call me Uncle, shouldn’t you?”
Sophie’s fingers curled into her palms. “I – I – if you like.”
Edge St. Vincente was serious now, the mockery gone from his eyes. “It’s what my father will expect,” he stated quietly, lighting his cigar with a gold lighter. “But whether or not you choose to use the definition is, I suppose, up to you.”
The bartender, Gene, returned with their drinks. He put them down and then rubbed the bar nearby with a damp cloth as though waiting for something more. Edge nodded his thanks, and then said: “You tell your brother-in-law to give me a call. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Yes, sir.” Gene’s face broke into a wide grin. “I’d sure be grateful, Mr. St. Vincente.”
“That’s okay.” Edge gave a gesture of dismissal and the bartender moved away to attend to another customer. Then Edge turned his attention back to Sophie. “Now: tell me. Did you have a good flight ?”
Sophie’s fingers curved round the stem of her glass as though it was a lifeline. “Yes, thank you,” she replied quickly. She was about to go on and say that she had not done enough flying to know what was good and what was not, but she was wary now of what he might know and Eve was used to taking trips to the continent. “I – the flight landed late last night.”
“Yes.” Edge swallowed a mouthful of the Barcardi and Coke. There was a slice of lemon cut and draped to the side of his glass and he took it off and squeezed its juice into the spirit. The action drew attention to his hands, long-fingered brown hands, totally unlike the hands of any farmer Sophie had ever seen. But then the St. Vincentes were not ordinary farmers, were they? “My father was delighted to receive your telegram. You should have let us know the time of your flight and someone could have met you at the airport.”
“I – I knew it would be so late in arriving. I thought it would be easier ...” Sophie’s voice trailed away. She sipped her sherry. This was only the beginning, she told herself severely. It was going to get much harder than this.
“Never mind.” Edge let her off the hook. He drew on his cigar, exhaling a delicious aroma of Havana tobacco around them. “You’re here now, and that’s what matters, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Sophie wished she felt as confident. “I – er – how far is it to – to your home ?”
“Pointe St. Vincente?” He shrugged. “About thirty miles; north of here and along the coast.”
“Oh, yes.” Sophie looked into her drink. “I – I’m looking forward to meeting my – my grandfather.”
“I expect you are.” Edge’s eyes were unnervingly penetrating. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Now?”
“In a few minutes.”
Sophie thought of the hotel bill, made out in Sophie Slater’s name. Her heart thumped uncomfortably loudly. Couldn’t he hear it too?
“If – if you’ll wait here, I’ll go and collect my things,” she said.
“All right.” Edge finished the Bacardi and Coke, and summoned Gene again. “I’ll have another.”
Sophie slid off the stool. “I shan’t be long.”
“You haven’t finished your sherry.”
“Oh! Well, I’m not very thirsty.”
His eyes narrowed. “Very well. I’ll wait here.”
Sophie nodded and hurried out of the Kingston Bar. In the hotel foyer she looked hopefully towards the reception desk and her silent prayers were answered. The Indian receptionist had gone and in his place was a dark-skinned West Indian girl she had not seen before. Sophie went up to her and explained who she was and that she would be leaving in a few minutes. The girl was polite and understanding. She agreed to have the bill ready and waiting when she came downstairs again after collecting her belongings.
The lift seemed to take aeons to reach the seventh floor and her key stuck in the lock and wouldn’t immediately turn. It seemed to take her ages to gather her things together and reach the foyer again, and she was amazed to discover she had only taken fifteen minutes.
Leaving her suitcase in the charge of a bellhop, she quickly crossed the foyer to the reception desk. A swift glance around had assured her that Edge St. Vincente was nowhere to be seen, and when the girl presented her bill Sophie paid it without even bothering to check it. Then she turned back towards the bar.
Edge St. Vincente was still seated at the long bar, but now he was not alone. A woman was draped on the stool which Sophie had previously occupied, a slim red-haired woman dressed in a long chiffon gown in shades of yellow. Sophie approached them nervously. Neither of them appeared to have noticed her presence and she didn’t quite know whether she ought to interrupt. The woman had her back to the entrance, but Edge had not, and just when Sophie was considering turning away he caught sight of her and slid abruptly off his stool. Casting a wry glance at his companion, he said: “Here is my niece now, Sandra. Eve Hollister. Eve, come and be introduced to an old friend of mine.”
As Sophie approached the woman turned rather languidly in her seat, resting an elbow in the bar to support herself. She was older than Sophie had at first imagined, about thirty, she thought, but maturity had added to rather than detracted from her beauty. There was something vaguely oriental about her classically moulded features, and she gave Edge a slanted glance from between slightly almond-shaped lids that belied a wholly European ancestry.
“I didn’t know you were an uncle, darling,” she murmured.
“Didn’t you?” Edge half smiled. “Well, one learns a little something every day.”
“Does Piers know he has a cousin?”
“I imagine he’s as aware of that fact as anyone,” returned Edge smoothly. Then, as though realizing that Sophie was standing listening to this with a certain amount of perplexity, he said: “Eve, allow me to present Mrs. March. Her husband and I share an interest in a small company on the southern coast of the island.”
“How do you do?”
Sophie shook hands with Sandra March rather reluctantly. There was something about the older woman which repulsed her a little, although she wasn’t quite sure what. It couldn’t have anything to do with the rather proprietorial looks she was bestowing on Edge St. Vincente. His private affairs were nothing to do with Sophie. All the same, she didn’t think it was right that a married woman should treat any man but her husband with such provocative intimacy.
“So you’re Jennifer’s daughter.” Sandra March spoke consideringly. “And is Brandt killing the proverbial fatted calf in your honour?”
“Brandt?” For a moment Sophie felt blank. “Oh, you mean – my grandfather.”
“That’s right. He must be softening in his old age. He always swore he’d never forgive your mother for what she did.”
“That’s enough, Sandra.” Edge’s tone was incisive, and Sophie was amazed at the way his words could explode Sandra’s bubble of confidence. “Now, you must excuse us. We have to be going.”
Sandra
