Silver Fruit Upon Silver Trees

When the telephonist answered, Sophie said: “Were you ringing me? I’m afraid I was – in the bathroom.”

“Miss Hollister?” asked the telephonist politely.

Sophie crossed her fingers. “Yes.”

“There is an extension in the bathroom, Miss Hollister,” the telephonist advised her smoothly. Then: “We have been trying to locate you. There’s a gentleman in the foyer waiting to see you. A Mr. St. Vincente.”

St. Vincente! The name threatened to destroy all her new-found confidence. And he was here, in the foyer! She had not expected him to come without calling first.

Managing to keep her voice calm, she said: “I – I see. Er – I’ll come down. Gi – give me five minutes.”

“Very well, Miss Hollister. I’ll tell Mr. St. Vincente you’ll be down directly.”

“Thank you.”

Sophie replaced the receiver and looked down at the simple cotton dress she was wearing. Was this the sort of garment Eve might have worn to meet her grandfather for the first time? Or ought she to change into something a little more formal? She shrugged. Eve would not want her to behave any differently from usual, and the pale blue dress looked cool and attractive against her pale skin.

With a sigh she rose to her feet and walked to the dressing table, examining her face in the mirror there. Her cheeks did look very pale, and her grey eyes seemed to be reproaching her for what she was about to do. But it was too late now. She was here. She was committed.

At the end of the rubber-tiled corridor outside her room, a row of lifts gave access to the ground floor. A dark-skinned West Indian boy smiled at her when she chose to enter his small cage and commented cheerfully upon the weather as they descended the six floors between them and the foyer.

When she walked into the foyer she was trembling, but she had to go on. She crossed to the reception desk covertly examining the men she could see standing about in groups or singly, but none of them seemed old enough to be Eve’s grandfather.

The receptionist of the moment was a slim young Indian who smiled encouragingly at Sophie when she approached him.

“I’m – I’m Miss Hollister,” she said in a low voice. “I understand there’s someone waiting to see me.”

“Oh, yes, Miss Hollister.” The young man nodded. “Mr. St. Vincente is waiting for you in the Kingston Bar.”

“The Kingston Bar,” echoed Sophie faintly. “Where – where’s that?”

“Through the archway, miss. You’ll see the sign on your right.”

“Oh! Oh, thank you.”

Sophie nodded her thanks and turned away from the desk. The Kingston Bar! Hardly the place she would have expected an old man to wait for his long-lost granddaughter, but that was hardly her affair. And how on earth was she to recognize him?

She walked to the archway the young Indian had indicated and looked about her. There were several illuminated signs directing guests to the various different facilities of the hotel and the one indicating the Kingston Bar was easy to find. Everything about the hotel breathed the kind of luxury she had never until now experienced, and the Kingston Bar was no exception. Even at this early hour of the evening there were a number of guests partaking of pre-dinner drinks in the secluded booths set between trellises of climbing plants, vivid with flamboyant blossom. The bar was artificially lit by old ships’ lanterns which cast a shadowy gloom into certain corners inducing an intimate atmosphere, while the bar itself was strung with coloured lights which glinted in the shiny black face of its Trinidadian tender.

Sophie looked down again at her unsophisticated cotton dress. She should have changed, she thought unhappily. After all, it was almost dinner time and the women she could see were all dressed with the ultimate amount of care.

She looked about her helplessly. Where was Eve’s grandfather? Surely he ought to have been waiting near the entrance to the bar, watching for her. But there was no one near the entrance, no one who appeared to be alone at all except a dark man seated on a tall stool at the bar with a tall glass of some amber-looking liquid before him.

Even as her eyes lingered on him the man turned his head and looked her way and a shiver of pure apprehension ran through her. He was easily the most devastatingly attractive male she had ever seen in her life, although she realized there was something cruel in the thin line of his mouth and a sardonic appreciation of the effect he had upon women in the cynical depths of his eyes. They were strange amber-coloured eyes, reflecting the colour of the liquid in the glass he raised to his lips, and they moved over Sophie with insolent consideration.

She looked away from him quickly. She was not used to being assessed in that manner and she didn’t like it. Where on earth was Brandt St. Vincente? Why didn’t he come forward and introduce himself? Surely if he was here, he could see her standing there obviously waiting for someone?

The man at the bar slid off his stool, swallowed a mouthful of his drink, made a casual comment to the bartender and then walked toward her. Sophie’s pulses raced alarmingly, and she half turned away. Heavens, she thought in dismay. He thinks I’m on the lookout for a man!

“Eve?” The attractive male voice spoke somewhere near her temple.

She gasped and spun round again. The man from the bar was standing negligently before her, one hand brushing the jacket of his immaculate dark brown silk suit aside to rest on his hip just above the low waistband of his trousers, his other arm hanging casually at his side. Close to he was even more disturbing than before, and Sophie could hardly formulate the words she wanted to say. His hard body, lean and muscled, was only inches away from hers, his lazy intelligent eyes were regarding her with vague mockery, and he emanated an aura of latent strength and virility.

“I – I think you’ve made a mistake –” she was beginning, when he interrupted her.

“You are – Eve Hollister, are you not?” he queried, dark eyebrows lifting sardonically.

Sophie stared at him. “Well – yes, I’m Eve Hollister. But – but who are you?”

He straightened. “My name is Edge St. Vincente. Surely my father mentioned me.”

“Edge –” Sophie brought herself up short. “You were – I mean – you’re my mother’s brother?”

“I believe I have that privilege.” She had the feeling he was enjoying her consternation.

“Then – then are you the – the Mr. St. Vincente who – who is waiting for me?” Eve could scarcely take it in. This man was Edge St. Vincente, the brother of Eve’s dead mother, the man Eve had described to Sophie as being a widower of middle age!

She shook her head. Edge St. Vincente wasn’t middle-aged. She doubted he was much over thirty-five, and she had the feeling that the experience in those strange amber eyes of his had not been put there by his wife.

CHAPTER TWO

“THAT is correct,” Edge St. Vincente was saying now. “Who were you expecting?”

Sophie gathered her scattered wits. “I – I thought – my grandfather –”

“Oh, I see.” Edge inclined his head. “Well, no. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my father seldom visits Port of Spain. He doesn’t care for the – er –” he glanced round expressively, shrugging, “– the atmosphere of the place.”

“I see.” Sophie pressed her hands together.

Edge returned his attention to her, studying her intently, bringing the hot colour to her pale cheeks. “So you’re Eve. You don’t look much like your mother.”

Sophie tried to return his gaze. “I suppose I must take after my father.”

“I suppose.” His expression had become brooding. “Well –” He looked towards the bar. “Shall we have a drink?”

Sophie hesitated. “I don’t – drink much.”

“Don’t you?” Again the dark brows were lifted. “I thought all newspaper women enjoyed the social side of their work.”

“Newspaper women?” Sophie was really shocked now and she couldn’t hide it.

“Yes.” Edge turned back towards the bar and she had perforce to fall into step beside him. “You are a reporter, aren’t you? Or is that some other Eve Hollister?”

Sophie felt shattered. In one sentence Edge St. Vincente had destroyed the whole image Eve had so painstakingly built around her. They ought to have realized that a family like the St. Vincentes would not accept a stranger into their midst without first checking up on her. But how much checking up had been done? And by whom?

She chanced a swift sideways glance at her companion. He seemed relaxed enough. There had been no censure in his remark. But how could she tell? All her old fears came to haunt her. She should not have given in to Eve; she should not have agreed to come. She ought to have known that she could never get away with it.

They had reached the bar and Edge indicated that she should take one of the tall stools while he attracted the attention of the barman. Sophie climbed on to the stool with some misgivings, trying desperately to think of some reply to make.

Edge sat easily on the stool beside her, his arms resting on the bar. He was much taller than she was and had not had the difficulty getting on to his seat that she had had. He summoned the bartender and when he came he ordered himself another Bacardi and Coke and then looked quizzically at Sophie.

“Well?” he urged her. “What’s it to be?”

Sophie ran her tongue over dry lips. “Perhaps – a sherry?” she suggested.

“Sherry?” He sounded amused. “All right. And a sherry, too, Gene.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. St. Vincente.”

The bartender grinned and moved away to get their drinks. Sophie rested her hands on the bar to stop them from fidgeting. She glanced nervously round the dimly lit area, and shifted rather awkwardly on her stool. She wondered whether he was aware of her extreme state of tension. She thought it was likely.

He drew out a long case of cigars and regarded them thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you a cigarette, but Gene can give you some if you need them.”

“I – I don’t smoke.”

“Don’t you now?” His eyes narrowed as he placed a thick cigar between his teeth. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

Sophie was convinced he was playing some sort of cat and mouse game with her. She opened her mouth to say that he had no need to say anything else. She admitted the truth; she was not Eve Hollister and she intended leaving Trinidad as soon as she could possibly get a flight.

But the words were never uttered, because he said: “I suppose you should 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 put long fingers with purple lacquered nails on the fine material of his sleeve. “Oh, Edge darling, surely you can stay in town for dinner,” she appealed.

“I’m afraid not.” Edge moved so that her hand fell to her side.

“But it’s ages since I’ve seen you –”

“I’m sorry, Sandra.”

Sandra compressed her lips and looked coldly in Sophie’s direction. “Aren’t you lucky you’re only his niece,” she asked, with scarcely veiled sarcasm. “He’s such a pig where women are concerned, aren’t you, darling?”

Edge ignored her and looked compellingly at Sophie. “Are you ready?”

Sophie nodded. “Yes. One of the bellboys is looking after my suitcase in the foyer.” She spoke quickly, wanting to get away, conscious of the other woman’s humiliation, almost pitying her for it.

“Good. You go ahead. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

As she walked towards the doorway, Sophie heard the brief interchange between them. She heard Sandra’s almost tearful appeals and Edge’s cruel rejection, and then he was beside her, walking carelessly through to the foyer, and when she stole a glance in his direction he seemed totally indifferent to what had just occurred. She shivered. If ever any man spoke to her as Edge had just spoken to Sandra March she felt she would want to curl up and die. And yet Sandra was married. Didn’t her husband mean anything to her?

The bellboy willingly carried Sophie’s suitcase out to where Edge’s car was parked, and Sophie realized why when Edge handed him a five-dollar bill. She wondered whether she should have tipped the boy, but then forgot about it in the other interests of the moment.

Dusk had fallen while they were having their drinks in the bar and now the coolness of evening had a velvety warmth about it. Even the traffic in the busy street seemed to have ebbed somewhat, although there seemed no lessening in the crowds of people thronging into the shops where silver and wood-carvings, Indian silks and Chinese jewellery attracted attention.

Edge’s car was an enormous Mercedes station wagon, sleek and powerful, despite its covering film of dust. He unlocked the passenger side door, threw her case inside on to the back seat, and then indicated that she should get in. Sophie did so willingly. She would be glad to get away from the hotel and all the pitfalls it represented. Edge slammed the door behind her and then walked round the bonnet to climb in beside her. He held on to the roof of the vehicle as he got in, sliding into his seat with lithe, supple movements. He pressed the keys into the ignition, but before starting the motor he said:

“You don’t have to act as if I were some kind of monster, you know. I assure you, Sandra is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”

Sophie’s cheeks flamed and she was glad of the shadows in the car to hide them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about –”

“Oh yes, you do.” He adjusted his clothes more comfortably. “I do have some small knowledge of your sex, and I’m quite aware that you feel a certain amount of sympathy for her.”

“It’s nothing to do with me.”

“I agree. It’s not. Nevertheless, save your sympathies for someone who deserves it!”

He flicked the ignition then and the powerful engine roared to life. He turned the wheel with smooth expertise and the large vehicle moved smoothly out of the parking area and into the stream of traffic.

Now Sophie could hear the rhythmic beat of a steel band playing somewhere close at hand, and the pulsating sound caused a sudden and uncontrollable surge of anticipation to run through her body. There was something wholly primitive about that drumming, a wild and stirring penetration of the depths of her consciousness arousing a desire to keep time with the music. She was used to modern music at home, used to moving to the thrumming of electric guitars, but this was different. This was the real thing played by people with generations of African culture behind them. She turned her gaze in Edge St. Vincente’s direction, but he seemed totally unaffected by the sounds that came clearly even over the roar of the traffic. No doubt he had heard it all many times before and it was no novelty to him. But to Sophie it was all new and exciting and for a few moments she forgot that she was the interloper here and sighed in pure enjoyment.

The sound drew Edge’s attention. “You’re tired?” he asked.

Sophie shook her head. “No.” She lifted her shoulders and let them fall expressively. “Isn’t that music marvellous?”

Edge’s lips twisted slightly. “I wonder if you’ll be saying that in a few weeks’ time.”

“Why?” Sophie frowned.

“It’s Carnival in three weeks. You’ll hear so much pan you’ll wish it had never been invented.”

“Pan?”

“Sure. That’s the common name for the steel bands. You know the instruments were fashioned out of empty oil drums, don’t you ? Steel pans?”

“Oh, I see.” Sophie was interested. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it?”

“That rather depends on what you find fascinating,” remarked Edge dryly. “I gather you like that kind of music.”

“I like all kinds of music,” retorted Sophie defensively. “Don’t you?”

Edge shrugged. “I’ve no doubt you’ll have more in common with my son in that respect,” he returned, rather sardonically, and Sophie stiffened. His son! Eve hadn’t mentioned that Edge had a son!

And then, unwillingly, she recalled something Sandra March had said and which at the time had made no impression on her. She had asked whether – Piers – knew he had a cousin! Of course. She ought to have realized. If he was Eve’s cousin, he had to be Edge’s son.

She swallowed hard. “Piers?” she managed, rather chokily.

“Yes.” Edge looked her way for a moment. “How old did you say you were?”

“I – I’m twenty – five.” She felt a wave of sweat break out on her forehead. She had almost said twenty-two!

“Twenty-five,” echoed Edge, shaking his head, “You don’t look it.”

“Thank you for the compliment.” She was trying to sound flip, but couldn’t. “H – how old is Piers?”

“Didn’t my father tell you?”

“He – he may have done. I – I’ve forgotten.” That was reasonable, wasn’t it?

“He’s seventeen.”

“Oh, I see.” Sophie bent her head. Seventeen! Only five years younger than she was. So how old did that make this man who was Eve’s uncle? And why was she interested anyway?

Edge swung the car out of the bright lights of the main streets into a shadowy suburb where palm trees looked exotic in the glare of the headlights. They were gradually climbing higher and higher out of the town into the hills around, and glancing back Sophie could see the fairyland of lights spreading out below them. She felt an unwelcome twinge of apprehension. Down in the town she had still felt in a sense in command of her own destiny, capable of escaping back to England and denouncing her position if things got too difficult. But no longer. She was here, she was committed to the role she had agreed to play, and she knew instinctively that Edge St. Vincente would brook no uncertainty on her part. He was not the kind of man to play games with, and if ever he found out that she had been deceiving them ...