Memories Of The Past. Carole Mortimer
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than half an hour or so’s leisurely relaxation with a glass of good whisky before he was due to eat.
He looked surprised to see Helen down so early, although there was none of the censure in his eyes for what she was wearing that there had been earlier. The classic plain black dress that moved silkily about her body as she walked was one of her father’s favourites. And she knew that, but if he wanted to play at being devious so would she!
She had styled her hair in a much softer style for him too, soft curls piled loosely on top of her head, several loose tendrils on her forehead and cheeks framing her face.
‘A definite improvement.’ He stood up to pour Helen a sherry, eyeing her mischievously. ‘Cal will like the change too, I’m sure.’
She bristled angrily. ‘I really don’t care what Mr Jones likes, as I’m sure you well know,’ she reproved, accepting her sherry and sitting down in an armchair. ‘And the reason I looked the way that I did when I arrived was because I had been to work this morning and drove straight down here from the office.’ And her father was one of the few people she would ever have bothered to explain herself to in this way.
But then, he had obviously known her all her life, and it was a little difficult to stand on your dignity with someone who had changed your nappies for you as a baby, seen you with your two front teeth missing, reassured you that those detested freckles on your nose would disappear one day—although he had been wrong about that—comforted you through your first bout of unrequited love!
He made himself comfortable in the chair opposite her. ‘How is the big city?’ he drawled, his eyes still twinkling, not the clear green of Helen’s but a marvellous hazel colour that made them change from brown to green to blue. Though he was in his mid-fifties, and despite the devastating sadness of losing Helen’s mother so early in their lives together, they hadn’t lost any of their glow.
Helen eyed him derisively, not fooled for a minute. ‘The “big city” is fine,’ she returned drily. ‘And stop being evasive.’
‘Evasive?’ His eyes widened innocently. ‘Me? I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh, Daddy,’ she smiled wryly, ‘you really are a terrible liar.’
He gave a deep sigh, giving up all pretence. ‘It’s my house, Helen——’
‘But it’s my home,’ she cut in protestingly.
He gave her a chiding look. ‘It’s seven years since you left here; London is your home now.’
She shook her head firmly. ‘I always think of Cherry Trees as my home.’
‘Really?’ he returned drily. ‘And how many times have you visited the place during the last year, the last six months, in fact?’ His brows were raised questioningly.
Colour heightened her cheeks at the softly spoken reprimand. She had been down to the house twice in the last year, the last time being at Christmas seven months ago; if she had been here during the last six months she would have recognised the danger of Caleb Jones earlier, and perhaps have been able to put a stop to it before it got this far!
‘It’s still home, Daddy——’
‘It’s a big, rambling old house with lots of memories and the hunger for children’s laughter to fill the rooms once again,’ he cut in harshly. ‘And, as you’ve assured me on several occasions that you’ll never move from London now because it’s where your work is, that you have no intention of marrying or having children, the likelihood of your one day being able to bring my grandchildren down to visit me sometimes seems very remote!’
Helen flinched at the hard accusation in his voice. She knew her father didn’t mean to be deliberately cruel, but nevertheless his words cut into her like a barb.
‘It’s your home,’ she began firmly.
‘Cal has promised me a cottage on the estate so that I can still stay in the area,’ her father dismissed that problem.
‘Cal seems to have thought of everything, doesn’t he?’ she said tautly.
‘It’s only logical——’
‘As far as he’s concerned it’s only logical,’ Helen cut in scathingly. ‘But at the end of the day our home will have been sold and Caleb Jones will own it! It’s all very neat and tidy— in his favour.’
Her father sighed. ‘I’ve already explained that the arrangement suits me too.’
Well, it didn’t suit her! As far as she was concerned Caleb Jones had used his friendship with her father—if indeed that was really what it was—to talk him into something that would, in the long run she was sure, be completely wrong for him. Her father loved this house, and she knew he would regret leaving it almost as soon as the deed had been done.
‘We’ll see,’ she bit out tightly.
‘There’s nothing to see, Helen.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve already made my mind up to sell the house.’
And she was here to undo it. He was being influenced by his feelings of good will towards Caleb Jones, and the other man was obviously taking advantage of that. Caleb Jones might not look like a cynically hardened businessman, but he obviously knew how to behave like one! Maybe it was that very contradiction that had made it possible for him to be so successful!
‘That will be Cal now.’ Her father beamed his pleasure as he stood up to answer the ring of the doorbell. He paused at the door. ‘I hope this is going to be a pleasant evening, Helen.’
She wished she could assure him that it would be, but they must all be aware that at best it was going to be a strain, at worst impossible. And with her father thinking so highly of Caleb Jones, and her own suspicions about the other man, it could so easily become the latter.
She could hear the murmur of the two men’s conversation out in the hallway as her father brought the other man through to the lounge, deciding she would be at less of a disadvantage if she stood up to greet their guest; she really wasn’t that tall, only five feet five inches, but the tailored clothes and neat hairstyle she wore for work gave the impression that she was much more imposing than she was. Tonight she only had the advantage of two-inch heels on her shoes, and as Caleb Jones was well over six feet tall he would still dwarf her.
She stood over by the patio doors that led out into the garden, knowing that from this position she had a clear view of Caleb Jones as he entered the room, but that the shadows in this alcove in early evening would mean it took him a few seconds to locate her.
It seemed a slightly childish move on her part, and yet as Caleb Jones stepped into the lounge ahead of her father she was glad she had taken it. The man looked devastatingly attractive in a dark lounge suit and the palest of green shirts, his dark hair brushed into some sort of order this evening, although it was still too long to be considered fashionable.
But with presence such as this man had he didn’t need to be fashionable! She could recognise that air of authority for what it was now, although she doubted that in his privileged position he very often needed to enforce it.
He came towards her unhesitatingly, not seeming to have needed to have sought her out at all, knowing where she was instinctively. ‘Miss Foster.’ He held out his hand.
‘Her name is Helen, and yours is Cal,’ her father cut in firmly.
‘Yes, please do call me Helen,’ she invited, revealing none of the disturbance she felt as her hand was taken firmly in Caleb Jones’s much larger one. His grip was firm and cool, and just long enough to be remembered. ‘May I say you’re looking slightly better now than you did this afternoon?’ she added with a softness that was designed to take some of the sting out of her words.
The man in front of her didn’t even blink at her deliberate reminder of their first meeting. ‘I feel a lot better than I did this afternoon,’ he returned evenly.
He knew of her