Summer's Awakening (18 page)

'Did you have a good flight, ma'am?' the driver asked.

'Very good, thank you—but we shan't be sorry to have a bath and stretch our legs. Where are you taking us?' Summer asked.

'To the Fontainebleau Hilton, ma'am. You'll find it
a
very good hotel, right on Miami Beach overlooking the ocean.'

'Will you be taking us back to the airport tomorrow?'

'Yes, ma'am. Your flight to Sarasota is scheduled for four o'clock. I'll be there to pick you up at three.'

After driving for a time on an expressway, they came to a long causeway crossing a stretch of water which the driver said was Biscayne Bay.

Summer had caught sight of a sign:
Julia Tuttle Causeway.

'Who is Julia Tuttle?' she asked him, expecting to hear the causeway had been named after a local benefactor.

'Mrs Tuttle lived here when there was just
a
small settlement on the Miami River, ma'am. She wanted to have the railroad come down here, but Henry Flagler who built the East Coast Railroad didn't want to bring it further south than Palm Beach. In those days the Gold Coast, as it's called now, was a real wilderness. Nothing but forest and swamp. Back in 1895, the year when most of the state's crops were destroyed in
a
freeze, Mrs Tuttle sent Flagler some orange blossoms which hadn't been touched by frost. That made him decide not only to bring the railroad down, but to build
a
town here. That's the story anyway.'

They were almost across the causeway when he added, 'Most people think Miami and Miami Beach are the same place. That's not so. Miami is the town we just left, in back of the Bay. Miami Beach is this strip of land up ahead. Seven and a half square miles, that's all there is, but I guess you won't find more or better hotels anywhere
in
the world.'

Certainly neither Summer nor Emily had seen anything like the view from the parlour of their suite, to which they had been conducted by a friendly young man from the reception desk.

It was Emily who discovered the view while Summer was tipping the bell-boy who had brought their baggage up to the seventh floor in a separate elevator.

'Summer, you'll never believe...' she breathed, in an awed voice, from the window.

Summer crossed the deep-pile green carpet which toned with the green and white wallpaper which matched the curtains and covers on the two long sofas.

'Oh... my goodness!' she exclaimed.

As the driver had told them, the hotel was close to the ocean, and their window looked out on a moonlit sea lapping a beach of pale sand.

In the foreground were the hotel gardens with palm-fringed walkways winding among well-kept lawns. And at the heart of the gardens was a huge flood-lit, free-form swimming pool, roughly the shape of an oak leaf. In the centre of the pool was an island with several palm trees growing on it, and in the place where a leaf would have its stem, there was a great crag of rocks with several cascades streaming from it like shining veils. All around the pool was a spacious deck with many sun-beds. A number of people were still swimming.

'Can we swim tomorrow morning?' Emily asked. 'It's not deep everywhere. Look, those people over there are only up to their waists.'

'We haven't any bathing-suits,' said Summer. 'But perhaps we could buy some. Right now I'm going to take a shower. How about you?'

Each of the two luxuriously furnished bedrooms had its own bathroom. They wouldn't have to take turns. While Summer was unpacking, she heard Emily give a shriek of excitement. A moment later she rushed in and seized Summer's arm.

'You must come. I've found something specially for you.'

Wondering what it could be, Summer allowed herself to be hustled back to the parlour.

She had noticed the large television, the table lamps, the round dining table on which a meal could be served, and the large indoor plant growing in a jardiniere. She had also noticed a beautiful arrangement of cut flowers in a vase on the coffee table, but not the small envelope tucked among the blossoms.

'It's addressed to you,' Emily told her.

Puzzled, Summer looked at her name for a moment before she opened it. Inside was a card.

Welcome back to America. James.

'Who is it from?' asked Emily.

Summer showed the card to her.

'How could he send you flowers from England?'

'He must have ordered them by telephone
and
dictated this message. This must be the florist's handwriting,' Summer explained.

'Isn't he kind to us,' said Emily. 'Arranging for us to stay in this super hotel, and sending you flowers and everything. I think he's the kindest person I've ever known.'

'Yes, very kind,' said Summer. And very unkind sometimes, she added mentally. Cruelly unkind.

For a moment or two the flowers and the message accompanying them had pierced her implacable dislike of the man for whom, but for Emily, she wouldn't have worked if he'd offered her twice her present salary.

But as she resumed her unpacking, she thought it more than likely that all the arrangements for their arrival in America had been handled by James's secretary or personal assistant, including the ordering of the flowers and the message with them. Yet how could his secretary have known Summer was returning to America. She couldn't. He must have dictated the words on the card. Well, it was a flattering attention to detail on his part, but it didn't wipe out—nothing could—the memory of those brutal words spoken on the Grand Staircase at Cranmere.

In her bathroom she found not only an abundance of thick fluffy towels ranging in size from a bath sheet to a face cloth, but also a disposable shower cap and phials of shampoo and body lotion.

She undressed and hung up her clothes. Here, unlike the bathroom at the cottage, there were large mirrors everywhere, making it impossible to avoid seeing her naked body. It was a depressing sight, increasing her guilt at her lapse from grace on the aeroplane.

They had travelled first class and she hadn't been able to resist the lavish lunch or, later, the afternoon tea served by attentive stewardesses. She hadn't refused anything, not even the chocolate-covered mints brought round with the post-luncheon coffee, or a second slice of fruit cake at tea.

With champagne before lunch, and different wines with each course, she must have consumed enough calories to undo all the good of several days' self-denial.

Why had she weakened? Why couldn't she control her appetite? What was the matter with her that she had this compulsive urge to gorge foods which she knew would add flesh to her heavy hips and bulging tummy?

She woke with the sun on her face and the sound of music corning from somewhere nearby.

At first, dazzled by the bright golden light, she couldn't think where she could be. Blinking, she pushed herself up on her elbows and peered at her surroundings.

The vast bed in which she was lying settled her confusion. She was back in America... home.

The night before she had opened both pairs of curtains; the pink ones which matched the wallpaper, with their sun-proof linings, and the filmy net glass curtains. Then the sea had been dark except for the silver moonglade stretching from the beach to the horizon. Now, as far as she could see in both directions, the Atlantic Ocean shimmered and sparkled in the brilliant sunlight of a cloudless December morning.

The music had stopped and now there were voices coming from the next room. Summer put her head round the door and found her charge watching television.

'I thought you were never going to wake up,' said Emily, bouncing off the sofa. 'I've been awake for
ages
... since five o'clock. It's a good thing I saved some biscuits from tea yesterday—I'd have starved without them. Can we have breakfast soon?'

'What time is it?'

'A quarter to eight but that's quarter to one in England... almost lunchtime.'

'We didn't go to bed until the small hours—by our body clocks,' Summer reminded her.

They had been too keyed-up after the journey, and it had seemed a good idea to stay awake as long as possible. So although they had gone to bed early by local time, in England it would have been three in the morning when they said goodnight.

'I'm going to wash and get dressed. You can ring Room Service and order breakfast,' she continued. 'I'm not very hungry. I'll have grapefruit, if they have it, and coffee.'

As she brushed her teeth, she made herself a solemn promise that yesterday's lapse would be the last one—ever. Today was the beginning of a new life; a fresh start. From now on, before she put anything in her mouth, she would think: Do I really want to eat this? Or do I want to be slim and elegant and desirable?

By the time she was dressed, a waiter was laying the table in the other room. His 'Good morning' was said with a strong foreign accent. He looked as if he might be Cuban, certainly Latin-American.

Determined to eat her grapefruit without sugar, Summer was agreeably surprised to find it naturally sweet, and much juicier than the grapefruit sold at the village shop. Both the flesh and skin had a rosy tinge.

Emily had ordered a full American breakfast, starting with orange juice and ham and eggs with hash-brown potatoes, followed—because she had never had them—by waffles with maple syrup.

They were wondering if there were any shops nearby where they could buy bathing-suits, when the telephone rang. When Summer answered it, a switchboard operator said, 'I have a call for Miss Emily Lancaster.'

'One moment please.' Summer beckoned Emily. 'It's for you,' she mouthed.

'For me?' Emily looked baffled. She took over the receiver. 'Hello? Yes... speaking. Oh—James! Good morning.' A pause. 'Yes, super, thank you. Yes, we both did. The Captain was nice. So was the other
p
ilot.' Another pause. 'We're just finishing breakfast. If we can buy some bathing-suits, we're going to swim in the fabulous pool they have here. Have you seen it? Have you stayed here?' A third, longer pause. 'Yes, hold on a minute.' She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. 'He'd like to speak to you.'

Conscious of a tiny stab of nervousness, Summer took back the receiver. 'Good morning. Thank you for the flowers.'

'My pleasure. I gather you had a smooth trip. Are you feeling jet-lagged?'

His voice sounded deeper on the telephone, but his American accent was less pronounced than when they first met. The longer he stayed in England, the more he reverted to the long a's and the British emphases of his youth.

'Not at the moment,' she answered.

'You will. It takes a few days to adjust to a five-hour time slip. I heard you want to buy bathing-suits. There may be swim wear for sale in the hotel. I've never explored the shopping facilities. If not, go to the Bal Harbor Shopping Center. Neiman-Marcus have
a
store there, and there's also a Saks and a Burdines. I
'll
call you tomorrow.' He rang off.

When they went down to
the
lobby,
a girl at
the hospitality desk suggested that, as they were leaving the hotel soon after lunch, rather than going to Bal Harbor they should try a swim wear boutique a few blocks away. She gave them a card showing the shop
's
location on the back. Summer wondered if she had some connection with it, perhaps receiving a small commission for sending people to
it.

The boutique proved to have a vast range of styles and sizes and Emily was soon the pleased owner of a vivid lime green bikini which suited her auburn colouring and would look even better with
a tan.

Summer had braced herself for the embarrassment of not being able to squeeze into anything. She didn
't
know what her size was in America, but the colours she saw on the rails suggested that they didn't cater to heavyweights, only to sylphs.

'Do you have anything which might
fit me?
Something plain and dark?' she asked doubtfully.

'Sure we have, honey. These along here are your
size.'
The saleswoman spread her arms to indicate an extensive selection. 'Two pieces on the top rail, one-piece suits on the bottom. Pick out a few and try them on. With your lovely blonde hair, I'd think this blue and white would be good. It's a very slimming style. You see, it has this cute little skirt which is great if you have a problem here'—patting the top of her thigh—'as I used to.' She gave a reminiscent laugh. 'Before I slimmed down, my big thighs were the
bane
of my life. Talk about flub-rub! How about this turquoise suit?'—selecting another.