you know a thing like that?’

Tobie’s cheeks burned. ‘I know your work, Mr Lang,’ she defended herself quickly. ‘M—Mark told you, I admire it very much.’

Robert brought his chair to a halt in the shade of the balcony where a glass-topped table was set with a jug of iced fruit juice, several frosted glasses, and a bottle of champagne in an ice-bucket. He indicated that they should make themselves comfortable on the cushioned basket-weave chairs nearby, and then himself took charge of the champagne, uncorking it easily, and allowing the bubbling overflow to spill carelessly on to the tiles.

‘You’ll all join me, I hope,’ he said, reaching for one of the tall narrow glasses and filling it. ‘I think a toast is in order, don’t you?’ He passed the glass to Tobie, and then filling another handed it to his mother. ‘To the good times, hmm? For all of us? But most especially to Mark and Tobie. Good luck!’

Tobie sipped the delicately flavoured liquid with trembling lips. This was all wrong, she thought unhappily. This wasn’t at all the way she had expected it to be. But why, when everything seemed so normal, did she feel so uneasy?

In spite of her apprehension, no one else seemed perturbed by the situation, and although she contributed little to it, conversation became general. Mark asked Robert about his painting, and Robert, in his turn, questioned his brother about his work at the hospital. They were obviously good friends, and under cover of their discussion Mrs Newman suggested that Tobie might like to see her room. It was a polite suggestion, and Tobie had no reason to object to it, and yet she was curiously reluctant to find herself alone with Mark’s mother.

However, Mark had overheard and he seconded his mother’s proposal, nodding his head and adding lazily: ‘Put your swimsuit on, honey. We don’t stand on ceremony here, and I intend to show you how fit I am, in spite of just surviving an English winter.’

Tobie managed a slight smile, and then rose to accompany the older woman into the house. Her last image was of Robert’s face turned politely in her direction, with just the faintest hint of a frown drawing his brows together.

They entered the house by means of a garden room, where flowering plants and shrubs filled the air with their exotic perfume. All thresholds had been moulded to allow the free passage of Robert’s wheelchair, Tobie noticed, and she wondered who looked after him. Someone must help him to bathe and dress, but so far as she could see, there were only the two servants.

‘Robert’s rooms are downstairs, naturally,’ Mrs Newman observed now, as they entered an almost circular entrance hall, with a magnificent chandelier hanging at the foot of a curving flight of stairs. ‘This is the oldest part of the house, but as you probably noticed, there have been various additions made in recent years.’

‘It’s—beautiful,’ said Tobie helplessly, unable to think of anything else to say, and after a moment’s hesitation, Mark’s mother led the way up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs, a balcony circled the hall below, with corridors leading off in several directions. Their complexity made Tobie believe that she would never be able to find her way about, and after following Mrs Newman along one of them, up and down odd little staircases set into the hillside, she was convinced of it.

Nevertheless, when they reached the suite of rooms assigned to her for her stay, her gratitude was such that she forgot her earlier antipathy.

An arched doorway led into a spacious sleeping apartment overlooking the sweep of the headland and the ocean beyond. French doors opened on to a comer balcony, private from the rest of the house, with an unlimited vista of the terraced gardens that fell away below the villa. The room itself was furnished in shades of cream and turquoise, with a heavily embossed cream quilt on the wide bed and long turquoise silk curtains at the windows. Adjoining this room was a small dressing room, and beyond that a luxurious bathroom, in matching pastel shades.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Tobie murmured. ‘It’s just—perfect.’ She fingered a label hanging from the handle of one of her suitcases, which had been set on an ottoman at the foot of the bed. ‘Thank you so much.’

Mrs Newman paused in the doorway. ‘Don’t thank me,’ she responded tersely. ‘As I said before, this is Robert’s house, not mine.’

She would have gone then, but Tobie knew she had to say something. ‘You—you don’t want me here, Mrs Newman?’ she queried cautiously. ‘You—have some objection to my—friendship with Mark?’

‘Did I say so?’ The older woman’s eyes were wary.