Anne Mather - Night Heat

Shivering, she groped for the lamp beside the bed, which she was sure she had noticed earlier. Its light was attractively muted by a Thai silk shade, a shade she noticed—quite inconsequently at this moment—which matched the coverlet on her bed and the long drapes at the windows.

There was a clock beside the bed, too, and blinking, Sara discovered it was almost twelve o’clock. Midnight! she breathed, inaudibly. She had slept for almost six hours! What must the rest of the household be thinking of her? Not least, Jeff himself!

She was hungry, too, ravenously so, the kind of hunger that comes from not having eaten a proper meal for more than twelve hours. It had been approximately two p.m. London time when lunch had been served on the plane and, apart from the fact that she had been too excited to do justice to what was offered, that was almost fifteen hours ago now. Oh, there had been a few sandwiches offered as afternoon tea before they landed at Miami, but nothing to satisfy an appetite sharpened by anxiety. Even the tray of tea, which she had enjoyed earlier, had been taken away as she slept, preventing her from salving the ache inside her with the few shortbreads that were left.

The arrival of a rather large moth curtailed her remorseful musings. Realising that the door to the balcony was still open and that the light was attracting unwelcome visitors, she scrambled off the bed to go and close it. But before she did so, she stepped out on to the balcony, delighting in the unaccustomed warmth of the night air. Cooler than in the day, obviously, but far more appealing, the sky overhead absolutely bedizened with stars. She couldn’t see the ocean, but she could hear it more clearly here, the shushing sound she had identified earlier accompanied by the deeper vibration of the waves. What a heavenly place, she though romantically. How could anyone choose to live in New York when this place was waiting?

Resting her hands on the iron railing, she looked down, and as she did so, she saw the sudden flaring of a cigarette in the darkness. She was momentarily shocked, was instinctively drawing back, when her common sense told her that whoever it was could not see her. She didn’t have the glow of a cigarette end to give her away, and sheltered by the balcony, the illumination from her room was visible only to the insects. The man— woman? whoever it was, was seated directly below her, and forcing her eyes to adjust themselves to the gloom, she was astounded to make out the unmistakable lines of a wheelchair. A wheelchair!

Her heart flipped over. Was it Jeff down there? Did he find it difficult to sleep, and use this time to exercise the abilities he spurned during daylight hours? It was a tantalising thought. And it could be true. Was it possible his refusal to accept rehabilitation was only an act? Had she inadvertently stumbled on his secret?

She stepped back from the rail, breathing unevenly. She had to find out. There was no way she could mention her suspicions to Grant Masters without at least trying to prove that she was right. Pulling the balcony doors closed behind her, she drew the curtains and then put on the corded pants she had shed earlier. A pink sweat shirt was easier than the shirt she had worn to travel in, and fretting at the time she was wasting, she spent more precious minutes brushing the now mussed length of her hair. Deciding she couldn’t afford to wait while she plaited her hair, she tied it back with a silk scarf and after slipping her feet into low-heeled sandals, she opened her door.

She had no definite idea about how to reach the back terrace, but trusting her instincts, she made her way to the galleried landing. Low lights illuminated the hall below, and trying to control her breathing, Sara sped silently down the stairs.

Rejecting the corridor at the front of the house, she headed for the archway beneath the curve of the stairs, feeling a thrill of excitement at the unmistakable draught of air that greeted her. She was on the right track, she was sure of it, and as if to confirm her belief, she turned a corner and saw the darkness of the terrace only a few yards ahead of her.

Immediately, her feet slowed, and in spite of the silence all around her, she felt unbelievably exposed. She glanced back over her shoulder, half expecting someone must be following her, but she was alone in the lamplight shadows. All the same, there was something uncomfortably alien about what she was doing, and a sudden twinge in her foot reminded her she was unused to abusing her ankle in this way. Running down the stairs, she had given little thought to its weakness, but now she leaned against the wall, wishing she had not been so precipitate.

Still, she was here now, and unless she wanted Jeff to come upon her as he returned to his room, she had to make an effort. Having come so far, it would be foolish to return to her room without at least trying to see him, and moving slowly, she edged towards the terrace.

A mesh door, similar to the ones that protected the front of the house, stood ajar, and guessing the progress of the wheelchair made opening doors difficult, she was encouraged. Besides, the open door enabled her to emerge unnoticed, though her heart was beating so loudly, she was sure it must be audible.

Ahead of her, something glinted in the darkness, and she realised it was a swimming pool. It was just as well she hadn’t tumbled into that, she thought wryly. What a way to announce her presence! She could just imagine Grant Masters’ anger if she crowned her arrival by destroying Jeff’s efforts to cure himself.

Inching forward, she found herself on a flagged patio, which was doubtless a suntrap in daylight. The ribbed outlines of low chairs around the pool seemed to point to this conclusion, though the obvious absence of any cushions gave them a skeletal appearance. But where was the wheelchair? she wondered uneasily. Surely, after all her efforts, Jeff had not abandoned his vigil.

And then she saw it. Set some yards along the terrace, the chair still rested below the level of the balcony, and even as she gazed towards it, she saw the revealing circle of fire as his cigarette was drawn to his mouth.

If only she could see more clearly, she thought frustratedly, cursing the moonless night. She wondered what he would do if she spoke to him. Would he be shocked, or angry, or both? Dared she intrude on his isolation? Or might she, as she had thought earlier, destroy any desire to recover his strength by exposing the frailty of his efforts?

‘Why don’t you come and join me?’ he asked suddenly, evidently aware of her quivering observation, and Sara gulped. His voice, coming to her in the darkness, was low and harsh and attractive, and undeniably mature for a boy of his age. ‘What were you hoping to see, I wonder?’ he added, turning his head towards her. ‘Will you be making a habit of sneaking about the place, when you’re supposed to be in bed? If so, I’ll have to watch I don’t do anything to shock you!’

‘I wasn’t sneaking …’ Sara took an unsteady breath, and then continued: ‘How—how did you know I was here? How did you know it was me ?’

‘Call it—intuition.’ He shifted slightly towards her, and moving closer, she saw the long, useless legs stretched in front of him. ‘Miss—Fielding, isn’t it? Tony’s final solution! Forgive me if I beg to doubt his confidence. He always was hopelessly romantic!’

The harsh disturbing voice scraped on Sara’s senses, but in spite of the cynicism of his words, she knew a kindling surge of encouragement. Surely if Jeff could speak to her like this, he was not the grim, despairing youth she had been led to expect. If, by exposing his nightly ritual, she had pierced the surface shell he evidently presented to the other members of the household, surely she must stand some chance of reasoning with him.