Romance Classics (132 page)

“You must take care of that ankle, Westerman,” he said politely. “After all, this is really pre-season. It’s far more important for you to be at the top of your form a month from now when the seasonal visitors begin to arrive.”

“Thanks,” said Leon. “That’s very decent of you. Extending our engagement, I mean.”

“Originally, we meant to advise you in a few days when the new contracts had been drawn up,” said George. “But Miss Malone seemed quite concerned, and I saw no reason she shouldn’t know.”

“I’m sure we are
all
quite concerned,” said Leon, and now the ugliness was out of his voice and he sounded genuinely relieved. “I felt sure that with me getting banged up like this, you’d bring in another show and we’d all be back on our way to the States.”

“Oh, we’re not that brutal, Westerman!” George answered coolly. “Accidents happen, and no one can prevent them. I can assure you that you are a sensational hit here.”

“Well—thanks again.”

Somehow, despite their civility, Kristen sensed that these two could never possibly be friends.

“And by the way, since it won’t be possible for you to continue Marisa’s lessons, and I really should go back to the plantation, we’ll be leaving tomorrow,” said George. He added, turning to Kristen, “Under the circumstances, couldn’t you come with us for that visit we’ve been urging on you?”

Krisen’s eyes glowed, but she looked uncertainly at Leon.

“But I hate to go away and leave Leon now that he’s hurt.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Leon’s tone made it a snort. “I’m not at death’s door, you know, and Sherry and the boys and Casey are here. By all means go and have some fun.”

“In that case,” Kristen turned to George, beaming, “I’d love to come.”

“Fine! Marisa and Eileen and I will be delighted to have you as a guest for as long as you care to stay,” said George, and turned back to Leon. “If there’s a chance you could come, too, Westerman—?”

“Thanks, I’m afraid not,” Leon said curtly. “I want to watch this new outfit you’re bringing in. Might be able to pick up a few ideas from them for some new routines to take back to the States.”

George nodded his understanding, and spoke to Kristen. “We’ll pick you up here at the hotel in the morning, about ten? Good!”

He nodded a good night to both of them and went out.

Kristen met Leon’s eyes and said stiffly, “Now before you think up something nasty to say—”

“I had no idea of saying anything nasty.”

“You seem so skilled at it—”

The door burst open and Casey came hurrying in, eager and excited.

“I turned the band over to Bill, because Sherry said our engagement was being extended,” he began. And Kristen slipped out, relieved to escape from what she had every reason to fear might be more unpleasantness from Leon. He really was, she told herself as she went up to her room, an extraordinarily exasperating person. To accuse her of tripping him, on top of all the infuriating things he had said earlier that afternoon!

It was Marisa, in her little car, who came for Kristen the next morning. As the porter stowed Kristen’s bags away in the surprisingly capacious luggage compartment, Marisa hugged Kristen with childlike glee.

“Of course I’m terribly sorry poor darling Lee got a sprained ankle,” she said gaily. “But I’m tickled to pieces you’re coming to Beau Rivage for a visit.”

She ran around to the driver’s seat, and as she slid beneath
the wheel, she added, “I’m a scandalous person. I didn’t even ask how the poor darling is this morning.”

“I’m afraid he’s the only one who knows, since he hasn’t been visible yet,” Kristen answered, laughing. “We people in show business are late sleepers.”

“I’m afraid he’ll miss you.”

“I’m sure he won’t!” Kristen cut in. “Sherry has promised to look after him, and she will.”

Marisa nodded as she put the little car in motion, and her expression was thoughtful.

“She’s that devastating blond singer, isn’t she?”

“She’d love hearing you call her ‘devastating,’” Kristen said.

“Well, she is! You should hear some of the unattached males talk about her,” Marisa answered, and went on thoughtfully, “I suppose she’s madly in love with him.”

“They are old friends,” said Kristen noncommittally.

Marisa nodded. “Which means, of course, that she
is
in love with him and is probably insanely jealous of you.”

“But why should she be? My relations with Leon are strictly professional. That’s the way we both want it to be,” Kristen said curtly.

Marisa eyed her for a moment.

“You’re not even just the tiniest bit in love with Lee?” Marisa persisted.

“Marisa, unless you keep your eyes on the road, so help me, I’ll get out and walk!” Kristen gritted through her teeth.

“Oh, did I frighten you? Kristen, I could drive this road blindfolded.”

“Well, for goodness sake, don’t!” pleaded Kristen. “Now that we’ve left the highway and started climbing this mountain—”

“Oh, this isn’t a mountain, Kristen dear. It’s only a small hill.” Marisa laughed. “I’ll show you a mountain—old Peleé himself, the villain that wiped out a whole city one fine May morning and left only one survivor.”

“Someone told me about that. Can you really climb Peleé?” asked Kristen.

“Oh, yes, occasionally. Of course, you have to choose the time and the day very carefully and be sure the weather is just exactly right, but it can be done,” Marisa told her lightly. “We’ll go see what’s left of St. Pierre, too. It’s a rather
gruesome sight, of course. Volcanoes don’t leave much behind, and the disaster sort of blunted people’s desire to live there.”

“I should think it would,” Kristen agreed.

“I wish you could be here during the carnival season, Kristen,” Marisa chattered. “You’d love it. The main one is on Ash Wednesday.”

“I was in New Orleans once during Mardi Gras,” Kristen told her.

“But this one is so different. In most places the celebrations end the night before Ash Wednesday. Here, the people sing and dance and shout through the streets, really whooping it up, until nightfall on Ash Wednesday. They have a huge figure they call Val-Val, which is supposed to represent the carnival spirit, and they burn that when it gets dark, and of course there are fireworks. It’s quite a show.”

Kristen was so absorbed in the narrow, winding road that seemed to leap-frog from hill to hill that she scarcely heard Marisa’s chatter.

“This is my first trip to Beau Rivage in two years,” Marisa said suddenly. “I’m really ashamed of myself. But the lessons with Lee made it impossible for me to get away.” Suddenly she laughed joyously. “Now isn’t that a silly thing to say! You’d think I was dancing with him professionally, under contract, wouldn’t you?”

“Would you like to be?” Kristen asked curiously.

“Would I
like
to be?” Marisa cried, shocked. “Kristen, what an idiotic thing to ask! Even if I were good enough as a dancer—why, Kristen, I wouldn’t leave Martinique again even for a career in the movies!”

“I just thought you seemed to enjoy dancing.”

“I do,” admitted Marisa. “And don’t be shocked if I say I’d love it better with just about anybody but Lee. Heavens, that man
drives
you! Oh, I adore him, of course. He’s the best-looking thing that ever walked
or
danced! But dancing should be fun not work!”

Kristen laughed. “Don’t ever say that to Leon. He’d think you’d lost your mind.”

“Funny,” observed Marisa, her attention and her eyes now on the road. “I call him Lee, and you call him Leon. He said all his friends call him Lee. Why don’t you?”

“Because, I suppose, as I told you before, our relations are strictly professional,” Kristen answered dryly.

“You sound as if you didn’t even like him!”

“I do like him, Marisa. But—” Kristen shrugged and braced herself for the flying descent of the hill they had just climbed.

“And anyway, it’s none of my business, is it?” Marisa smiled at her and added, “We’re almost there now. It’s just beyond that next hill and across the river. By the way, we’ve followed a short cut. It’s much farther around by the road that Dad and Eileen use, so we may be there ahead of them, though they left at the crack o’ dawn, just about.”

They were climbing another of the hills now. Below them was a green valley, then a swooping curve, and the house was there before them. It was a stately, very old house that looked serenely off over a magnificent panorama of the tortuous hills and valleys they had traversed.

As the little car swept up the drive and came to a halt, Eileen came out on the terrace and descended the steps to meet them, smiling warmly as she greeted Kristen.

“Oh, so you and Dad did get here ahead of us,” Marisa said cheerfully.

“Considering the fact that we left a good three hours before you did, that’s not so strange, is it?” Eileen answered. “Did she frighten you, Kristen?”

“Now, I resent that!” protested Marisa, as dark-skinned servants emerged from the house, smiling a wide welcome to her. “I’m a very fine driver, as you well know. Oh, hello, all of you! It’s grand to be home.”

There were eager murmurs of assent, and Eileen put an arm about each of the girls and guided them back up the wide, sweeping stairs.

“Where’s Dad?” demanded Marisa.

“Oh, I dropped him off at the factory,” answered Eileen matter-of-factly. “There was some trouble among the cane-cutters, and Malvern, the superintendent, felt George was the one to straighten it out.”

“And how right he was!” Marisa nodded. “Everybody that works on the plantation just about adores him, and if he says ‘black is white’ they solemnly agree.”

“This is your room, Kristen,” Eileen opened the door to a large, airy room, its walls of age-old wood paneling, its floor of a pale yellow tile. A giant mosquito net hung above the huge mahogany four-poster bed.

“Have we time for a swim before lunch, Eileen?” asked Marisa.

“Of course not,” Eileen answered briskly. “Lunch is almost ready now, and your father’s coming home for it. You have time to wash your face and brush your hair, no more than that.”

“Oh, well, we can swim this afternoon,” said Marisa. She drew Kristen to the small balcony opening through a French window from the bedroom and pointed down below. “That’s where we swim.”

Kristen looked down and gasped, because it was a sheer drop from the balcony to the shining black beach, laced with the foam of slowly rolling breakers.

“But how do you get down there?” she demanded.

“Oh, we go down on a rope, hand over hand,” Marisa told her gravely.

“Now, Marisa, stop teasing Kristen. Do you want to chase her back to town before she’s more than barely arrived?” protested Eileen, and smiled at Kristen. “We drive down the hill, and there’s a path that leads to the beach. It’s a bit steep, but these youngsters don’t seem to mind.”

“But I thought all beaches were white, or at least yellow,” said Kristen, staring down at the black sandy beach below her.

“Oh, there are some even on Martinique, but this close to Peleé, they are of black volcanic ash,” answered Eileen.

“But don’t worry; the black doesn’t rub off.” Marisa laughed, and turned as a maid came in with Kristen’s luggage. “See you downstairs in half an hour, Kristen.”

Eileen smiled warmly and spoke to the maid, who nodded and answered in the same language. And then Eileen, too, went away, saying over her shoulder at the door, “Don’t bother to change for lunch, Kristen. We live very informally here.”

Kristen looked about her at the lovely old room, the furnishings that she knew must be very valuable, and hid a smile. With a staff of eager smiling servants, a house filled with such beauty and luxury, they lived very informally!

When she came down the stairs, George was emerging from the vast drawing room. He greeted her, tucking her hand through his arm as he guided her out to the dining terrace, overlooking the sheer drop to the beach below.

“Of course”—he smiled at her across the glass-topped
table—“I’m sorry about Westerman’s accident, but I’m delighted it gave you the chance to visit us. There is so much I want you to see.”

“Now, look, Dad, you’re not going to cart her off to do a lot of sight-seeing,” Marisa cut in. “She’s here to have fun.”

“But I’d like to hear about the historical things, and see as much as I can,” Kristen protested. “It’s not a bit likely I’ll ever have the chance again, because Leon and I won’t be coming back to Martinique for a long time, perhaps never.”

George smiled at her. “Oh, but you will. Remember what I told you the island is called?”

“The Island of Those Who Return. It’s a lovely name,” Kristen answered, smiling.

Whether or not Eileen had told George that Kristen was beginning to weary of the incessant fun-seeking activities of Marisa’s crowd, Kristen had no way of knowing. But when, one morning, he suggested that she might like to visit the factory with him, she jumped at the chance. Marisa never appeared at breakfast, and Eileen said lightly, “Do go, Kristen. I think you’d enjoy it.”

“You don’t think Marisa will mind? I’d love to, but I wouldn’t want to upset any of Marisa’s plans.”

“Plans? Marisa? That one doesn’t make plans; she simply acts on the spur of the moment, and expects everything and everybody to fall in line,” said Eileen. “Run along, Kristen. I think you’d find it quite interesting.”

“I’m sure I would,” Kristen replied eagerly, and went out with George to the battered jeep that he used on his trips to and from what he called the factory, the base of operations for the plantation’s activities.

It was a glorious morning, the rising sun just piercing the mists that spread a blue-gray haze over the valleys.

George drove up the steep, winding trail, pointing out to her interesting sights, explaining odd formations, identifying trees, and Kristen listened absorbed and fascinated.

She didn’t quite know what she had expected the factory
to look like, but when they came to it, she was wide-eyed with surprise. The main part was a huge, roofed platform where a conveyor belt brought great bunches of green bananas down to rows of women in bright-colored garments and head bandanas. As she stood at the edge of the platform, fascinated, she saw that they were busily wrapping the stems of the bunches individually, and looked up at George, puzzled.