One Way or Another(17)

That night had been the most magical of her childhood, both parents so good-looking; James Edward Patron, tall, dark, and handsome in the classic style, elegant in a dark blue dinner jacket, with tiny sapphire studs, a gift from his wife, in his shirtfront. The shirt, though, was not buttoned to the neck and bow-tied in the conventional way, because he was not “conventional.” He wore it open at the neck and removed his jacket halfway through dinner, with apologies to the ladies, getting up to prowl the tables, pour more wine, stopping everywhere to chat, making everyone feel welcome. Her mother was the best at that, though. Mary Jane Patron had the happy knack of making each person feel they were the most important guest, the most vital to the spirit of the party, the most interesting of all. Her wide pale blue eyes, which Martha inherited, sparkled with amusement, her laughter rang out across the dark night from where they sat beneath those red Chinese lanterns. It was, in Martha’s memory, as though they were touched by magic. And she was sure, even now, that they were.

Sadly, that magic had deserted them some years ago now, and life without them at Patrons Hall was simply not the same. Even when the girls got together, sitting on the red Turkey rug in front of the drawing room fire, toasting crumpets on a long fork, “like Jane Austen women,” they said, laughing at themselves, they did it from nostalgie, a wish to bring back that past, where they were all so happy. And so loved.

“Old-fashioned” was how Martha’s mother had described Patrons Hall when she first stepped through the door, brought there as a bride by the too-gorgeously good-looking husband, seven years younger than herself. She was twenty-eight, practically “on the shelf,” her already married friends warned, urging her to get a move on before it was too late.

“Too late? For what?” had been Mary Jane’s nonchalant reply.

And she’d turned out to be right. After all, look what she ended up with just by waiting a bit—a lovely husband; two lovely homes—there was one in London as well as the country house. And, best of all, three beautiful children, all girls. Mary Jane wasn’t sure how she would have dealt with boys—sending them off to school in that British way at seven years old would have broken her heart, a heart which, before she met her lovely husband, had been broken several times, once quite severely. But that was in the past.

Making up for lost time, Mary Jane entertained lavishly in both her houses. She enjoyed her daughters, saying they kept her young, which they probably did if they were not driving her crazy—well Lucy, anyhow—and she really enjoyed her husband: his company, his smile, his caring demeanor. How lovely her life was.

Until, quite suddenly, on a small twisting mountain road driving over the Pyrenees back from Spain to France, it wasn’t. One mistake, on her part, one tiny turn too wide. And it was all over.

Martha was fourteen at the time, and she made herself believe her mother was still with her, always there, invisible but protective. It was years before she could bring herself to face the truth and simply get on with her own life, something she found she was, quite suddenly, enjoying again. It was correct, the old saying, life must go on.

The girls continued to live at Patrons. Her father’s sister moved in, along with her husband and a positive tribe of children, aged four to sixteen. They took over the orphaned girls’ lives; saw them through schools, first dates, arguments, and illnesses, and somehow they all muddled through, successfully, as it turned out.

Sarah, Martha’s eldest sister, was studious. From playing childhood doctors and nurses she’d gone on to become a well-respected pediatrician, putting her love and knowledge into helping other people’s children while having none of her own. She claimed to be too busy for marriage, and perhaps she was right.

Martha was puzzled about what to do when she left school. The university degree didn’t seem to help much in the arts, to which she was inclined, so she got a job in an interior design store catering to wealthy clients, where she was the coffee girl/errand runner/folder of bolts of fabric and dropper-off of stuff in taxis, learning on the job.

Three years and three different boyfriends later, she was asked by a friend’s mother to redesign her bathroom, make it larger, grander. She was able to do that and she did it well. “So now let’s do over the kitchen,” the friend said. It had taken off from there with recommendations from friends, until she made the time for a proper design course and became a professional. Martha wanted to call her company Patrons Pleasure but was warned it sounded like a sex shop. She thought about Martha Designs but realized there was already a famous Martha in the same field. Finally she ended up, simply, as Patrons.

She was young, connected, attractive, and in demand. Life was good to her. And eventually, she met Marco in the antique store. It was the old hook, line, and sinker.

Martha was no one-night-stand woman but the sexual attraction was mutual, and high octane. When Marco sat next to her in that coffee shop, Martha had to stop herself from reaching out to touch him, to run her fingers over his sexy mouth, to put her arms round his neck, to be close to him.

Half an hour later they left together. Forty minutes later they were in bed—well, that is, lying together on the mattress on the floor of his messy studio, naked, skin on skin, body on body, mouth on mouth. She wished it would never end. And it had not. For which both she, and he, thanked God.

Now, back in New York, she wanted to get the next flight out back to Turkey, to be with Marco anywhere in the world. She knew he wouldn’t be coming home any time soon. He was too obsessed with the girl he believed he had seen drown. She hoped he was wrong.