Island in the Sea (8 page)

“They smell wonderful.” She glanced at his twill slacks and leather loafers. “I hope we're not going to an elegant restaurant where waiters pour three types of wine, like a game of cups at a child's birthday party. It's a gorgeous day, I'd rather eat a salad sandwich and feed the pigeons in Hyde Park.”

Lionel took her arm and propelled her down the stairs. He stopped in front of a blue Mini and opened the passenger door.

“It's a surprise.” He hopped into the driver's seat. “But I promise there won't be entrées with French names or wines that cost more than this car.”

“Where did you get the car?” Samantha asked.

Lionel turned to her and grinned. “Penelope lent it to me. I hope I remember how to drive.”

*   *   *

Lionel drove out of London and saw green fields and tall church spires. He glanced at the passenger seat and saw Samantha fiddle with the edge of her dress. He clutched the steering wheel and sucked in his breath.

They drove for almost two hours and Lionel longed to stop at a pub for a beer and a plate of fish and chips. Finally he pulled into a village with thatched houses and cobblestoned streets. There was a river and lush gardens and wide willow trees.

“Where are we?” Samantha asked.

“Stratford-upon-Avon.” Lionel jumped out of the car. “Birthplace of the greatest poet of all time, William Shakespeare.”

*   *   *

They stood in the courtyard of Holy Trinity Church and gazed at the stone monuments and stained glass windows. They visited Ann Hathaway's cottage and explored the Swan Theater. They bought vanilla drumsticks on High Street and watched canal boats glide along the Avon River.

Finally they walked to Henley Street and stopped in front of a house with a slanted roof and lacquered window boxes. It had tall hedges and fruit trees and a goldfish pond.

“Shakespeare's father was a successful glover, and they owned the largest house on Henley Street,” Lionel said, leading Samantha into the garden. “William had a privileged childhood and attended the local grammar school. He lived here until he was in his early twenties and then he ran off to London. He wrote thirty-seven plays and a hundred and fifty-seven sonnets and is the most popular writer in history.

“I know you think I should do something important like become a doctor or a lawyer. But can you imagine a world without
Romeo and Juliet
? How many schoolchildren can recite Hamlet's soliloquy or know the words to Shakespeare's sonnets? I can never be like Shakespeare but I have to try. If I write one song that makes people want to get up in the morning or lyrics that make their day a little brighter, I'll have achieved my goal.”

Samantha walked to the hedge and inhaled the scent of daffodils and tulips. Lionel studied her slender cheekbones and thought he should have stayed in London. He should have taken her to a smart bar in Knightsbridge or a hip café on King's Road.

She turned back to Lionel and adjusted her skirt. She looked at his curly dark hair and green eyes and smiled.

“You will.”

“I will what?” Lionel asked.

“You will write songs they'll play on radio stations and in concert halls. Every artist will want to work with you and you'll have your own table at Annabelle's. You'll travel to Argentina and Turkey and fans will beg for your autograph.”

Lionel leaned forward and kissed her softly on the lips. He inhaled the scent of her perfume and felt a throbbing in his chest.

“Let's go. He took her hand and led her onto Henley Street. He hurried along the sidewalk and stopped in front of a restaurant with striped awnings and plate glass windows.

“What are we doing?” Samantha frowned.

“We're going to Benson's and having raspberry scones with lemon curd and clotted cream. Because the only thing that will stop me from making love to you in the back of the car is to sit in a stuffy restaurant surrounded by middle-aged women eating lobster rolls and vanilla custard.”

*   *   *

They sat at a table by the window and ate Scottish salmon and ham and tomato sandwiches. Lionel brushed her arm with his fingers and wanted to wrap his arms around her. He wanted to kiss her on the mouth and press her against his chest.

“If you're going to be a great songwriter you have to learn discipline.” Samantha buttered a slice of tea cake.

“I'm extremely disciplined,” Lionel protested. “I get up every morning and swim fifty laps in the pool. I drink a glass of orange juice and eat a slice of whole wheat toast. Then I sit at my desk until it's time to go to work.”

“What do you do at your desk?” Samantha asked.

“I read Sir Walter Scott and Rudyard Kipling.” Lionel wavered. “Sometimes I pull out a copy of
GQ
or
HELLO!
You never know where you'll get an idea for a song.”

“You can't be distracted by glossy photos or celebrity exposés,” Samantha insisted. “You have to sit at your desk with nothing but a notebook and a piece of paper. A real writer gets his inspiration from within.”

Lionel watched her spread strawberry preserve on a warm scone and felt his heart lift. He searched his pocket for a pen and scribbled on a napkin.

“What are you doing?” Samantha asked.

Lionel looked up and his eyes sparkled. “I'm writing a love song to the most beautiful girl in the world.”

*   *   *

Lionel stubbed out his cigarette and glanced at Juliet's pale cheeks and watery eyes. He walked to the mosaic bar and poured a glass of Grey Goose. He added a twist of lime and handed it to Juliet.

“Drink this, vodka is the cure for everything,” he insisted. “It goes down as easily as the cough syrup my mother gave me as a child. I always wondered why she allowed me to have chocolate syrup at bedtime.”

“I don't drink during the day.” Juliet shook her head.

“You do today; I thought American women were so strong they could trek through Nepal with nothing but a backpack or float down the Amazon in a bikini and sunscreen.” Lionel paused. “You are as pale as a character in a Henry James novel.”

Juliet took a sip and grimaced. “I must have eaten a bad piece of fruit at breakfast, I'm going to the hotel and lie down.”

“You can sit by the pool,” Lionel suggested. “I'll rustle up a tostada and a bowl of cold tomato soup.”

“I might feel better if you tried to write a song,” Juliet replied. “I have to e-mail Gideon and tell him my progress. Think about your first date with Samantha, surely you could write some lyrics about the heady rush of meeting someone new.”

“I'm not a trained monkey,” Lionel snapped. “I can't write songs on cue.”

“Then I should go. I have work to catch up on.” Juliet stood up. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

*   *   *

Lionel stood at the French doors and glanced at the turquoise swimming pool. Why had he invited Juliet to stay when he couldn't wait to get rid of her? He pictured her drawn cheeks and thought he was only trying to make her feel better.

He walked to the bar and poured a shot of Grey Goose. The alcohol made his throat burn and his eyes sting. He put the empty glass back on the bar and sat on the striped love seat.

He dug the notepad from under the cushions and flipped it open. After he covered two pages in tight cursive he leaned against the silk cushions and put his head in his hands.

He jumped up and walked to the Regency desk. He sifted through the papers and found his leather-bound address book. He grabbed his phone and dialed the number.

chapter seven

J
ULIET SAT AT THE DRESSING
table and dusted her cheeks with powder. She smoothed her hair behind her ears and rubbed her lips with pink lip-gloss. She glanced at the bowl of peaches housekeeping left on the glass coffee table and realized she was starving.

She had come back from Lionel's villa and climbed into the four-poster bed. She pulled the floral comforter around her shoulders and tried to stop shaking. Finally she closed her eyes and woke to the sound of church bells ringing. She glanced at the sun streaming through the white shutters and realized it was early afternoon.

She called Lionel to apologize and he insisted she spend the rest of the day in bed. She had a summer cold and he didn't want Gideon to blame him if it got worse.

She wrapped herself in a cotton robe and sat on a chaise longue in the garden. She gazed at the twinkling Mediterranean and boats bobbing in the harbor and thought how much she loved Majorca. Everywhere she looked there were green inlets and elegant pastel colored villas.

Now it was almost sunset and the sky turned a muted purple. She slipped on gold sandals and gathered her purse. She was meeting Gabriella in Sóller for dinner and didn't want to be late.

She remembered Gabriella's clear voice drifting through the kitchen and wished she could convince her to record a tape. She pictured Hugo's arms wrapped around Gabriella's waist and felt an empty pit in her stomach.

She ran down the wood staircase and heard her phone buzz. She slipped it out of her purse and read the text. She looked up and saw the concierge standing at the marble desk.

“Good evening, Miss Lyman,” the concierge called. “I see you made reservations for two at Ca'n Pintxo. You and your date will enjoy the roasted sea bream, it's the best on the island.”

“I was meeting a friend but she just texted and canceled.” Juliet looked up from her phone. “Her mother twisted her ankle and she has to work.”

“I'm sure you'll find another dining companion.” The concierge studied her chiffon dress and small diamond earrings. “It's Friday night and the plaza will be full of young people.”

“I think I'll just order room service.” Juliet sighed. “Perhaps you could send up a plate of tapas and a bowl of soup.”

“I'm afraid room service is unavailable,” the concierge explained. “We are having a reception for guests on the terrace. Chef Pedro has prepared a luscious spread including beef tartar and Majorcan vegetables.”

Juliet peered outside and saw gold tablecloths set with flickering candles and bottles of olive oil. There were platters of sea bass and grilled scallops and veal medallions. She inhaled the scent of butter and garlic and felt her shoulders relax.

“That sounds wonderful.” She followed him onto the patio. “I would love a glass of Torres Pinot Noir.”

*   *   *

She stood under the trellis and gazed at the lush gardens. It was almost dark and silver lights twinkled above the swimming pool. She watched waiters in white dinner jackets pass trays of lobster ravioli and smiled.

“I haven't seen you before, are you here on business on pleasure?” A man approached her. He had curly blond hair and wore a blue shirt and tan slacks. “Majorca is one of Europe's best kept secrets. Most people think they have to go to the French Riviera for spectacular beaches or the Italian lakes for gourmet cuisine, but Majorca has fabulous views and delicious seafood and swimming and sailing.”

“I'm here on business. I only arrived a few days ago but I love everything about it,” Juliet replied. “I've never seen so many colors and everyone is friendly.”

“Let me guess,” the man said. “You're a model preparing for the runway shows in Paris or an international attorney celebrating winning a big case in Madrid.”

“You wouldn't make a very good Sherlock Holmes.” Juliet laughed. “I'm an executive at a record label in Los Angeles, I'm working with a songwriter.”

“Then you're wasting a very good pair of legs.” He grinned. “My name is Henry. I'm a tennis player and my coach rents a hacienda in Palma. Every night he hosts a party with smoked salmon and bottles of tequila and dancing. But the music is too loud and everybody smokes. I'd rather watch the sunset and eat black truffle risotto.”

“I wanted to stay in my room and order room service but the concierge said it wasn't available.” Juliet nodded.

Henry studied her brown hair and blue eyes and small pink mouth. He ate a last bite of risotto and his face lit up in a smile.

“I'm glad you came; my coach doesn't let me eat dessert. Maybe we can share a slice of almond cake.”

*   *   *

They sat at a round table and ate lamb skewers. Juliet watched the sun melt into the Mediterranean and felt light and happy.

“I'm from New Zealand,” Henry said. “Everyone thinks it's just green valleys and sheep but we have an opera house and a World Cup sailing team. I wish I could go home more often, but it's a fourteen-hour flight from almost anywhere and if I don't have extra legroom I get a crick in my neck.”

“I worked with a band from New Zealand,” Juliet mused. “They'd never been to America before, they thought everywhere we went was Disneyland. They filled their suitcases with boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios and Cinnamon Toast Crunch because they'd never seen so many kinds of cereal.”

“I've played tennis in the mountains of Peru and at an ashram in India and a castle in Scotland. I love seeing new places but sometimes I wish I went to the same office every day like my father. Every night he trades his briefcase for a martini and on Sundays they eat lunch at the club.” He sipped his drink. “But I could never sit still, the only place I'm happy is on a tennis court slamming a ball across the net.”

“When I'm in the recording studio I live on black coffee and turkey sandwiches with mayonnaise and wilted lettuce. At night I can't sleep because I have music tracks running through my head.” Juliet clutched her wineglass. “But when I'm driving on the I-405 and hear that new song on the radio, I feel like my heart is going to explode.”

They ate silver bowls of pistachio ice cream with sliced kiwis. Juliet felt the breeze blow down from the mountains and wrapped her arms around her chest.

“This has been lovely.” She stood up. “But I'm going upstairs to bed.”