Out of Bounds (22 page)

Tears spilled down Jetta’s face, and her hand holding
the letter trembled more than Gran’s ever had. She squeezed her
eyes closed for a moment before she started to read.

My darling Jetta.

If Mr Winters has given you this, then I have said
goodbye to this earth and gone to my Heavenly Father. I want you to
know that you were the greatest treasure in my life. We didn’t have
your mother for long enough, but you were a wonderful consolation
when we lost her. To see you growing up was to see Margaret growing
up all over again.

Jetta gave a great gulping sob. Somewhere, buried
deep in the back of her mind, she’d always presumed she’d been a
horrible nuisance to her grandparents. It was so good to know that
hadn’t been the case.

There’s something I must warn you about, my dearest
girl, and you will need to be brave about what I am going to tell
you.

She bit her lip as she slid the first page away.
Brave? What could be wrong?

We have left the house to you, but it’s possible a
man will also try and claim a share. His name is Anthony, and he is
your grandfather’s son.

Jetta dropped the letter and clamped a hand
over her mouth in disbelief. Her breakfast burned upwards, and she
had to use all her concentration to stop herself vomiting it up.
Anton was Grandpa’s
son
? How was that possible? How could
Grandpa do that to her grandmother?

And worse—much, much worse—that made
Anton...what? Her uncle? Her half uncle? Her half brother? Not
quite any of those perhaps, but far too close to be sleeping
with.

Far too close to fall in love with.

She let out a great keening howl of anguish
and wrapped her arms around her body, seeking the comfort she’d
never find. She rocked back and forth on the old chair, sobbing and
gasping. Her tears dissolved her mascara, and the sting of it made
her knuckle her hands into her eyes to rub it away. The mess
tracked down her cheeks in dark wet smudges.

In the car only yesterday, Anton had said
‘don’t fall in love with anyone else.’ How cruel he’d been! After
reading Gran’s words, it was obvious he was the only man in the
world she
couldn’t
fall in love with. But she had. She’d
plummeted into love with him like a stone being dropped into a deep
dark pond. How would she regain the sunlight?

She turned her eyes back to the letter. Gran’s
writing became ever more difficult to read. Jetta’s eyes burned,
and plainly the old lady had found it very hard to write about her
husband’s infidelity.

He will be about thirty now. A tall dark man like
your grandfather, and possibly just as untrustworthy. Don’t believe
anything he tells you. For the truth, ask Mr Winters.

Or maybe not, Jetta thought. Anton and Horrie seemed
to be best mates.

Do not let this man steal your house. Have nothing
to do with him.

She turned to the final page.

I have saved what little I can to make your life
easier. I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful success in whatever you
choose to do. Look for the key in my wardrobe and spend it
wisely.

All my love forever,

Gran.

She sat there, statue-still, mind racing in
random directions. The letter made no sense at all—except that it
made the most horrible sense as well. How had Gran found out? And
how awful for her to spend the last years of her life (if they
were
only the last years?) knowing her husband of so long
had cheated on her.

Somehow her grandfather had cooked up the
inheritance scheme with Horrie Winters, and in the wink of an eye
half her house had been whisked away and given to Anton.

But that was absolutely not the worst of it.
The pain of losing Anton far exceeded losing a house.

She sat on, seeing his laughing blue eyes,
remembering the amazing things he’d done. Painting the cupboard
doors...her impromptu birthday dinner...his frantic rescue bid when
she’d been trapped in the roaring inferno of her room. How much
easier it would have been to let her burn to death and claim the
whole house…

So, had he really tricked her, or was he just
as much a victim as she?

Anton had said his father was
Arthur
Haviland, not David, and that he was married to someone else.

Half right anyway.

He’d probably put himself through hell trying
to help her get past her fear of men. He got big points there as
far as she was concerned. He didn’t deserve her hatred.

She skimmed through the letter again and set
pages one and three aside to keep for herself. Anton/Anthony could
have the middle page and make of it what he would.

As for her, she was off. Away from the man
she couldn’t have, and the house she didn’t own, and the whole
twisted situation.

Putting aside any thought of going to work,
she crammed her depleted selection of possessions into her new
bags, and dragged the old suitcase once more from her burnt-out
room. She stashed the most recent letters in her briefcase, and
stuffed the rest—hers and Gran’s—into a big black plastic garbage
sack.

She looked at all the money.

Anton needed money. She’d give him the
benefit of the doubt and tell him it was her contribution to the
apartments. Easy come, easy go. She had much more than that in her
unexpected trust fund.

She scribbled a quick neutral note for him,
and set the suitcase on the kitchen table with Horrie’s letter and
the middle page of Gran’s on top of it. She weighed it down with
the house keys. Then she called a cab, lifted her two cases and the
garbage sack of correspondence out onto the front path, and prayed
she’d be gone before he returned from his breakfast schmoozing.

She phoned Bren at work, said she was off to
New York early, and made her promise not to tell Anton her
whereabouts.

Then phoned the Severino design studio,
apologized, and asked them to keep whatever salary was owing to her
in lieu of her last few days.

When the cab drew up, she directed it to stop
at the train station so she could deposit her bulging sack of
letters in a left-luggage locker. Inspiration struck, and she
inquired about the next passenger service north. Flying would have
been faster, but she had long dismal days at her disposal before
she was due to fly out for New York. She retrieved her Kindle from
her briefcase, found a secluded seat at the far end of the
platform, and attempted to pass the time until departure by
reading. Anton would never think to look for her there.

She was free. With a broken heart perhaps,
but free.

Three Months Later

Anton pulled up the collar of his cashmere
overcoat, and twitched his scarf higher. Wellington in a southerly
storm was no picnic, but New York in early spring had even more
bite. The wind whistled through barely-greening trees, and sent
awnings flapping and cab doors slamming.

He glanced at his watch for the hundredth
time, trying to close out the noisy blare of horns and ignore the
scent of hotdogs from the nearby stand. Surely, she couldn’t be
much longer? Sheltering in a doorway off the crowded sidewalk to
avoid the worst of the bitter breeze, he’d half-convinced himself
she wouldn’t even give him the time of day.

But finally there she was, threading through
the hurrying crowd—a floppy red hat dwarfing her small face, a red
and black plaid jacket hugging her trim body, and snug grey velour
pants diving into knee-high black boots. Three months of misery
evaporated, and his spirits soared.

He stepped out of his lair. “Buy you a
coffee, ma’am?” he drawled over the noisy traffic.

“Anton!” she squealed, rearing back, shock
and distaste contorting her pretty face. A white poodle yapped at
her boots. Its sour-faced owner scooped it up and glared at
her.

“It’s okay,” he added quickly. “No relation.
Don’t look at me like that.”

She stayed a couple of steps distant from
him, but moved close enough so no-one would walk between them. She
appeared far from convinced. “Really?”

A cab pulled up against the curb, and the
crowd flowed around the opened door, brandishing coffees, shouting
into cell phones, forcing her nearer.

“Really,” he insisted over noisy engines and
constant gabble. “Your Gran got the wrong end of the stick for
sure.”

“Oh thank God.” But she showed him no sign of
affection. Simply stood her ground like a startled gazelle, poised
to run the instant she scented greater danger. “What are you doing
here?” she demanded.

His optimism dipped a little, and he pressed
on, hoping to convince her. “Trying to find you. To let you know
I’m not your brother, not your uncle. I’m not related at all.” He
took a step toward her, hoping she’d stay. “I’ll tell you the whole
story somewhere warmer than this.”

Jetta’s expression softened. “You were
looking for me? Have you been waiting long?”

A glimmer of hope warmed him. “As long as I
had to. It was worth it to see you again.”

She sent him a small smile and hitched at the
bag over her shoulder. “Well…”

“Two hot coffees and I’ll carry that bag,” he
added, reaching out and lifting the bulky many-buckled tote off
her. “What the hell do you keep in this thing?” he asked, weighing
it by its shoulder strap and narrowly avoiding clocking a small
child sucking on a soda.

“Samples,” she said, grimacing. “And today
that includes ceramic tile.”

He slung it over his own shoulder, pleased
when she didn’t put up a fight. Pushing his luck, he slid his arm
around her.

“So who are you?” she asked. “Sounds like you
know?” She slanted an inquiring look up from under the brim of her
hat.

“I turned out to be Horrie’s son.”

“
What!?”

“Not what I expected either,” he said as they
fell into step. “Oldest story in the book, though. Jaded boss far
too attracted by pretty secretary. Boss already married, secretary
falls pregnant, boss doesn’t want to upset wife.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

He shrugged. “Shattered. Devastated. Bitter
and twisted. All the usual things I guess. But I’ve had time to
think, and to put it in perspective.” He sighed, loving the feel of
her compact body against his. “There was always something I liked
about Horrie. Mom used to take me in to the office sometimes to
visit her old boss. I never knew why, of course, but that was the
deal she made with him. Several discreet visits a year so he could
see his son growing up, and as many photos of me as she could
provide.”

He lifted Jetta’s hat off, and when she
glanced up to object, he spun her around and kissed her, softly at
first, and then with real intensity once he sensed she wouldn’t
pull away. “Babes, I’ve missed you so much,” he murmured against
her mouth. “Come home to me once you’re done here. I’ve waited this
long. I can wait longer,” He kissed her again, sliding his hand
lower to cup her peachy butt.

“This is a public place, sir,” she reminded
him with mock severity as she broke away.

“Yeah, but no-one knows who we are. We can do
what we like here.”

She grinned. “Nice theory—but I have to work
in the area for a while longer, and it’s too damn cold...” She
steered him into a coffee shop. “Tell me the rest in here,” she
said. “You still take yours black?”

She placed the order, apparently perfectly at
home in this alien place. Secretly glad she’d remembered how he
liked his coffee, he followed as she threaded her way through
tables full of people to an unoccupied space near the back. He set
down the heavy bag and pulled out a chair for her. At last they
could talk—or attempt to.

He dragged his chair close to hers because of
the din, raising an eyebrow at the hissing, thumping, grinding
routine of the huge Italian coffee machine and the babble of
conversation all around them. People shrieked into cell phones,
tapped on keyboards and tablets, shuffled documents. The scent of
roasted coffee beans hung dense and fragrant in the air. Jetta
avoided his eyes and started rearranging packets of sugar and
pottles of creamer in the middle of the tiny table. “So how’s the
study going?” he asked.

“Brilliant, thanks. Hard work, but so worth
it.” She hesitated a moment or two before asking, “And you?”

“The apartments are coming on great.”

Finally she looked up, and her dark gaze
locked with his. “Yes—but you. How are
you
? Working too
hard, I suppose?”

“Only way to get it done.” He loosened his
scarf and started on coat buttons, then reached out for the hand
that wasn’t stacking up creamer pottles. “I nearly died when I
found that money.”

She looked down, and deserted the creamer to
draw a pattern through some spilled sugar. “Was it enough to get
you going again?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“How much was there?”

He stared at her, open mouthed. “You didn’t
know?”

Jetta shook her head and raised her eyes to
his. “I’d only just found it. Or found the key, anyway. It looked
quite a lot. I hoped it would help.”

“Jesus,” he said faintly. “Eighty-four thou.
You really didn’t know?”

“I didn’t have time to count it after reading
her letter. Poor old Gran. She must have been squirreling away cash
for years. She was a real hoarder. No wonder the house needed work
and the furnishings were so bad. Shame she didn’t treat herself a
bit.”

She looked aside and blinked. Close to tears,
he suspected.

“Yeah, well, it’s all gone now. The house
came down soon after you left. I re-jigged my timeline to try and
save some dough on the foundations.”

Her lips parted in a soft ‘oh’ of distress.
“So where are you living?”

He sent her a rueful grin. “Mom’s spare
bedroom. I’m crammed in with all her painting gear. Won’t be for
too long, and at least the food’s good.”