Shadows (18 page)

“Are you never afraid?”  His voice drifted over his shoulder as he forged ahead.

“I’m more afraid now than I ever used to be.  Back then I didn’t know enough to be scared.”  She peered around his bulk, for he had slowed and stopped.

The path petered out among bushes and brambles springing up between the shrubs, saplings and mature trees.  “I wonder where the monk went?”

“What monk?”

“The monk I saw at the mill when we arrived.  You were in the kitchen, remember?  I saw him wave at me and then he strode off along here.”  She shrugged.  “There’s nowhere for him to have gone.”  She peered in every direction and pointed to where the thicket seemed thinnest.  “I suppose the path could once have gone on along there.”

“Ah, I remember now.  We’d only just got out of the car.”  He frowned.  “It was the ghost, wasn't it?  He didn’t waste any time.”

“And then there was something on the bolly that night.”

Rory looked contrite.  “And I laughed at you.  Sorry.”

“It was a perfectly normal reaction.  It sort of took me by surprise, too.  I thought I’d grown out of it.”  That was an understatement.  The first night visitation had terrified her.

“Poor Melissa.  It can’t be easy.  Why…”

“Why do I see them?  I have no idea.”  She shrugged.  “Usually they want me to know something.”

A lop-sided smile twisted his mouth.  “Since they never speak I think we have a problem there.”

“We’ll just have to listen harder, that’s all.”

~~~

“Should we wake him yet?”  Melissa lay on the lounger in the shade of the walnut tree and extended one smooth bare leg into the rays of the sun and studied it with her head on one side.  “Do you think I’m turning brown?  I looked quite brown in the shower this morning, and yet out here in the sunshine I look pale.”

“It’s a strange propensity of showers to wash off suntans along with the dirt, but you look almost good enough to eat.”

She brandished her sun hat at him and laughed when he ducked.  Amazed at how relaxed she was with Rory now that she’d told him about the ghosts, Melissa chastised herself for not telling him sooner.  Such a pity she'd wasted so much time.

“I’ll go and hunt Christophe out in a little while.  It was fairly late when we all got to bed and it’s not ten yet.”  Rory stared thoughtfully at the lower patio for a minute, and then turned to her.  “The ghost might have got him.”

Her coffee mug slipped and a slosh of hot liquid hit her bare skin below her shorts. Flinching at the sudden sting, she sat bolt upright.  “You don’t think…?”  She dashed coffee from her leg and glanced worriedly toward the lower terrace.

His low-pitched chuckle warmed her.  “Of course not.  I’m trying to make a joke.”

“Oh, but…”  Melissa frowned.  Ghosts, in her experience, didn't harm anyone, but people were so scared of them that accidents happened when ghosts appeared.  Christophe could have died of fright down there in the mill room.  It wouldn't be the first time such a tragedy had happened.

She looked around.  A brilliant blue sky hung over the mill, birds called, sang, and chirruped and a gentle breeze whispered over her bare shoulders and midriff.  It was time to enjoy the sun in the Dordogne and not worry about ghosts and Frenchmen who liked to sleep late.

“Rory?  Tell me about your brothers.”

“Andrew and Alistair.  Both in med training.”

“Your parents will be pleased about that.”

“Oh indeed.”

His clipped, brisk tone suggested he did not like the topic.  “Are your parents still working, or retired?”

“They’ll never give up.  They feel that life is not for enjoyment, but for good works.”

“You don’t sound as if you er…as if you approve.”

“They’re too strict, and no fun at all.  Have you heard of the Wee Frees?”

A rapid scan of her memory left her still bemused.  She shook her head.  "Who are they?"

“I’ll tell you one day.  But now I’m heading to the pool.  Coming?”

“I’m comfortable here.”

She unwrapped the rolled bundle she’d unearthed from the bottom of her travel bag.  She selected what she needed, sketched a few brief lines on her pad and pulled the water jar closer.  After a brief hesitation, she began to splash paint onto the paper.  He did not like to speak of his parents any more than she wished to speak of her father.  Skeletons rattled in Rory’s cupboard, though the rattle was very quiet.  In an odd way, his reserve was comforting, might make him more understanding when she finally decided to tell him she was a bastard.  If she decided to tell him.

Ten minutes later, Melissa shuddered as Rory spattered cold water on her as he threw himself on to the sun lounger at her side, and opened his paperback thriller.  “What do you think of him?”

“Who?  Christophe?”  The glance he turned on her was quizzical.  “Do you really want to know?”

“Of course.”

“I wish he wasn’t here.  He’s in the way, far too curious about the mill and you.”

“Not you?”

Rory shook his head.  “He hasn’t got the slightest interest in me.  It’s you he’s interested in.”

“If you are jealous, don’t be.  He’s not my type.”

“What is your type?”

She gaped at him, her mind blank.  What was her type?  “I…don’t have a type.  Nor do I rush into things.  I got burnt the only time I did.  As I think I told you, I intend to take my time.”

“We might run out of time.”  He regarded her with lazy interest.  “I thought you would find this place romantic, but it seems not.”

“It is romantic, but you make it sound as if seduction is the prime purpose of being here.”  She widened her eyes and fluttered her lashes.  “I’m so sorry to disappoint.”  Good God, why had she said that, and behaved in such a stupid way?  Begging for compliments and reassurance was the behavior of a fifteen-year-old, not a fully-grown woman.

Rory attacked straight away.  “Don’t say things you don’t mean.  You aren’t the least bit sorry.”

“How can you say such things?  If you knew what my mother—”  Melissa stopped speaking.  Melissa pictured her mother's upturned palms and shrug of the shoulders.  The words were always the same.  ‘Look at me, darling and learn from my mistakes.’  A warning against hasty decisions and impulsive action in areas of romance.  And yet…for the first time, she pondered the words again.  What if they'd actually meant the opposite?  That true love was always worth the effort?

He waited.  “Your mother…?”

She shrugged.  She needed time to puzzle over her new ideas before she acted on them.  “Nothing.”

He crossed his arms behind his head, his long legs at the ankle and settled more comfortably on the lounger.  “Tell me about your family.”

Her fingers tightened on the mug.  She looked at him suspiciously.  “What do you want to know?”

“Anything you care to tell me.  You don’t mention your father much.  What did he do?”

Oh, Lord.  He’d homed in on the exact thing she did not wish to discuss.  “I did tell you, but you've forgotten.  The Army.”

“An officer?”

If she didn’t relax, he would see how tense she was, how fast her pulse thundered in her throat.  She lifted one hand and rubbed her neck.  “Lt. Col.”

“I’m impressed.  Must be quite a forceful personality to have around the home.”

“I wouldn’t know.”  Bringing her fingers together in her lap, she ignored the fine tremor running through both hands, and clasped them together.

Rory frowned.  “There’s been a divorce?  Or is it that he’s away from home a good deal?”

Melissa shook her head, and then took the perfect escape route he’d offered.  “Both.  The least said about Father, the better.”  Perhaps Rory would leave the topic alone if she seemed distressed.  She stared down at her hands, and manufactured a small sniff, as if trying not to weep.

“I’m sorry.”  He rolled to face her, all concern.  “Divorce must be awful.  Let’s not spoil the day talking about such things.”

Melissa offered a wan smile.  Relieved to be off the subject of her father, she didn't like the guilt that weighed her down.  She hadn’t lied, but she’d evaded his questions, and skirted around the truth.  If she and Rory became lovers, he would at some point meet her mother and then the truth would have to come out.  The lack of a male presence in the family would be obvious, and pretending there had ever been a time when her father had been in the family home devalued all her mother had done for her.

If she waited until Rory knew her really well, maybe he would accept her strange family history without a qualm.

But she wouldn't be able to bear the pain if he turned away from her because she'd lied to him.

His parents did not sound reassuring.  Strict and church-going, they'd be shocked if their son took up with an illegitimate girl.

Worry and concern made the paintbrush tremble in her hand, and a drop of paint fell where it ought not to go on the paper.  Already she was turning to Rory for comfort and support.  And so far he had not failed her.

But dare she risk the truth?

Why not brazen it out, as some did?  Look him straight in the eye, state the facts and let him deal with it however he chose.  She knew of girls who had done that.  The children of irregular relationships always faced the bigger battle.  Mother was bold and brave, sure of herself and her place in the world, and she told her daughter to look everyone right in the eye.  What difference could it possibly make if there was no man in the house?

There were a hundred answers, all of them good, if you believed them.  But among themselves, children have a sly way of undermining the child that is different.  Finding she had no father, they learned the names to call her and used them, surrounding her in the school playground, chanting the names over and over until a teacher had strode across the tarmac to rescue her.  Melissa shuddered at the memories.  Some things she’d never told her mother, never told anyone.

After a lifetime of concealing the facts, could she bring herself to now tell Rory?

The wide brim of her straw hat shielded her head and neck from the sun.  Insects hummed, lizards whispered out to the edge of the terrace, stamped the stone with their tiny forefeet and basked in the sun.  Occasionally the harsh, ugly sound of a tractor or a car roared along the valley.  Rory turned his pages at regular intervals, and ignored the droplets of cold water that flew off the end of her paintbrush.

Jonny must know.  Her hand stilled.  She’d never spoken of it, but he knew her half-brother.  Had known him for years, ever since they'd met at university.  Jonny was too tactful to raise it with her, but would he tell Rory?

Oh Lord.  She would have to tell Rory before he heard it all from Jonny.  She couldn't hope to keep the secret now.  But how to tell him?  When?  Not yet, please, not yet.  Let her get used to the idea that she would tell him soon, and then it would be easier.  Work out the best way to say it, practice her phrases.

Her stomach rumbled uneasily.  A lot would depend on the way she placed it before him.  She needed somewhere quiet and calm.  No problem here.  Preferably when there was no alcohol about to heighten the emotions.  That ruled out the evening.  Certainly after Christophe had left.  Nothing should be rushed.  She would speak calmly, confidently, not allow herself to become emotional and defensive about her situation.

Yes, that would work.

She held her painting out and viewed it critically.  Not displeased, she swung her arm and held the sheet of paper under his nose.  He studied the painting of the garden and nodded.  “It’s good.  A subtle blend of color in the flowers.”

Pleased with his compliment, she smiled.  “What are you reading?”

“About bent lawyers making millions.”  His eyes laughed at her.  “I want a few tips.”

“Don’t you get tired of law and lawyers?”  As she expected, he shook his head.

She caught herself admiring the glorious muscle structure of his spine and shoulders as he turned over, and contemplated a new painting of a young man on a lounger.  She forced her eyes back to her half-finished painting, and went back to work.

A little while later, Rory got up, stretched and moved over to peer at her work.  “That’s a lot of green.”