Elizabeth Oldfield - Reluctant Father

‘What about us?’ Cass asked, and was unable to keep from smiling.

He was the man she had been hoping for, waiting to love, all her life. The sheer joy of being with him, combined with the sense of absolute comfort which she fell in his presence, insisted that this was the real thing.

‘Our affair’s been…hot, but I figure we should cool it,’ Gifford said, and moistened his lips. Although he had rehearsed his speech it was not coming easily, but a panicky feeling of self-preservation insisted that it must be said. ‘As you know, I’ll be recommending to Bruce that we buy Dexter’s, so chances are we shall meet in the future,’ he continued. ‘But, whilst it may be a clich6, mixing business with pleasure does complicate matters and isn’t such a clever idea.’

Cass’s heart crash-landed, but her smile remained sturdily in place. His words had stabbed like small, sharp daggers ripping into her flesh. She had not been having an ‘affair’; she had been involved in a romance. A romance which she had believed was destined to grow into a close relationship, mature and lasting.

‘I agree,’she said.

Pushing up from his chair, Gifford jammed his fists into his trouser pockets and started to pace around the small kitchen. ‘Getting serious wouldn’t be such a clever idea, either. I have to be honest and admit that I have this dread of being tied down. I’m not cut out for domesticity. I like to be independent, free to go where I want, when I want. I like to be able to ski or sail, or go away on business with no—’ All of a sudden, he broke off and turned to face her. ‘You agree?’ he said, as though her words had only just penetrated.

‘I do. And I never imagined for one moment that we might get serious.’

His brows came down. ‘You didn’t?*

‘Good grief, no ! Our affair’s been fun—’ she released a merry chortle of laughter ‘—but it wasn’t of the lasting variety. As for domesticity, I’m not ready to settle down, either. Not yet. Not for a long time.’

Gifford raked a hand back through the thickness of his dark hair. He looked surprised, yet relieved. Had he expected her to argue or hurl furious recriminations or perhaps burst into floods of tears? she wondered. Her backbone stiffened. It was the first time a man had given her the brush-off, but she was damned if she would cry.

‘You said you’d ring for a cab to take me to the airport,’ he reminded her.

‘Right away,’ she said brightly. ‘Right away.’

What a fool she had been, Cass thought, after he had gone. What a slow-witted, unaware fool. Gifford Tait was such a desirable package—striking looks, athletic physique, healthy bank balance—that legions of women would have hurled themselves at him. Yet for thirty-six years he had remained single. So it followed that he must be actively opposed to commitment. He had never thought in terms of loving her. As for them being kindred spirits—it had been a rosy illusion.

As if to provide proof, a month later she came across a photograph of him at the launch of a TV sports station in a US trade journal. He was standing with Imogen Sales draped around him like a clinging ivy and, in the write-up, the actress, who also came from Boston, was quoted as coyly admitting that they were ‘an item’.

Cass had dropped the journal into the waste-paper basket. She’d refused to collapse in a heap or to bellyache. Gifford Tait would be regarded as a ‘step up the learning curve’—albeit one of the harsher kind—and dismissed from her mind. Given enough time.

But a couple of weeks later the doctor confirmed her suspicion that she was pregnant…

By the time she turned into the drive which led haphazardly down through lacy casuarina trees to the Forgotten Eden, Jack was fast asleep. Cass parked the buggy on the verandah beside the wedged-open kitchen door and went inside.

Edith was in the midst of preparing lunch while Marquise, the chatty teenaged cleaner and part-time waitress, filled vases with sprigs of hibiscus.

‘I like your hair,’ Edith said.

‘Looks real classy,’ Marquise piped up.

Cass grinned. ‘Thanks. What can I do?’

‘You can go next door and get those water glasses,’ Edith said, deftly filleting the freshly caught kingfish which would be baked with garlic and served in a tangy lemon sauce. ‘And while you’re there you can hop on that exercise bike.’

‘The tour group’ll be arriving soon,’ Cass demurred.

She knew she must confront Gifford—and for her to choose the time and place would be preferable to him coming into the restaurant again and surprising her—yet she was not sure she felt ready to confront him right now.

‘The tour group won’t be here for another hour, which gives you plenty of time. And they’re the reason why we could do with the glasses. Marquise and I’ll keep an eye out for bébé waking up.’ Edith shooed her off with a wave of her hand. ‘Now go!’

Once in her cottage, Cass changed into a lavendercoloured leotard, pulled on a pair of grey knit shorts and tied the laces on her trainers. She would, she decided, start by saying that their son was, naturally, with her, and suggest that Gifford might like to see him. Her demeanour would be cool, calm and uncritical. Whilst she longed to deliver a volley of vitriolic home truths and savagely denounce him, for Jack’s sake she could not afford to turn him into an enemy.

The Forgotten Eden sat on a tongue of lush land which ended in a strip of white coral sand at the Indian Ocean. To the east stretched a long, shallow bay, while to the west was the tight horseshoe of the granite boulder-edged cove. Taking a path which skirted the cove and cut up through the trees, Cass set off towards Maison d’Horizon.

Sunlight dappled the yellow-green fronds of palms and lit strands of purple orchids which hung from the trees. There were glimpses of sun-sparkled sea. Dragonflies whizzed around like miniature coloured helicopters.

According to a guide book she had read, when General Charles Gordon, the hero of Khartoum, had visited Praslin in the late 1800s he’d believed he had found the biblical Garden of Eden. She smiled. She could understand his belief.

With thickly wooded hills strewn with huge, cathedral-grand boulders and a wealth of wild blossoms, Praslin had to be one of the most beautiful islands on earth. It was also one of the safest, she mused. Crime was rare, and people seldom bothered to lock their doors.

As Cass padded up the stone steps leading onto the terrace which stretched across the back of the house, her smile faded. Maybe the meeting would be easier if she brought Jack with her and let him work his not unconsiderable charm. Maybe she should turn right around and come back this afternoon. A retreat smacked of cowardice and would mean missing out on the water glasses, but—

She halted. Gifford was walking on the treadmill. The gym was installed in a corner room, and she could see his shadowy outline through the side window. Cautious now, she climbed the remaining steps. Was anyone with him? Imogen Sales, for example? The clinging, rail-thin Imogen. She cast a glance down at the slight swell of her stomach. If so, it would be heel-swivel and exit.

Tiptoeing across the terrace, Cass rounded the corner of the house and peeped cautiously in through sliding glass doors. Wearing only a pair of black boxer shorts, and with his muscled torso glistening with sweat, Gifford continued to pace the treadmill. Her gaze swept past him and swiftly around—there was no one else in the room—then returned.

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