Treasure of the Heart Page 3

  Jonny St Milton, the owner of the Polwenna Bay Hotel and grandfather to Teddy and Ella, was eighty years old and more accustomed to enjoying a brandy by the fire in his own bar than hiking up the cliffs, especially since a stroke two years ago had left him with a limp.

  “I couldn’t risk another suitor getting here first, could I?” puffed Jonny, sinking onto the old sofa by the Aga and not seeming at all perturbed that his canary-yellow cords would soon be covered in pet hair.

  Alice rolled her eyes. “I think at my age I’m a bit beyond suitors, and if I wasn’t then I’d prefer them not to arrive half dead, thank you very much.”

  “You’ll never be beyond suitors. You’re every bit as beautiful now as you were in your teens,” Jonny said gallantly.

  She snorted. “Well then, there’s proof that your eyesight’s going. Anyway, if it’s first footing you’ve come for, isn’t that supposed to be a dark-haired man bearing coal and whatever else? Not somebody with white hair and not a lump of coal in sight?”

  “My hair used to be black, remember?”

  Alice did remember. A vision of that just-too-long hair, glossy and dark as a blackbird’s wing, was seared forever in her memory.

  “Coal would have at least been useful,” she said, jolted by the unexpected blush rising in her cheeks.

  “Your Aga’s wood-fired,” Jonny pointed out mildly. His breath was less ragged now, she noticed with relief, and the heat of the house was bringing the colour back into his drawn face. “Anyway, bugger coal! I’ve bought a bottle of fizz. Far more fun.”

  He held out a bottle of champagne which even Alice, who didn’t know much about wine, could see was extremely expensive.

  “As if I can drink that on all my medication!” she said, shaking her head.

  “Come on, Ally. Live dangerously.” Expertly, he eased the cork until it gave a whisper-soft sigh of release. Then he reached into his overcoat pocket and pulled out a pair of plastic champagne flutes, which were soon overflowing with bubbles. He held one of the flutes out to Alice and winked. “If you really want to go with tradition I’ll even take the ashes out for you after we’ve finished these?”

  “Wasn’t that my job, young master?”

  He sighed. “Can’t we move on from all that? It was a long time and another world ago.”

  Alice blinked. Maybe the fabric of time wore a little thinner on evenings like this, when the days were so short they seemed to finish before they’d even begun and the nights that followed were inky dark. To her, the old hurt seemed just as fresh as though it had all happened yesterday. Besides, it was easy for him to say this. Jonny wasn’t the one who’d been humiliated, was he?

  He patted the seat beside him and his eyes crinkled up at her. They were deeply lined now and faded too, but nevertheless they still contained the mischievous glint she remembered. Oh dear, thought Alice. She’d never been able to resist him then either.

  “Oh, go on then,” she said irritably, taking the glass but ignoring the empty seat next to him and leaning against the kitchen table instead. “It’s New Year’s Eve, after all. Who knows how many of them we’ve got left?”

  “How cheerful you are, dear Mrs Tremaine. But since you’ve pointed it out, then yes, we’re both old and who knows how much time we’ve got to enjoy ourselves?” He grinned. “So, what do you say, Ally? Let’s not waste any more time, eh? Your place or mine?”

  Alice felt her face grow even hotter. Jonny had always had that effect on her and it seemed that the intervening decades hadn’t changed much. To cover her shock at this discovery, she said coldly, “And whose fault is that? Whose decision was it that we wasted an entire lifetime? Not mine!”

  He stared at her and his teasing vanished in a heartbeat.

  “Is that how you feel? That we wasted a lifetime?”

  “Yes. No.” Alice was flustered. She set the glass down and pressed the heels of her hands against her forehead in an attempt to stop the sudden thudding there. “I loved Henry. He was everything to me and we had a wonderful life together. I could never regret that.”

  He nodded slowly. “I know, Alice, and I understand. I can’t regret marrying Milly either. We might not have had the happy marriage that you and Henry enjoyed, but we built a family and a legacy. I’m looking forward to the day I hand the business over to Teddy to lead it into the future.”

  Privately Alice thought the only place Teddy St Milton was likely to lead a business was into receivership. To her mind the shrewd and sharp-as-a-tack Ella was a far more worthy recipient than her feckless younger brother. She could only suppose Jonny was old-fashioned in the respect that he wanted the St Milton name to carry on. In any case, he certainly had a huge blind spot where his youngest grandchild was concerned.

  “Alice, our spouses have been gone for a long while now. Please let me prove I’m not the idiot schoolboy I was back then.” Jonny rose creakily to his feet and took a step towards her – and then lurched dangerously as his foot caught in a flagstone. “Oh! Bloody leg!”

  “Careful! The floor’s uneven!” Alice grabbed his arm, shaking her head despairingly, and guided him back to the sofa. “Jonny, sit down and rest, for heaven’s sake! The climb up’s really taken it out of you. Don’t worry,” she added once he was seated again, “there’s no danger I could think you’re still a teenager.”

  But Jonny wasn’t laughing. “I still see the girl I fell in love with all those years ago. You must remember how it was with us? Remember when we went to St Wenn’s Well?”

  Alice couldn’t look him in the eye. Of course she remembered. How could she not? A girl – a woman – never forgot a moment like that.

  “Not really,” she fibbed.

  “Liar,” said Jonny fondly. “You remember it as clearly as I do.” Then he flashed her his old rascally grin, the one that still made dimples dance in his cheeks and wicked promises glitter in his eyes. “Otherwise, how else would Lord Blackwarren have a birthmark in a very cheeky place? Unless of course my whippersnapper grandson is more your type these days?”

  “Oh, blast that book!” exclaimed Alice. Honestly, her self-published novel was causing her all kinds of headaches that she’d never imagined when she’d innocently typed it on the family laptop. A romp of a read, it had taken Polwenna Bay by storm as villagers had tried to guess both who’d written it and who the sexy hero was based on. As the author, Alice knew the truth – but she wasn’t telling.

  “I enjoyed it,” Jonny said. “Brought back some very happy memories. I’m flattered. My stock’s gone right up in the pub.”

  Alice put her hands on her hips. “You think you’re Lord Blackwarren?”

  “Well, aren’t I?” Jonny hauled himself out of the chair and, stepping forward, took her hand. “Oh, Alice, I can’t waste any more time apart from you. I—”

  “Granny! Fetch a bowl! Quickly!”

  The kitchen door burst open as Nick and Ashley half carried, half dragged a staggering Issie into the room. The green tinge to her face was almost a dead match for Mo’s bride-of-Frankenstein make-up. A cut above Issie’s eye was bleeding freely and the contrast of her clammy skin and the scarlet blood made Alice’s own stomach lurch.

  Instantly she and Jonny sprang apart like guilty teenagers. They needn’t have worried, though; the new arrivals were too busy trying to manoeuvre Issie to the sofa to notice anything else. Besides, two old people having a quiet chat in the kitchen wasn’t nearly as dramatic as fetching a saucepan for Issie and holding her hair back from her face as she retched.

  Alice’s heart plummeted. You didn’t raise seven children through their teens (eight, if she counted her own son) and not recognise when one of them was blind drunk.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Issie kept saying, her eyes crossing with drink as she stared wildly round the room. “I’m so sorry.”

  Then she buried her face in the saucepan and threw up.

  “Happy New Year,” Mo said to Ashley, who was now retreating in revulsion. “Sure you want kid
s?”

  “Is Issie up for adoption then?” he asked.

  “She will be if she keeps this up,” said Alice grimly. What was it with her granddaughter? Why did Issie keep doing this? Horrified, she rounded on Nick. “How on earth did your sister get in this state?”

  Nick pulled a face. “The usual way, I’d guess. One minute she was necking shots with Little Rog and the Penhalligans and the next she was snogging Teddy’s face off.”

  “Oh dear,” said Jonny. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “I don’t think he was complaining,” Nick said. “To be fair, neither was Issie until she fell over and walloped her head on the floor.”

  Alice sighed and went to fetch the first-aid box from the cupboard. Was there ever going to be a time when she could stop worrying about her grandchildren and actually think about her own life?

  Somehow she doubted it.

  “Happy New Year,” she said to Jonny as he made his excuses and backed out of the room.

  “Happy New Year, Ally,” he replied, blowing her a kiss and adding, “Please don’t worry. I promise things are going to get better.”

  As she dressed Issie’s cut, then helped to get her upstairs and into her nightclothes, Alice could only hope Jonny was right. She couldn’t bear to think what the year ahead might hold for her damaged and very troubled youngest granddaughter if he wasn’t.

  Chapter 3

  The slap of waves against the pier, the warm evening breeze straight off the Gulf of Mexico and the buzz of Key West on New Year’s Eve all lifted Luke Dawson’s spirits. Hell, it was pretty damn impossible to be down anyway when you were in Mallory Square just before sunset, with the sky streaked pink and gold. Here street traders juggled flaming torches, and tanned girls sauntered by in tiny hot pants and even tinier bikini tops. Their sun-kissed hair, peachy butts and jiggling breasts went a long way towards cheering a guy up, Luke decided as he necked his ice-cold Bud. A couple more drinks, followed by a trawl of the bars on Duval Street, and it would be as though the last few weeks had never happened.

  Maybe.

  Although it was only early evening, with the sun still a fat gold coin balancing on the horizon, the streets of Key West were thronging with visitors and the air thrummed with a party vibe. This southernmost tip of the USA, where Uncle Sam dipped his toe into the beginnings of the Caribbean Sea, already enjoyed a year-round carnival atmosphere, but tonight the locals had really upped their game. Floridians loved to party and Luke was certainly in the mood to sink a few cold ones and join in. Once the sun had fully set he figured he’d head over to his next bar and start the rest of the night as he meant to go on. With any luck, by the time the New Year rolled in he’d be mellow enough not to care about anything else except grabbing another bottle of Bud and joining the flood of revellers as they pushed on through until dawn.

  He’d intended to have one more beer here first, but with the sunset hour fast approaching, Mallory Square was filling up with tourists keen to see the famous green flash as the sun slipped into the sea. Well, he’d seen enough glorious sunsets to last a lifetime, Luke decided, and being jostled while waiting for another wasn’t doing it for him. Time to move on.

  So, where next? Down to the pier for the fireworks display or over to the Schooner Wharf Bar to see if any of the guys were there? Somewhere with some air con, that was for sure. The humid air was thick; even though his shirt had been fresh on only twenty minutes earlier, it was already sticking to his skin, and the too-long chestnut hair that fell over his collar was coiling into ringlets. Not a good look for the start of the night. Maybe a quick one in the hotel bar down by the pier? He could check Casadora on the way, make sure her moorings were still good and that she was fuelled and ready for the next trip. Save the old man a job.

  Luke shook his head. Christ. Old habits certainly died hard. He didn’t need to do any of that anymore, did he? Not now he was no longer a part of the family business. Mal Dawson could check his own goddamn boat and spend the rest of his years scouring the ocean floors for lost galleons without Luke by his side. His father had made it perfectly clear just how much respect he had for his son’s opinions.

  Luke downed his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his strong, tanned hand. Screw the Dawson family business. He didn’t need it and he didn’t need his father. From now on Luke was going it alone. Setting off towards the hotel bar, he couldn’t help smiling at the irony of thinking he’d go it alone on a crowded New Year’s Eve in the Conch Republic. You could hardly move for sequin-clad drag queens sashaying through the throng, and the press of bodies on the sidewalks was five people deep.

  Still, crowds aside, he was cast adrift from the Dawson clan and very much on his own. If he wanted to prove himself to his father, then he’d need to find a way and some serious greens. Being a professional treasure hunter didn’t come cheap: without a proper dive boat and a generous sponsor, Luke had no hope of showing Mal exactly how attuned his instincts were. As his father had contemptuously suggested, Luke might just as well go and crew a boat for one of the plethora of water-sports companies that littered the Keys. Days on from their colossal argument, Mal’s words still rang in Luke’s ears. You’ll come crawling back, his father had sneered with his trademark confidence. You’ll never make it without me.

  Luke’s fingers tightened on the empty bottle. He damn well would make it on his own. There was no way he was going to ask Mal for help. He’d rather give up all hopes of a career as a professional treasure hunter and run jet-ski tours round the island. That was how much he was prepared to do in order to not come “crawling back”, as his father put it. He’d sell his own boat too, the small Boston Whaler that was his pride and joy, and plough any funds from that into setting something up. No matter what it took, Luke Dawson was on his own now.

  No sooner had this thought flickered through Luke’s mind, as bright and as unmistakable as the green flash that made the tourists gasp, than the sun slipped beneath the horizon. It felt symbolic. With the dying of the light also passed his old life as the son and right-hand man of Mal Dawson, dive master and treasure hunter.

  Exactly one year ago, Luke had stood on Sunset Pier and watched the sky flame. The same place, the same atmosphere, the same relentless heavy heat as though somebody had thrown a hot wet towel across his face. But there had been one major difference: last year he’d been with his family.

  Having been Key West residents for six generations, the Dawsons were as well known in the town as conch fritters or Key lime pie. They drank harder than Hemingway, raced fast boats on Miami poker runs and were a splash of colour in an already vibrant community. The family home was an old clapboard house, slumbering in the heart of the Old Town behind high vine-smothered walls. Much of the time its purple louvred shutters were closed, as though the house was having a siesta beneath the shady casuarina trees while the burning noon sunshine beat down on the deck. Inside, the rooms were welcome pools of shade where ceiling fans ticked lazily and the worn floorboards were cool beneath bare feet. This beautiful and historic home had been as much the realm of Luke’s mom, Beth, as the deck of Casadora was Mal’s. Luke and his sister, Mia, had been equally at home in both places, happy whether they were diving in the Gulf of Mexico or curled up reading on the veranda while twilight seeped across the garden, with the hurricane lantern flickering in the warm breeze and crickets serenading nightfall.

  They were a family. His mom and dad and Luke and Mia. A tight unit. His father, Mal, was single-minded and a risk taker, known for having a nose for treasure and a taste for danger. His mom, Beth, strong and calm, was as happy to take the Casadora’s helm as she was to barbecue supper for twenty people. Then there had been Mia, a skilled diver and one of the best he’d ever worked with. As for him? He was the youngest of the bunch, with a love of history that had taken him from searching the seabed to becoming a history major at UCLA. They were the Dawsons. Legendary. Successful and unbreakable.

  Or so he’d thought. Funny how one tiny, almos
t imperceptible crack could suddenly force something apart that had once appeared so strong. Like a boat that was slowly letting in water, nothing had seemed wrong at first until the bow split and the vessel foundered. For Beth Dawson the final crack had been when Luke had announced over lunch on New Year’s Day that he’d quit college to follow in his father’s footsteps. She’d not even finished her lunch but instead had quietly put down her cutlery and headed upstairs to pack a case. By the time the meal was cold and Luke had realised what was happening, a cab had pulled up to take her to the airport.

  “Mom?” Hearing the blast of a car’s horn outside and the opening of the front door, Luke had pushed his chair away from the table to find a taxi driver lifting his mother’s case into the trunk. “What’s going on?”

  Mal, who’d followed him, had placed his hand on Luke’s shoulder. “She’s leaving, son.”

  “Leaving?” He might have been twenty-one years old and over six feet tall, but hearing this had felt like a blow to the solar plexus. “Mom? That’s not true, right?”

  “It’s true, honey.” Beth had hugged him tightly. Her face was pale and her eyes bright but there were no tears, only a steely determination that he recognised in himself and, when she was still alive, in Mia too. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Do what?” Luke had demanded. Panic had tightened in his chest like an iron band.

  “Watch you risk your lives.” Beth had shaken her dark head and she’d looked across at her husband sadly. “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve thought your father might not make it back. I can’t be here and watch the same happen to you. I just can’t.”

  Luke had stared at her in utter confusion. The Dawsons were treasure hunters. It was what their family did, what they’d always done. Granted, it was a tough life; he could remember countless times when the family had had to choose between gas for the boat or food for dinner, which meant a lot of time spent fishing for supper. But it was the only life they knew and a good one. Nothing beat the rush of adrenalin when a hunch played out and your dive-gloved hands closed around an item that hadn’t seen daylight for centuries. There was always the added excitement that maybe, just maybe, today would be the day when you hit payload. This thought was like crack cocaine to a treasure hunter. Tales of divers who’d found treasure beyond their wildest dreams were what kept you going when the sea was rough, the bank account was empty and your sponsor was being a prick.