One Secret Too Many Read online

  What the hell was he doing? Buying a house to give himself a background setting for the fantasies? He stalled the estate agent and tried to get Alex’s images out of his mind, to think about the house alone. Property owner. That had a sound of permanency that was both tempting and frightening. The only thing of any substance that he owned was his car.

  It looked as if Jake knew him better than he knew himself. He was terrified of relationships, families, dark-haired girls with eyes that looked right through his protective covering. He dreamed about her, the dream strong and real as it had been in the first few days after he had made love to her. He dreamed the feel of her; the carefree, sweet pleasure of walking hand in hand with her at his side, listening and talking with her. Alex in his arms... Alex smiling, throwing the long hair back... Alex, shy and warm.

  Then, finally, the sweetness ran its course and all the old memories surged up from where they should have been buried. The fights and the words of love followed by the violence and nights spent lying awake, shivering and waiting for mornings that never came.

  She could feel the night air all around, warm and seductive. In the dream, her name was Alex. . .

  She was walking beside the water, cool waves drifting in. Her sandals hung by their straps from the fingers of one hand as she watched the water, the erotic caress of sand and surf around her toes.

  She felt him watching long seconds before she could turn. His eyes held her prisoner, then freed her to look at him. In the moonlight he was dark and dangerous. He moved just one step closer, and she could see the harsh planes of his face, the jagged scar high on his cheekbone. Behind him, city lights stretched across the still water.

  Surrounded by a million people, yet they were alone. Alex. And the dark stranger. There was only blackness where his eyes should be, but they ,dld,eh probing deep into her. As the tide surged higher, she was filled with warmth like a flame in the cold wastes of the Arctic.

  She lifted her arms, reaching out to him. He receded as she came closer. She cried out his name. . .

  ‘Mary!’ No, that was wrong. Her name was Alex...

  His hands dragged across her flesh, receding, fading. She reached out, but he was gone and she was swimming—no, drowning in panic and some other emotion. She pushed desperately at blankets twisted into a prison around her, fighting her way to consciousness...

  ‘Mary! Mary, get up!’

  She managed to free the covers, and swung her bare legs over the side of the bed, feet touching the cold wooden floor.

  ‘Mary! You—’

  ‘I’m coming, Mom!’ She stood up, pulling her practical cotton nightgown up over her head and tossing it on to the bed behind her. She stared at her vanity mirror, seeing the brilliant blue sky, her own rumpled figure. She pushed back the dark brown hair tangled around her face.

  The slender curves of her body looked smooth and innocent. She didn’t look like the kind of a girl who would dream about a man like Sam, calling out with need and yearning as if—

  She brushed hard, transforming the tangle into a soft brown curtain falling to her shoulders. Nice, Sam had said, his voice oddly hoarse as he had touched her hair with callused hands. She had wanted to melt into his arms right then, just listening to the rough emotion in his voice, seeing his harsh face, the soft, uncomfortable vulnerability in his deep brown eyes.

  ‘Mary!’ The voice carne from the foot of the stairs below, demanding and imperative.

  She attacked the hair again with her brush, as if stiff bristles could erase the memories. ‘Give me five minutes, Mom! I’m just getting dressed!’

  But she couldn’t seem to move. The dream had hold of her still, and the memories. ‘Fantasy,’ she said softly, talking to the girl in the mirror. Brown eyes looked back at her. Nothing special, she decided, meeting those eyes with defiance. A brown girl. Eyes. Hair. Smoothly tanned skin. Slender. A nice enough figure. Sam had liked it. She touched herself hesitantly, almost unwillingly.

  Hardly a girl by this time. She was twenty-five. A woman without a man. A woman who dreamed too much, spent too many nights alone with her fantasies. A woman whose mother was about to come up the stairs and forcibly drag her downstairs.

  Not an innocent girl any more. One night. One night to remember forever, a secret to keep. ‘Alex,’ he had whispered, his hand pushing the soft hair back, his lips just a breath away from her mouth. ‘You’re magic...my mysterious, magic Alex.’

  Alex Diamond. Fantasy lady. Her eyes sought and found the small computer on her desk, the collection of floppy disks that held her fantasies.

  ‘Mary!’

  She pulled open a drawer and rummaged for bra and panties. This was daytime, reality time. Time for Mary Houseman, not Alex Diamond. Alex was a lady of the night, and if Alex hadn’t typed at the computer for long hours last night, while everyone else had been sleeping, she’d have let. Mary get up in time to avoid her mother’s demanding voice.

  Downstairs her mother was moving about the kitchen with frightening efficiency. Mary poured herself a cup of coffee and braced herself for the onslaught.

  ‘First,’ said Frances Houseman briskly, ‘your father had to go out early. The Connister funeral. Old Mrs Connister is upset, and he had to talk to her. She needs someone to go back home with her, to keep her company on the ferry.’

  Mary stirred sugar into her cup, then picked up the jug of thick cream. ‘When?’ she asked, then, ‘Who?’ although she had a very good idea who would be volunteered to keep Mrs Connister company.

  ‘I said you would do it.’ Frances Houseman pushed the plug into the sink and squirted just the right amount of washing-up liquid in. ‘After all, you’ve nothing important to do, have you?’

  ‘No. Nothing much.’ Just her new book, she thought sadly, but she could not tell her mother about that. She let a brief fantasy take hold for a moment. She would stand up, facing her mother and taking advantage of the fact that she was an hcnin or so taller. What would she say? ‘Sorry, Mother. I can’t. I’ve just got to get to work on this new book. My publisher’s waiting.’ Then she would walk away, upstairs into the room where the fantasies roamed free.

  ‘Did you hear me, Mary?’ Frances’ hands were poised above the dish-water, bubbles of soap clinging to the fingers.

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ She took a sip of the coffee. ‘You want me to accompany Mrs Connister back home on the ferry. When?’

  ‘Next Wednesday. Have some cereal.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ She took another mouthful of the coffee. It sat uncomfortably on her stomach. ‘Do you want me at the funeral?’ She hadn’t known Mr Connister, but her mother might feel it was appropriate for Mary to go.

  ‘No. I’ll be there, and your father’s doing the service, of course. Just look after the phone, would you? And get across to the church. Your father left some letters for you, and I think the bank statement’s come. He was saying that things are piling up a bit, so if you could just—oh, and Mary, I made an appointment with Dr Box for you—at three tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘I’m not sick.’

  Frances attacked the table with a damp dishcloth, wiping away invisible specks of dirt. ‘I’d like you to have a check-up. You haven’t been right since you came back from Vancouver. I’m not sure you didn’t pick up something down there.’

  Mary choked on the coffee.

  ‘A virus,’ said her mother briskly. ‘There’s sure to be something going around, and Dr Box should have a look at you. Maybe you need a course of antibiotics.’

  Normally it would be easier to waste a half-hour of the doctor’s time, and her own, than to argue. Mary had learned years ago to let her mother have her way, to live her own life secretly, out of reach of busy interference. This time, though, she was uneasy about going to the doctor. For the last few weeks, a nervous fear had been growing inside her.

  Surely it wasn’t possible? Sometimes that incredibly passionate night seemed like a dream, but it had been real. So had the precautions been real. Sam had taken me
asures to protect her. She shuddered, remembering a friend of her mother’s admitting that the last child had been an accident, that they’d taken precautions, but of course there was nothing that was a hundred per cent sure.

  No! Of course it wasn’t that. Just once in her whole life. One night, and she’d obeyed all the rules, or father, Sam had. No, it would be just one of those things. Maybe she was late because of the emotional upset, or maybe it was just plain nature pulling tricks with her schedule.

  Her father came in as Frances efficiently collected Mary’s half-finished coffee and poured the warm liquid down the sink. Mary reached after the cup, then shrugged, meeting her father’s warm eyes and laughing silently with him. Later, in the church office, she would make herself a cup of instant and sit quietly with it, taking her time.

  ‘Hi, Dad. How’s Mrs Connister holding up?’

  ‘Not badly,’ he said, bending to give her a morning kiss. ‘Mary, I wonder if you—’

  ‘I know. Next Wednesday. I’ll go on the ferry with Mrs Connister. Mother told me.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ He stood, looking around with slight confusion in his eyes, as if he had forgotten why he was there. Then he remembered. ‘Frances, I’ll need a new shirt for the funeral. Mrs Connister’s granddaughter spilled pabulum all over mine.’

  Frances looked shocked and Mary giggled. ‘Did they have you feeding the baby, Dad?’

  He looked tall and thin and a little embarrassed. ‘Well, things are a bit disorganised over there. Sometimes practical help is the best thing one can do. Mary, there’s a letter from Lexie on the counter. Came this morning.’

  She had found the envelope and was slipping the pages out as her mother came back with the clean shirt. ‘She’s with a man,’ said Frances tightly.

  Mary was reading quickly, even as she repeated automatically, ‘Aunt Lexie? A man?’ It was true. ‘They’re going sailing. In Alaska now, planning to head down for Mexico in— Hey, isn’t that something! Good for Aunt Lexie!’

  ‘She’s living with him!’ said Frances. ‘A man with a ridiculous name. Not married or anything. She doesn’t even mention marriage.’

  Mary read the rest of the letter quickly. Her mother looked shocked. Even her father seemed uncomfortable at his sister’s behaviour. Mary thought it was romantic. After all those years alone, her aunt had found someone—was starting out on a sailing adventure, for heaven’s sake!

  Wouldn’t that be a plot for a book? Just look at the way they had met! Mary tried to imagine her eccentric aunt answering an advertisement in the personals and ending up at sea with the man. No wonder her mother was shocked, although Mary could well believe it was something that Lexie might do. She giggled, then sobered under her mother’s stern eyes. ‘I’ll get over to the church,’ she said hurriedly.

  Her father had made a mess of the correspondence files in the church office. Mary sorted everything back into its place, then tried to figure out which of the letters needed answering. None of them seemed all that urgent, so she made a few notes and left the correspondence in order to attack the bank statement.

  Later, she used the archaic church typewriter to knock out her weekly article for the newspaper. She had been down to the waterfront the day before, and she had material for a whole series of articles. This week’s was the story of a sailboat from Tahiti that was cruising ‘the Pacific Rim in the traditional manner—no radios, no modern navigation aids at all. Personally, Mary thought it was romantic, but crazy, and it made an interesting column for the paper.

  She got the article finished before the footsteps echoed through the church, nervous voices carrying along the corridor. She went out and found a couple with two children. The man was about Mary’s age, the woman a couple of years younger. They had nowhere to sleep.

  She showed them to the lounge where a big chesterfield folded out, and showed them the stove where they could cook, because that was what her father would have done. They had sleeping bags, and Mary had the telephone number of a sympathetic social worker.

  ‘And of course you’ll come to dinner tonight at the parsonage,’ she told the exhausted young mother. Lord, the woman looked as if she was expecting yet another child, and the two she already had were hardly out of nappies. Didn’t she know about birth control?

  Nervously, Mary’s hand went to her own abdomen. Was it fantasy, or was her skirt fitting a little more tightly?

  She phoned her mother to tell her that dinner had to stretch to four more, but Frances must have gone out to the funeral parlour already, so Mary pedalled her bicycle back home and got a large roast out of the freezer, then left a note for her mother.

  She took her motor scooter out, which would have caused her mother to raise her brows, but it was small and easy on fuel, and somehow Mary hadn’t the extra energy today to pedal her bicycle. It had been Toby’s scooter once, and she wasn’t sure why she had resisted her parents’ insistence on selling it after Toby’s death. Perhaps it was a symbol of the independent spirit she had never had.

  She stopped the scooter at the very top of the hill, letting the motor die to silence, and taking a moment to look out over the harbour. The sun was shining, but there were heavy clouds looming in the west. She hoped that wasn’t symbolic of her own life.

  There were three big ships in port, lying at anchor waiting to take on cargo. One was from Russia, the others might be from Japan or China. A couple of sails white against the blue water. On this side of the harbour, houses climbed up the billy terrain. On the far side, beyond the water as far as she could see, untouched evergreen forest stretched to the north. She would have liked to stay, watching the water all afternoon—but tomorrow was the doctor.

  What if her worst fears were true? Dr Box would know, and there would be a test ordered. Then it wouldn’t just be Dr Box knowing, but the world. There would be a note on her file about the strange, groggy nausea she had in the mornings, the unaccustomed fullness of her breasts. Her file, and Dr Box’s secretary was in the church choir. Emily Derringer was the town gossip, and Emily would find out somehow. Oh, lord! Emily’s best friend was a lab technician up at the hospital. And ethics or no ethics, a possibly pregnant Mary Houseman was startling enough to ensure that the news would spread. Emily had always been nice to her in the past, but this would change everything!

  They would all think the worst.

  The parish would know. Then, somehow, inevitably, her parents would know. The thought of facing her mother was terrifying enough, but if her father thought she was the kind of girl who— She shivered at the hurt she could imagine in his eyes.

  Wild. Like her brother Toby, her Aunt Lexie.

  Involuntarily, her fingers spread out across her abdomen. It was horrifyingly easy to believe that those hours with Sam could have borne fruit. Sam. It had been almost like a dream, a fantasy. She had come home from Vancouver, telling herself that that was what it had been. Not a crazy, wild and passionate storm that had swept over her life. Just a fantasy. Surely one fantasy would not get a girl pregnant?

  If only she could be sure, and erase this horrible fear without the hospital lab. She bit her lip, wondering if there was a chemist in town without someone she knew at the cashier’s counter. There were tests you could buy in the chemist. She had heard Bart Holley’s girlfriend telling Bart that it was OK, she’d got the kit from the chemist and taken the test. Bart didn’t have to worry.

  Mary just hoped that it would be that way for her, that Mary wouldn’t have to worry.

  There were three chemists all within a couple of blocks of each other. Mary ended up at the closest, the chemist on the lower floor of the shopping mall. Surely if she bought one of those kits, it would prove that everything was OK. She simply could not be pregnant. It was impossible, wasn’t really true. She saw the contraceptive devices for men there in the aisle, bit her lip and knew she didn’t have the nerve to pick up a box and read what it said. Would it say something about reliability? She jerked her head around and no one was looking, but if she pi
cked up that box, lord knew who would pop out of the woodwork.

  ‘Can I help you?’ She jumped guiltily, looking up at the man with the white jacket, the name-plate identifying him as the pharmacist. He was tall and friendly-looking. She couldn’t remember his name, but he had been in her English class the year she graduated from high school. Now, it seemed, he was the pharmacist, and he recognised her at once. ‘Hey, you’re Mary, aren’t you? Mary—ah—’

  ‘Houseman,’ she supplied. She tried to smile at him.

  He looked around at the shelves filled with patent medicines. ‘Looking for something? Can I help?’

  She shook her head in energetic denial. ‘Just killing time. Thanks, though. I didn’t know you were working here.’ Her eyes fell on a box of contraceptives and she swallowed. He was staring at her, and she was terrified that he could read her mind. Did she have the word written on her forehead? Pregnant. She said desperately, ‘Have you been working here long?’

  ‘Just a couple of months.’ She recognised what was in his eyes then. He was wondering how she would react if he asked her out on a date. He must have decided that she might say yes, because he smiled and said, ‘I got a job in Vancouver after I graduated. Then my mom got sick, so I thought I’d better find something closer to home.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your mother.’ The test kit was probably something you had to ask the pharmacist for. There was no way that she could ask here. ‘Bad luck,’ she added, starting to move away.

  ‘Maybe not,’ his voice followed her. ‘Right now I think it might have been very good luck—for me.’ She shook her head, but couldn’t think of any polite words to put him off. In the end she just left without saying anything.

  She found it in the second chemist. It was boxed in a largish container, sitting innocently on a display at the back of the store near the prescription counter. The pharmacist that belonged behind this counter was mercifully absent and Mary stood in the aisle, staring at the display and reading the words on the boxes.