The Wall: A Vintage Contemporary Romance, Page 2

  “I’ve been there only about a week,” she told him, “so I’m fairly new around here.” She put out her cigarette by burying the glowing tip in the sand. Aware of the dark gaze on her actions, she took the dead butt and carefully wrapped it in the castle’s banner before stuffing it into the knapsack. Then, nervous for some reason, she took another and lit up to inhale it in deeply.

  After a moment, he asked almost idly, “Are you in the habit of trespassing on private property?”

  “Wince!” she said, and laughed at his expression. She leaned back casually in the soft, inviting sand. “Now the retribution, please show mercy on my poor soul. If I’m missing for more than three years or so, or get behind in my rent, someone may just miss me and become suspicious, so don’t do anything rash, will you?… Actually, a ‘No Trespassing’ sign is so inviting, don’t you think? I came, entertaining half acknowledged hopes of stumbling on to a dead body and a delightfully chilling mystery, or perhaps to meet up with a terrible ogre—are you an ogre?” This last was said with a hopeful glance towards the man’s uncompromising face.

  No sign of amusement there, the face was settled into lines of implacable hardness, the eyes like stones. The one sign that perhaps redeemed his face, she thought musingly, was the unhappy curve to that well formed mouth. She watched him with a great deal of interest. His reply was brief, almost a snap. “Some seem to think so.”

  A chuckle bubbled forth. “Well, are they right or are they wrong?” He only looked at her with dark, expressionless eyes, and it seemed so terrible to her that she, on impulse, had made an uncharacteristic gesture of friendliness to the man. She finished her cigarette, condemned the butt to a similar fate as the first and asked him, “Would I get perhaps fewer lashes of the whip if I were to bribe my punisher with a cup of coffee?”

  He hesitated, obviously, and she thought he was about to refuse when he said carefully, “It depends on what terrible things you’ve doctored your thermos of coffee with.”

  Sara smiled involuntarily, tossing her dark hair off from her face, and it settled around her shoulders like a smoky cloud. “Not me, mister. I like my mud straight.” She poured him a cup of the warm liquid into a plastic cup that she had packed and handed it to him cordially, taking her own in the lid of the thermos. He took it after eyeing her with those curiously hard brown eyes.

  She stared off into the distance, appreciating the smoky blue horizon and sipping her coffee reflectively. She was a bit puzzled as to why she should make such uncharacteristic overtures to a total stranger. She wasn’t sure why. It could be reaction, she surmised, a touch of cabin fever, having been off on her own for a week. It could be an attempt to break the mould she had become frozen into after so many years. She had always surrounded herself in a shell of aloofness when greeting strangers, for she had learned to be wary of reporters and curiosity seekers; it was a wall not unlike the almost visible one surrounding the stranger sitting close to her. In a way, she mused, we all build walls around ourselves for one reason or another. Fear of failure, rejection, hurt, all these were reasons why one would close oneself off from other people. Everyone, to some extent, hid behind a wall. It was just a matter of how high and how strong one built it.

  She rather thought that the look of bitterness and unhappiness that was betrayed in the way the man held his firm mouth was the reason she impulsively reached out to him, in spite of the hard and repelling quality to his eyes. She inspected his face. He was sipping at the hot liquid and staring into the water.

  They sat thus in a strangely companionable silence for several minutes, Sara filling up the cups with more coffee when they both had finished the first. Then she dug into her knapsack and presented the man with an apple, which he took gravely. She took one herself and chomped reflectively.

  “You know,” she said around a bite, “you aren’t as bad as you first seemed. I was sure you were going to have me arrested. You aren’t even bad-looking and would probably photograph all right, so I’m sorry for what I said earlier.” Her hazel eyes danced. “I don’t go in for photographing people, that’s all.”

  He told her implacably, “I don’t go in for being photographed, so you’re safe from insulting me. And I’m not exactly pretty material.”

  “No,” she said, studying his features, “pretty is not how I would describe you. You’ve more of a presence than a profile. Want a sandwich?”

  “Won’t I be taking your meal?”

  “Lord, no—I’ve got two.” A sandwich passed hands as gravely as the apple had. This time he murmured a thanks, and the two sandwiches quickly went the way of the apples, disappearing fast, and in the same companionable silence. Sara took a long look at the man beside her. “I can’t figure out why you haven’t kicked me off of the property yet,” she told him matter-of-factly.

  A swift turn of the head, and she saw again those hard, watching eyes. She must have been mistaken about that silence being companionable. “I’ve been thinking about just who you could be and why you’re here. I haven’t come to any conclusions, so why don’t you tell me who you are?”

  Nice, tactful question, that, she thought. “Who I am doesn’t really matter,” was her calm reply, though she was hiding an underlying uneasiness. He couldn’t have recognised her, could he? The beach was very, very empty, and she noticed it suddenly. “But, if you would like to have a name to attach to a face, my name is Sara Carmichael. I’ve been ill and this is my recuperation,” and she swung out a flamboyant hand that encompassed the entire scene. “My parents are dead, I’m unmarried, no close relatives. Life is rather dull at the moment, but I’m liking it that way for a change. I’m twenty-eight years old, and have suddenly realised that my thirty-year milestone mark is breathing down my neck, and it has me suddenly panicking at the thought, and that’s about it.”

  “In a nutshell,” he murmured, and she had to chuckle.

  “Sad in a way, isn’t it? An entire human life and thinking awareness can be described so simply and dully.” She took out another cigarette and lit it. Her hand, she noticed absently, was shaking less now. Soon she would be back to normal. But what was normal, any more? “I could walk out in that water right now, and not come back, and no one would really miss me.” She caught his complete stillness and shocked eyes and had to laugh. “Don’t worry, I am not contemplating suicide! I’m merely expressing how total the waste of a life can be. I should know, I’ve wasted twenty-eight years, and I’ll never get them back again. It’s only now that I’ve begun to suspect that I’ve never really lived.”

  Strange, she thought in a detached way, how comforting it is to talk about oneself with a stranger. It was a good feeling, rather like what a Catholic would feel after making a confession to a priest behind a curtain. This man didn’t know her and probably never would. She could say the most truthful and outrageous things she wanted to and feel sure he would never know who she really was and what she was talking about.

  A sudden comment made her start in surprise. “You smoke too much for an invalid,” the man told her expressionlessly. “In fact, you smoke too much for a healthy individual.”

  Sara looked up with a kind of shocked feeling, meeting dark and almost blank eyes. Almost. Deep down there was a flicker of—interest? Of concern? No, not that, she was a stranger and meant nothing to him…whatever it was, it dispelled the hard and implacable quality that she had first seen in his eyes. A slow smile spread over her face and it was like a ray of sunshine. She looked at the smoking cigarette in her hand as if she had never seen it before, then stubbed it out.

  “You see?” she said. “A total waste of life so far. You’re absolutely right! And I’ll tell you this right now: I quit. How does that sound? Only I hope I can do it, I’ve never tried to quit smoking before, you know, and I smoke a lot. Well, if one is determined and all, etcetera, and so on.”

  “Eloquently put,” he drawled, looking for a moment amused. Sara grinned amiably, glad to see a lighter expression on his face. She was sprawled all o
ver the sand, the rolled-up jeans revealing slim ease, and she absently reached down to dust off her feet. Her hair lifted off her neck in a puff of wind, and she reached up with a long-fingered thin hand to straighten it, looking over the water with a peaceful feeling. It showed in her eyes, and her lips were turned up at the corner ever so slightly. The man’s head was turned her way.

  “Shall I apologise?” she asked, without looking away from the water.

  “For what?”

  “Trespassing, silly. If I apologise nicely, will it get me off the hook?” She turned at that and looked at him mournfully, her big eyes soulful and solemn. “I truly am sorry.”

  He regarded her, and a faint smile touched the edges of his lips, banishing the unhappy look. “No, you’re not.”

  “Well,” she returned, “it sounded good, didn’t it?”

  At that he really did laugh, and the sound was rich and glad. She felt absurdly happy hearing it; when she had first seen him she had wondered if he ever laughed at all. After watching him with appreciation, she began to gather up her things. He told her, “You’re absolved of all crime.”

  “How nice.” Dusting off her feet as best she could, she started to put on her socks and shoes and thought better of it, tying them to the knapsack instead. She picked up her camera bag and would have put that on her shoulder too, but was stopped when a big hand took it from her and took her knapsack too. She stared at the man in surprise.

  “I’ll carry them for you,” he said easily, slinging them on his own broad shoulder. Sara regarded him with a faint twinkle in her eyes.

  “Do I have a choice?” she asked the world in general. Then she addressed him personally. “You really don’t have to feel compelled to show me off the property. I promise to leave!”

  “It’s my pleasure,” he murmured, looking down at her from his superior height. This rankled. He was a stranger and had no reason to feel favourably inclined towards her, but to say such a thing after just spending an agreeable hour in her company was a bit of an insult.

  “I suppose,” she said a little stiffly, “I should thank you.”

  “Not at all.” They climbed the rise and slid down the other side. He moved quickly and easily in the sand, and she was soon hard put to it to keep up with his longer stride. Finally she had to beg him to slow down, which he did immediately, waiting for her to catch up. She drew up alongside him, inwardly angry at him for his apparent eagerness to get rid of her and furious at herself for feeling angry at him. It shouldn’t matter one way or the other.

  When they had reached the path that led to her back door, he handed her the bags and stepped out of the way so that she could pass. She nodded pleasantly to him, determined to be polite and uncaring, then stopped to gape at his words when he told her quietly, “Feel free to come exploring on the beach whenever you like.”

  She stared and then managed to reply, “Are you sure? I mean, I don’t want to be an imposition on your privacy.”

  He looked down at her with an enigmatic look, eyes taking in every detail. “I’m sure. You’ll be welcome.”

  She was silent for a minute at this. “Would it be all right if I came back this evening to take a picture of the sunset? You really don’t mind me tramping about on the beach?”

  “I really don’t mind, and yes, feel free to come whenever you like. The house is well back from the beach, so you won’t be invading my privacy.”

  Nice hint, that, she thought. “Very well, if you’re sure, then.” A thought struck her and she laughed. “What do I call you, anyway?”

  He was standing with hands pushed into his jeans pockets, the stance hunching his shoulders, and his feet were planted well apart. She had a quick impression of immovable strength, and then he was moving, back up, starting to turn away. “My name is Greg.”

  She backed up herself. “Nice meeting you, then, Greg. Thank you for letting me come back.”

  “You’re welcome, Sara.”

  Without a backward glance, she took off up the path and soon let herself into her back door, unaware of the tall figure that stopped and turned, watching her go with unreadable eyes, following her until she was out of sight.

  Back inside, Sara went about the actions of putting the knapsack away and washing her thermos and plastic cup mechanically. She spent a good deal of energy in thinking about the stranger whom she had apparently befriended. Or had she befriended him after all? He had seemed such a strange mixture of politeness and bitterness, of wariness and friendliness, of cynicism and real concern. Thinking of the man and the aura of watchful reserve that clung to him, she started to wonder at her own overtures again.

  It was definitely a strange situation, for she hardly ever made casual acquaintances. But that look in the man’s eyes and the unhappy nerve to his mouth had struck a spark of understanding and empathy within her. She knew how it felt to be unhappy; she had been extremely unhappy herself until just recently. She knew how it felt to be bitter and disillusioned. Perhaps that was the reason she had made such obvious overtures of friendliness. She had felt a desire to show him that there was the possibility to overcome bitterness, and to be happy after disappointment. Perhaps that was why she had spilled so much of herself out to him.

  She shrugged and put the matter out of her mind for the time being. She didn’t even know what prompted that strange and unhappy expression and the chances were that she never would. There was no reason for the man to wish to confide in a total stranger. She didn’t even want him to, anyway.

  Feeling in need of an outlet for her strangely aroused emotions, she went into the rather small living room and sat down at the ancient piano that she had just recently had tuned. Flexing her long strong fingers over the black and white keys, she emptied her mind of all thought and concentrated on the mood of the moment. Then she let her fingers come down on the keys and began to play. Strangely enough, to her mind, what she had impulsively decided to play was a sad, haunting love song that left her with unexplained tears in her eyes and an ache in her throat. She played it through several times, humming once, and then singing it softly. It left her feeling very empty.

  She didn’t understand it; she had never felt so lonely in her life. Suddenly, and with great impact, the realisation that she had no true friends hit her. There was no one with whom she could just be herself and not the singing star Sara Bertelli. She slowly laid her head down on the piano keyboard, her eyes shut tight. A drop eased out from the squeezed eyelids and dripped on to ivory, and then another followed.

  How had she got to be twenty-eight years old without ever having a serious relationship? How could she let herself get so isolated from other human beings? Why did she let things get so hectic and unfulfilling? Why had she let ambition rule her life?

  Looking back over the years, it was easy to see the progression of events. She had worked like a dog for so long, taking as many music and singing lessons as she could afford, working at nights, searching for a lucky break into the competitive field of popular music. Her talent was dynamic and did not go overlooked for long. But then there were the long, hard years of pure, intense, furious creative work. Ambition is a drug that one gets hooked on, and Sara had been a complete slave to its demands. She gave totally, with great drive and power, whether she was in the recording studio or on the stage, and the greedy public sucked it all up like a sponge taking in water. One thing led to another, until all the aspects of her life seemed to have culminated in the one event that had made her decide to leave Los Angeles for an extended, long-overdue vacation.

  It had been a long day in the recording studio. The musicians were tired and irritable, and Sara’s throat had ached. So had her head. She was exhausted, she remembered ruefully, and the tension of the weeks before, the terrible glittering, empty party that she had been obliged to attend the night before, and her own stretched nerves had caused her self-control to snap and she had ended up in a bitter fight with Barry, her agent. She had rushed out of the room and he had followed closely behind. C
razy, weak, infuriating tears coursed down her cheeks.

  “Here, love,” Barry coaxed softly, shocked at the sight of her tired weeping, “I know you’ve had a hectic time of it. We’ll take a ten-minute break and get everyone a cup of coffee and into a better mood before we go on.”

  She asked him, “Couldn’t we just stop for the day, Barry? I’ve had a total of three hours’ sleep last night because of that stupid party you got me committed to going to, and an average of four or five for the past three weeks. This pace is going to kill me! Can’t we slow down a little?”

  “Now, baby, you know we can’t, not today!” he had replied, a great deal alarmed at her show of weakness. She had never cried before, at least not that he had known of, and he didn’t know how to handle a woman’s tears. “We’re way behind schedule as it is, and I’ve got people panting down my neck for the release of this new album. I know it’s a bruising pace, but it’s only for another month, and then you can take a vacation. How does that sound?”

  “I need a vacation now, not a month from now,” she whispered, leaning tiredly against the wall. “Barry, I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

  “You will, love,” he said bracingly. Then, with more anxiety at the sad little shake of her head, he said, “You’ve got to, Sara. You’re committed to, by contract. You are going to make a million easily off of this album, and if you break the contract’s terms by discontinuing the recording now, the studio could sue. They could ruin you financially.”

  “What if they’ve already ruined me—if I’ve already ruined myself?” she had asked, unable to keep the bitterness inside.

  Barry watched her closely, then reached into his pocket to draw out a small pillbox. He opened it up and held it out to her. “Here, take one of these, love. It’ll make you feel better, and then you can crash tonight. Go on, it won’t hurt you.”

  Tired beyond naming, depressed, discouraged and disheartened, Sara had stared at the little pillbox in Barry’s hand. In her mind’s eye she could see her own hand reaching out to accept what he was offering. She wanted to take that pill. She had always known that a good deal of Barry’s nervous energy had come from pills in the past, but she had never questioned his personal lifestyle and he had never given her reason to fire him, for he knew his job and performed like a pure professional. She had never had any personal experience with drugs; she had always relied on her own stamina and strength.