Miranda Lee - A Secret Vengeance

No guest room, of course. Lionel had never wanted his mistress to have guests.

Celia had never stayed here overnight. Neither did she drop in on a weekend, unless her mother gave her the all clear. Running into Lionel had been something to be avoided at all costs since she’d grown up, because Celia had known she would have been vicious to him if the occasion had arisen.

But she visited her mother at least once during most weeks. And regardless of the day, she always knew if Lionel had visited the previous weekend. He’d had this distinctive cologne that he’d always worn, and that had lingered long after he’d been gone. She could remember smelling it in her mother’s bedroom as a child, especially when she’d climbed into her mother’s bed in the morning. It always disturbed her to remember how much she’d liked the smell back then. And how much she’d liked Lionel.

“Mum, let’s go,” Celia said brusquely, and took her mother’s arm.

Jessica went quietly, because she knew it was for the best. There were too many memories of Lionel at Pretty Point. Too many ghosts to haunt her at night. Too many bad thoughts waiting to assail her.

She’d always believed Lionel had genuinely loved her, that his passion for her had been more than sexual.

Now, Jessica wasn’t so sure. Often, in the past, when she hadn’t seen Lionel for some time, she’d begin having these terrible doubts. But once he’d arrived and had taken her in his arms again, all her doubts would vanish.

But he would never take her in his arms again. Never make love to her again. Never tell her how much she meant to him again.

Which meant her doubts would never be put to rest. They would fester and grow like some dreadful disease.

Jessica’s heart seemed to disintegrate in her chest under the weight of this appalling prospect. For if she didn’t believe Lionel had loved her as much as she’d loved him, then what had been the point of all the sacrifices she’d made? Never to write to him, nor send him cards. Never to spend Christmas or birthdays with him. Never to go anywhere in public with him.

Never to have his child.

Had it all been a waste of time? Had his love for her been a horrible illusion? Had he really been a deeply sensitive man…or a wickedly selfish liar?

She couldn’t bear to think such thoughts. Couldn’t bear it.

Suddenly, she began to sob, great heaving sobs which racked her whole body.

“Oh, Mum,” her daughter cried and hugged her close. “You’ll be all right. You’ll see. We just have to get you away from here.”

“IS THAT everything, Harvey?” Luke asked, putting his pen away in his jacket pocket and pushing the papers back across the desk.

“Yes. For now,” the solicitor answered, stacking up all the forms and sliding them into a file.

Luke went to rise from his chair.

“No, wait. There is another small matter concerning your father’s estate which I need your advice upon.”

Luke sat back down and glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to one. He was to meet Isabel downstairs at one for lunch, after which they were going shopping for their wedding rings. “What is it?”

“The Friday before the accident, your father came to see me about a waterfront property he owned on Lake Macquarie.”

Luke frowned. “You wouldn’t be talking about a place on Pretty Point, would you?”

“Yes. That’s the place. Pretty Point. It’s a ten-acre holding, plus a single-bedroomed residence.”

Luke’s frown deepened. “I thought Dad had sold that old place years ago. He’d said he didn’t use it any more because the fishing in the lake wasn’t what it used to be.”

His father had been mad about fishing. He’d taken Luke fishing with him as soon as he’d been old enough to hold a line. By the time Luke was six or seven, father and son would often go away for the weekend together, mostly to the cabin at Pretty Point which had a jetty and a small runabout moored there permanently. Luke’s mother had always stayed home on these occasions. She’d hated everything to do with fish. The smell. The feel. Even the taste.

Luke had loved those weekends, but not because of the fishing. It was his dad’s company and attention he’d loved. In all honesty, Luke found fishing about as fascinating as watching grass grow.

Luke’s discovering basketball in a big way around twelve had finally forced him to confess that he didn’t want to go away fishing any more. He’d wanted to spend his weekends at the local youth club, practising his basketball skills and competing in tournaments.

His dad had been very understanding, as he’d always been understanding. He’d been a great dad. And a great husband too.

Of course, his mum had been a wonderful wife as well, one of the old-fashioned kind who hadn’t worked, and had devoted herself entirely to her husband and son, a woman who’d taken pride in keeping her home spotless and doing all the cooking and cleaning herself, even though they could well have afforded paid help.

Yet she hadn’t been the strongest of women, health-wise, suffering from terrible migraines. Luke could remember as a boy having to be extra quiet around the house when she was having one of her attacks. His father would often come home from work to sit with his wife in her darkened bedroom.

Such a devoted couple.

And now they were both dead, victims of some stoned individual in a four-wheel drive who’d crossed over to the wrong side of the road and had collected his dad’s car, head on.

Come tomorrow, the accident would have happened two weeks ago. It had been on a Saturday night, just this side of midnight. It had happened on the Mona Vale road. They’d been returning from a dinner party at Narrabeen.

They’d only been in their mid-fifties. Hardly old. Talk about life being unfair.

Luke shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. What had Harvey been asking him? Oh, yes…about the weekender at Pretty Point.

“I guess Dad didn’t get round to selling the old place after all,” he said. “He could be sentimental at times. So what did he want to do with it?”

“He wanted to gift it over to a lady friend of his.”

Luke was taken aback. “Who?” he demanded to know.

“A Ms Jessica Gilbert.”

Luke frowned. Who on earth was Ms Jessica Gilbert?

“I don’t recognise the name,” he ground out, trying not to think the impossible, but thinking it all the same.

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Luke,” Harvey advised. “You and I both know your father wasn’t that kind of man.”

Luke certainly hadn’t thought so. Till now. He’d hero-worshipped his father, and had always wanted to be just like him, in every way.

“Did Dad tell you anything about this Ms Gilbert?” he asked, his gut tightening.

“Not all that much. He said she was a lovely lady, to whom life hadn’t been very kind, and whom he wanted to help. Apparently, she doesn’t own a home of her own and he’d been letting her live in the place at Pretty Point for the last few years, rent free. He thought it best if he gifted the property over to her and then she’d have a secure roof over her head for life.”

Luke’s inner tension began to ease. His father was well-known for his charitable gestures. But, for a moment there…

“Your father was worried that if he died suddenly and the present rent-free arrangement came to light, your mother might do exactly what you just did: jump to all the wrong conclusions.”

“I feel terrible for thinking the worst,” Luke confessed, “even for a moment.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. I had a few doubts myself when Lionel first told me, especially when he asked me to be very discreet and not mention it to a soul. But I only had to think of how totally devoted he was to your mother to know I couldn’t be more wrong. So, shall I go ahead then,” Harvey asked, “and gift the property over to this Ms Gilbert?”