Myths Of The Moon

‘Another time, perhaps.’

Carla stood up decisively. ‘Let me get you a painkiller, then I’ll leave you to go to bed…’

‘I’ve got pain-killers. I can manage to open the bottle and swallow a couple all by myself.’

Again, the sarcasm was unprovoked. She was evidently getting badly on his nerves. Wincing inwardly, she turned away.

‘Wait…’ Was there the faintest tinge of vulnerability in his curt voice? ‘Tell me something, before you go…’

She turned back to look at him. There was the shadow of physical pain in his eyes. In spite of her annoyance, a wave of sympathy and helplessness washed over her. This man was suffering, physically and mentally. And one thing was certain—he wasn’t a natural patient. He loathed being ill, loathed being at a disadvantage, hated being virtually dependent on others for his recovery. And she could think of few worse mental tortures than being unable to remember who you were…

The insight made his prickly behaviour more understandable. She felt faintly guilty for allowing his defensive taunting to provoke her. She definitely hadn’t missed her vocation in nursing, she reflected ruefully.

‘Yes?’

‘What made you offer to help me?’

Taken aback, she stared at him blankly. ‘I’m not sure what you mean…’

‘I mean you virtually saved my life,’ he persisted quietly, his expression obscure. ‘That would have been enough. Why did you offer to let me stay here?’

‘I didn’t save your life…!’ She met the penetrating stare with a fresh warmth in her cheeks. ‘I just happened to be looking out of my study window at the right moment, that’s all…’

‘Same thing. If you hadn’t been, I’d probably have lain halfway down the cliff all night. If I hadn’t been found promptly, the chances of surgery succeeding would have been diminished. I have it on reliable medical authority. So I was already in your debt, Carla. Why all this as well?’

She gazed at him in mounting confusion.

‘That’s a silly question,’ she protested, shaking her head. ‘It’s obvious why. You needed somewhere to recover. You had no obvious place to go. No access to money or anything…it seemed the only thing I could do!’

‘Not necessarily. The police, the hospital, Social Services, any of them could have offered a solution. So why you?’

The narrowed gaze searched her flushed face.

‘Well, I suppose having seen the accident, having found you…’ she caught her breath, feeling herself getting angry again and this time not at all sure why ‘…I felt a kind of responsibility to help. And staying so close to where you were walking…I thought it could bring your memory back quicker…’

What was he getting at? Did he suspect her of some ulterior motive? Was he implying that she must be the typical ‘lonely widow’? Or, worse still, the typical ‘merry widow’? Her heart seemed to contract in her chest. What was it about this man which seemed doomed to rub her up the wrong way? Did there have to be some hidden motive for offering simple kindness?

‘I think you should get an early night,’ she advised, adopting her most formal manner. ‘Can you manage by yourself…?’

‘You’re not offering a full nursing service, by any chance?’ he teased lightly. ‘Because I think I can still remember how to wash my face and clean my teeth.’

‘Good.’ Hateful, sardonic, ungrateful man. Why was she wasting any sympathy on him at all? ‘In that case, I’ll say goodnight.’

‘Good night, Carla.’

She risked one parting glance at him, and wished she hadn’t. The cool green eyes seemed to be far too dissecting, as he observed her suppressed resentment.

Loading everything on to one tray, she made a bolt for the relative safety of the main house, and her own kitchen.

She felt as if she’d just been put through some psychological mangle. Daniel Whoever-he-was was the most disruptive man she’d ever met.

With angry precision she unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, stacked fluted white porcelain in dark oak cupboards, wiped green-tiled worktops, then finally collapsed on to the ancient oak settle by the Aga. She glared distractedly at Moppy, a fluffy, apricot Persian, stretched as close to the warmth as he could get. Moppy stared back, and blinked lazily, golden eyes forgiving. With an apologetic smile she reached down to stroke him. He might be hopeless as a country mousing cat, but he was a comforting presence, and she loved him dearly…

She thought about phoning someone, anything to calm this strange agitation inside her. But it was gone ten, too late to ring her friend Becky at Carperrow Farm—she’d have tucked her small, well-behaved daughter into her cot and leapt eagerly into bed with her husband Tom by now. And ringing her mother, probably still engrossed in a bridge four in her genteel Regency flat in Bath, was equally out of the question. She’d immediately think some dreadful disaster had occurred.

Carla shook herself out of her reverie and stood up. She could ring Becky in the morning, console herself with a light-hearted natter with a friend, before buckling down to work on chapter fifteen. She had a deadline on this book. Getting sidetracked and thrown off-centre by Daniel’s overpowering personality was the very last thing she needed…

But upstairs in bed, showered, hair vigorously brushed, teeth energetically scrubbed, clad in demure pale blue silk pyjamas, she lay wide awake and tense beneath her cream duvet.

It was his parting probe which had unnerved her. He wasn’t a mind-reader. That was too far-fetched. But even so…his questions had made her examine a disturbing truth. In some way, some unexplained way, she’d been aware of an underlying emotion behind her practical offers of help…

Frowning into the darkness, she tried to make sense of it. She couldn’t. All she knew was, ever since that moonlit night, when she’d kept her lonely vigil on the cliff-top, she’d felt this invisible pull…

It was scary, she decided angrily. And it was ridiculous. Was she behaving like Inspector Tresawna’s rather fey female sidekick, in her novels? Imagining psychic auras?

The best thing she could do, she decided, squeezing her eyes shut and willing herself to sleep, was help her mysterious visitor to get his memory back, and get him out of her life, in that order, as fast as she could.

But, even though he was across the yard, in the cottage, she was aware of Daniel’s presence. Mentally, and, to her continuing shame, physically. A feathering of goose-bumps broke out all over her skin, simply at the memory of those cool green eyes…The sensation was so strong, he could be standing here, in the same room…

With a burst of anger, she sat up and clicked on her light, glaring round the bedroom to allay her ridiculous imaginings. Then she subsided back against the pillows, and tossed feverishly on to her side.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_f4472903-77e5-5f88-8519-e4125d9b9f61)

‘YOU’RE taking a risk,’ Becky said, across the table.

As if by telepathy, her friend had appeared this morning, bearing a basket of eggs and a big bunch of late chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies from her sheltered, south-facing walled garden.

‘Don’t you start…!’

‘It’s true. Tom and I are worried about you.’

‘It’s only for a maximum of three weeks,’ Carla pointed out. ‘I’ve got some visitors booked in for a pre-Christmas break then…’

‘Still, I thought I’d pop in and offer moral support,’ Becky said stubbornly.

‘Thanks. I must confess, I feel in need of it.’ Carla made a wry face as she glanced over her shoulder, busily putting the glorious flowers in water. Their sharp, spicy fragrance filled the air. ‘These are wonderful, Becky. Especially so late in November. My favourite flowers, and my favourite colours.’ She thrust the last sprig of mauve daisies between autumn-gold and russet, and stood back to admire her handiwork.

‘Clever you. My flower arrangements always look…basic.’ Becky laughed, sipping her coffee. ‘Why Rufus never cherished your talents I’ll never know!’

There was an awkward pause, and Becky groaned to herself.

‘Sorry—my big mouth…’

‘No, it’s OK.’ Carla turned quickly, and came to sit down, her eyes clouded. ‘Just because Rufus is dead it doesn’t make it taboo to mention his name, you know!’

‘No, I know…’

‘And do you know something?’ Carla rested her chin on her hand, and met her friend’s eyes thoughtfully. ‘I don’t feel bitter about him any more. It occurred to me recently that poor old Rufus got a raw deal when he married me. I was so engrossed in trying to establish my writing career, I never had time for fancy flower arrangements or elaborate meals—it was a minor miracle if I ran a duster over the furniture or made it to the supermarket! It’s only since he died that I’ve become better at domesticity! Ironic, isn’t it? Looking back, maybe it’s hard to blame him for being unfaithful…’