White Lies

Lacey cleared his throat. ‘All I know is that St Honoré wants you in St Lucia.’

‘For an audition, perhaps?’ she asked with a rueful laugh. ‘Or some kind of identity parade, where this man’s client stands behind a two-way mirror and picks out whoever has the greatest family resemblance?’

‘I don’t know,’ confessed Lacey, giving her a sympathetic grin. ‘But if there’s any doubt I’m sure DNA testing will be used if necessary, to put everyone’s mind at rest. I hope it works out,’ he added quietly. ‘I’d hate to see you return disappointed.’

‘I would be, Mr Lacey,’ she said fervently. ‘I’ve longed to know about my mother all my life.’ She dropped her gaze for a brief moment. Jack Lacey’s sympathetic eyes were encouraging her tears to form, and she knew that she mustn’t let herself cry or she’d never feel tough enough to cope with the prospect of failure.

‘See it as a holiday, all expenses paid,’ he told her. ‘I envy you, Mrs Cook. How about taking a personal advisor with you?’ he suggested, a twinkle in his eyes.

She flashed him a grateful smile for realising that she needed a touch of humour to lift her spirits. ‘I can’t afford you! Besides, you’d miss your daughter’s school play—and your wife’s...what did you say? Her tip-tilted smile and the way she sings around the house.’

Jack Lacey laughed warmly. Unlikely though it seemed, the young woman in the washed-out, demure blue dress and the cheap shoes had totally disarmed him with her admiring exclamations over the photograph of his family and had somehow coaxed him to wax sentimental about the people he loved.

‘You’re right,’ he admitted, feeling an odd affection for Mandy. He frowned. She was so open that she’d be extremely vulnerable. ‘Don’t get hurt,’ he said suddenly, with fervour.

‘How kind you are!’ she said warmly. Her eyes shone with pleasure through the fine veil of tears. ‘I might,’ she admitted. ‘I’m afraid that happens now and then. I trust people and sometimes they let me down. I’ve had cranks and opportunists answering my adverts and pretending to be a long-lost parent before, as I told you.’

‘But no crank would fund a trip to the West Indies,’ reasoned Jack Lacey.

‘That’s what I’m banking on,’ she said eagerly. ‘This time the solicitor in St Lucia could be acting for a relative of mine and I might learn about my past. I know it would be wiser not to get excited, but this means everything to me, Mr Lacey. If I find my mother, or my father, or even one relative, I’ll come right back and hug you!’

Jack Lacey found himself praying that she would. But as she left, his hand aching from where she had squeezed it so fiercely and a lump in his throat at the quiet joy on her pale face, he thought of the ice-cold tones of the man he’d been told would contact her and he wondered if he should have warned her more strongly. He sighed, knowing that he wouldn’t have had the heart.

Mandy Cook might discover that some families were best left divided and that the mother who’d abandoned her at the nursing home had probably had a good reason to keep her baby girl’s existence a secret from her relatives.

‘A Planter’s Punch for you too, madam?’

Mandy smiled warmly at the woman who’d come to the table in the spacious, open-air lounge of the hotel. The ‘welcome’ drink looked long and cool and fruity—just what she needed after the hot and dusty drive.

She checked the name-tag on the frill decorating the woman’s crisp white blouse. ‘Please, Agnes,’ she said gratefully. ‘The road was so bumpy! I felt quite shaky when I got out of the minibus.’ She took a sip of the drink and detected the faint taste of rum.

‘It’s bad,’ agreed Agnes equably, and shot her a curious glance. ‘Are you Mrs Cook?’ And at Mandy’s nod she said, ‘Monsieur St Honoré’s been asking after you.’

Mandy glowed with delight. ‘Is he here?’

‘He’s on the beach,’ Agnes said shortly. ‘Simon will show you. Simon!’

‘The beach?’ Mandy quickly drained her glass and jumped up. She felt a little unsteady, but then she’d been sitting for hours and hours on the plane. She smiled at the young bar attendant who came running up. And she wondered how many St Lucian solicitors received their clients on the beach! ‘The beach! It’s wacky. I think I’m going to love Anse La Verdure,’ she said with a grin.

‘Everybody does. It’s the best in the Caribbean,’ said Simon proudly. He indicated the key in her hand. ‘Would you like to unpack and rest first?’ he asked thoughtfully, but then, they’d had a long chat already, and she’d drawn out half his family history from him.

She hesitated. Perhaps she ought to take the opportunity to freshen up and wait till her shakiness had gone before confronting the man she’d flown thousands of miles to see. But she was eager to meet him—and she felt sure that her dizziness would pass once her body had realised that it had stopped travelling.

‘I’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘I’ve had time to drop off my hand luggage.’ She smiled, thinking happily of the luxurious villa perched higher up the hill. ‘Mr St Honoré takes priority.’

‘We go that way.’ Simon pointed to some dark volcanic steps which led from the terrace of the bar and lounge area.

‘OK. I’ll see you all later, I expect,’ she said warmly to the other guests sitting nearby, and they smiled and cheerfully lifted their glasses in a friendly farewell.

She followed the teenager down the steep hill, occasionally catching glimpses of an impossibly blue sea scintillating like a jewel in the hot sun. The steps wound through a tropical garden of palm trees, hibiscus, great billows of bougainvillea...

In answer to her request, Simon began to give her the names of the plants, shouting them over his shoulderangels’ tears, heart flower, water-well, paw-paw, mango, bottlebrush—till her mind reeled.

But it took the edge off her tense anticipation. Somewhere on the beach below was the man who might change her life. And as she hurried after the white-clad Simon her whole body almost bounced with joy till the thick brown rope of her plait bounced too in sympathy.

‘Where is he?’ At the bottom of the steps she paused to search the beach expectantly. Yet there was no one remotely like a solicitor in sight. ‘I’m looking for a guy in a bowler hat and pinstriped suit with a briefcase,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘I suppose I’ve got that wrong!’

Simon grinned back at her. ‘No suits here! Only sand and sea, sun and tanned people. Everybody having a good time.’

Mandy beamed merrily at all the friendly faces nearby and was rewarded with a battery of smiles in return. ‘It’s going to be so lovely staying at this hotel!’ she sighed. ‘I expected people to be standoffish. But they all look as happy as I feel.’

‘Sure they do. This is paradise,’ said Simon. He paused, then gave a satisfied exclamation. ‘I see him! You follow me, lady!’

Excitedly Mandy strode after his eye-searing, white-clad figure, barely controlling her urge to skip. Her pulses, however, were galloping along in leaps and bounds because all her hopes and dreams were bound up in this moment. Even admiring the dazzling blue sky, the translucent sea and the ‘desert island’ beach with its leaning palms and sultry, tropical atmosphere came second to her long-term goal. Beaches she could enjoy later. The unbelievable view to the mountains from her balcony could be drooled over some other time. This was her future, after all.

Preoccupied by her thoughts, she stumbled on a ridge of sand. Seeing Simon’s curious glance, she grinned and said, ‘It’s OK. I feel wobbly. I’m just nervous as a kitten about this meeting!’

Simon’s step faltered. ‘Monsieur St Honoré is—’ He stopped, seemingly unable—or unwilling—to continue.

Mandy’s joy faded a little. There seemed to be a kind of warning in Simon’s silence. Feeling a little alarmed, she stopped and touched his arm. ‘What is it?’ she asked uncertainly. ‘What’s worrying you? He is here, isn’t he?’ Frantically she searched up and down the shoreline, her heart sinking. ‘There isn’t anyone with clothes on,’ she said in wry disappointment, ‘let alone a suit!’

‘Monsieur St Honoré, he don’t wear a suit often. Or many clothes much,’ explained Simon.

‘Not...wear...!’ Her eyes widened. ‘Where is he?’

‘There!’ Simon seemed embarrassed but she didn’t have time to question him further because he added hastily, ‘Monsieur St Honoré!’

He lay sprawled beneath the waving fronds of a nearby palm tree, sunlight and palm shadows contriving to slash his lithe form with gold and black. A sleeping tiger. A rather magnificent animal, the torso sculpted with firm muscle, the tanned body beautifully taut and lean. And he wasn’t wearing much—only a pair of brief green bathing shorts, low on the narrow hips.

This was Monsieur St Honoré? A lawyer? Mandy put a hand to her mouth to stop her gasp of disbelief and tried to gather her wits. ‘Simon, I think you’ve made a mistake—’ she began in a hushed and urgent whisper.

‘No mistake,’ he replied, sounding hurt. ‘This is him.’

For Simon’s sake she gave the man another once-over. He looked thirtyish, his flaxen hair sun-streaked and with no hint of grey. It was untidy too, the thick, springing curls tousled and damp as though he’d recently been for a swim. Her uncertain gaze took in his thick, honeycoloured brows and his strong bone structure, highlighted by the sun where it hit the prominent cheekbones and firm jawline.

OK, she thought. Solicitors came in all shapes and sizes. But... tousled? Rakish? Mandy now understood Simon’s unstated warning. He looked the kind of man who’d bite.

‘This is Monsieur St Honoré? You’re absolutely sure?’ she persisted in a whisper.

‘Definitely,’ the young man answered. ‘This, Monsieur St Honoré. That—’ and he pointed out to sea ‘—his boat.’

‘Oh! Thanks,’ she said absently, riveted by the sight of the boat.

Simon left her gaping at the sleek motor yacht lying a short distance off shore. Its size and elegant lines screamed money. She shaded her eyes against the glare from the sea and watched its launch being drawn up out of the water by an on-board crane.

‘Wow!’ she breathed. A crane on a boat! Even more astonishing was the sea-level bathing deck at the stern, where a couple of St Lucians in white shorts and shirts were setting up a barbecue—a barbecue! ‘Now that is money! How the rich do live!’ she marvelled.

The gold letters on the stern proclaimed the boat to be named St Honoré, confirming Simon’s claim. Confounded, Mandy followed the line of the mooring rope. It extended all the way to the beach where its end had been coiled a couple of times around a palm tree. The one that shaded the sleeping tiger.