The Marriage Truce. Sara Craven
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both unhappy with their flatsharing arrangements, they’d moved into a place of their own together.
The gallery had been a successful one. The owner, Raymond Haville, had had a sure eye for talent, and a good commercial sense, but he’d been nearing retirement and basically indolent, preferring to leave the day-to-day running of the business to his assistants. In many ways this had been a baptism of fire for Jenna, but she’d soon found herself gaining confidence and enjoying the challenge.
‘We make a good team,’ she’d once said buoyantly to Natasha, who’d nodded thoughtfully.
‘Something we should bear in mind for the future, perhaps,’ she’d returned.
But shortly after that Ross had come back into Jenna’s life, and it had seemed as if her future was certain—settled, and all else had been forgotten.
Until, of course, her new world had come crashing down in ruins around her, and then, suddenly, Tasha had been there for her, strong and supportive, and offering a different kind of hope.
Raymond Haville was finally giving up, she’d told her, and her elderly godfather had also died, leaving her his antiques business, which had seen better days but was based in excellent premises.
‘So why don’t we go for it?’ she’d urged. ‘Pool our resources and open our own gallery. Raymond will let us use his contacts, and we know more than he does about the admin side.’
At first Jenna had been reluctant, unsure whether she was ready to cope with such hectic demands on her time and energy, but Tasha had been firm.
‘I think it’s exactly what you need,’ she’d said. ‘Something to take your mind off—everything else. I know you still need to grieve, honey,’ she’d added, more gently. ‘But you won’t have time to brood. So, let’s give our team a chance.’
So, almost before she knew it, Jenna had found herself a partner in a modest gallery, selling paintings, pottery and small sculptures. And discovering success.
Ross had moved out of the house they’d shared, and disclaimed any financial interest in it, so Jenna had sold up. Impossible to remain there alone, haunted by her delusions of happiness. She’d bought a smaller place, investing the surplus funds in the business and giving herself an equal stake with Natasha.
So now, two years on, she had a home and a career, for both of which she was inordinately grateful. Professionally, her life was fulfilling. Socially too she kept busy. She went to the theatre and the cinema, with Natasha and other friends. And as her circle of acquaintance had widened she’d begun to attend dinner parties. She smiled and chatted to the pleasant men who’d been invited to partner her, and, watched with wistful anxiety by her hostesses, politely evaded the inevitable follow-up invitations.
There would come a time when her personal life would need fulfilment again; she was sure of it. But that time was not yet. At present, celibacy seemed much the safer option.
And right now she had another choice to make. Should she stay, or should she run? Her primary instinct told her to get out, and fast. She had suffered enough already at Ross’s hands.
But reason advised caution. Maybe this meeting, so long dreaded, was the very catalyst she needed in order to close the lid on the past once and for all. Achieve some kind of closure on a relationship that should never have existed in the first place.
And there were other factors to take into account—Christy’s disappointment at losing her matron of honour not being the least. It would be selfish and unkind to upset arrangements that had been months in the planning. And it was improbable that anyone else could possibly wear the slender sheath of primrose silk that she planned to wear as she followed Christy up the aisle.
Besides—and this was important too—Ross would doubtless be expecting her to vanish back to London—to take the coward’s way out, she thought, her mouth twisting. And why should she oblige him by being so predictable?
Far better to let him see how little she cared about the past by standing her ground and toughing it out.
After all, it was only three days to the wedding, and then she could quite legitimately return to London—although she knew her aunt and uncle had been hoping she might stay on for a few days.
I, she thought, can survive three days.
‘Jenna.’
Over the boom of the surf, and the mourning of the wind, she heard her name spoken.
For a moment she was very still, telling herself with a kind of desperation that it couldn’t be true. That it was just a figment of her imagination, conjured up because she had allowed herself to think about Ross—to indulge memories that were best ignored.
‘Jenna.’
She heard it again, and knew there could be no mistake—and no respite either. The moment she had feared all these months was upon her at last.
Because no one else had ever said her name with quite that same intonation, the first syllable softened and deliberately emphasised.
There was a time when that sound alone had had the power to melt her bones, as if she felt the touch of his hand, the brush of his lips on her naked skin.
Now it seemed as if a stone had lodged, hard and cold, in the pit of her stomach. Her hands tightened briefly, convulsively, on the back of the bench, and the roar of the sea was no louder than the thunder of her own pulses as slowly she turned to face him.
He was, she discovered, startled, only a few yards away from her. How could she not have known—not been aware of his approach? Her emotional antennae must have been dulled by all those false alarms in the past.
Striving for composure, she balled her hands into fists and thrust them deep into the pockets of her jacket. If they were going to start shaking it was no one’s business but her own, she thought, and she made herself meet his gaze.
Although it was not easy to do so. His eyes went over her, slowly, searchingly, the straight black brows drawing together in a slight frown.
She knew exactly what he was seeing. The brown suede covered a tawny jersey. A silk scarf was knotted at her throat, and her long legs were booted to the knee under a brief skirt in pale tweed.
A successful, even affluent look—casual, but confident.
And she needed every scrap of confidence that was at her disposal.
He, she saw, was wearing black. Close-fitting pants that stressed the length of his legs, a roll-neck sweater and a leather jacket.
Belated mourning? she wondered bitterly, as the block of stone inside her twisted slowly. Agonisingly.
He said abruptly, ‘You’re thinner.’
It was so totally typical of him, Jenna thought, almost stung to unexpected laughter. None of the niceties or formalities of polite conversation for Ross. No cautious breaking of the ice between two people who had parted badly and never met since.
Well, if that was how he wanted to play it …
She shrugged. ‘Then I’m in fashion.’ She kept her tone cool to the point of indifference.
He smiled, that familiar, ironic twist of the mouth. ‘Since when did you care about that?’
‘Perhaps I’ve changed,’ she said. ‘People do.’
He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘You haven’t changed so much,’ he said. ‘Or how would I have known where to find you?’ He gestured towards the sea. ‘This was always your favourite place.’
‘You came—looking for me?’ She could not suppress the note of incredulity, but managed a tiny laugh to cover it. ‘And I thought it was just a ghastly coincidence.’
‘I thought perhaps we should—talk a little.’
‘I really don’t think we have anything left to talk about,’ Jenna