‘Not yet,’ he snorted. ‘I put myself under a lot of pressure to get things just right. The curse of success,’ he said more ruefully.
‘I’m sure it’s brilliant,’ smiled Jennifer, feeling warm in the lazy stream of sunlight coming in through a skylight overhead. ‘What’s it about?’
‘Desire,’ he said simply.
‘I wish I could sum up my documentary in one word like that.’
‘You can. Hope.’
He put his drink on the desk and turned around to gather some of his papers.
‘Here,’ he muttered. ‘I need an objective opinion on this scene.’
Jennifer came towards the desk, her arm brushing against his shirtsleeve as she stood next to him. She could smell that strong juniper scent of gin again, and realised it was on his breath. As he touched the paper with his fingertip, one of the straps of her sundress fell off her shoulder.
She adjusted it quickly and began to read, not noticing that Bryn had gone to lock the door of the boathouse behind them.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The woods on the Casa D’Or estate had been largely untouched since the plantation days. It was not a particularly dense forest – the mix of pine, poplar and palmetto let in streaks of sun through the canopy of twigs and leaves – but still, Jennifer had always found it a haunting place. Slave cabins once stood in the clearings, and although her grandfather had pulled them down decades before, the thought still made her feel uncomfortable. She was sure the only reason her father kept the woods was to make the acreage of the estate sound more impressive, and she generally avoided coming here. But that afternoon, after the boathouse, it was the first place she had thought of. She had found a tree and curled up against the rough bark of its trunk, the skirt of her dress pulled tightly over her knees, arms hugged around her shins, and she had sat there for an hour, maybe two, tears rolling down her cheeks until they dried on her skin.
There were no more tears left now. No emotion either. She felt empty, hollow – a husk that just wanted to run on autopilot. But although she felt numb, she knew she could not stay here for ever. Slowly she got to her feet and brushed the soil and leaves from the fabric of her dress. Her watch told her it was a little after five, but it was dark overhead; the blue sky had turned a malevolent shade of pewter. Marion had said there was a storm coming and she’d been right, thought Jennifer as a drop of rain plopped on her head and the breeze picked up in the trees around her.
She began to run, her sneakers crunching the carpet of twigs and leaves underfoot. The temperature had dropped, and there was some comfort in feeling the wind slap across her face. It was strong now, cold and damp, but it was not powerful enough to erase the memories of the past few hours. She ran faster and faster, but still images of Bryn Johnson popped into her head like a nightmare.
The trees were thinning now, as lightning flashed overhead, followed by the deep grumble of thunder. She knew she had to get to shelter quickly. She saw Marion’s cottage just a few hundred metres away. It was on the outskirts of the more manicured grounds of Casa D’Or, behind the old smokehouse, in the shade of one of the largest oak trees on the estate.
Once she was out of the woods, the rain soaked her to the skin. Panting hard, she ran on to the porch of the cottage and collapsed into an Adirondack chair underneath the window as another fork of silver lightning flashed across the sky.
The door of the cottage opened and Marion stood there, pulling a sweater on over her head.
‘Get inside,’ ordered the older woman. ‘It’s filthy out there. The storm will drown you before you reach the big house.’
Jennifer got up and followed the housekeeper into the cottage.
It was a single-storey building, the doorway leading straight into a living area dominated by a sofa, dining table and sideboard. Jennifer came in here rarely, but she noticed that there was a bigger television since the last time she’d visited, and a few more framed photographs on the bookcase.
Marion disappeared for a few moments and reappeared with a towel.
‘Dry yourself off,’ she instructed.
Jennifer towelled her hair, then pressed the fabric into her face to compose herself.
‘Where’ve you been?’ asked Marion kindly.
‘Just walking,’ Jennifer said, scratching her arms, her nails digging into the skin harder than was necessary.
‘Knew there was going to be a storm,’ observed Marion, looking up to the heavens. ‘Coffee?’
Jennifer shook her head and looked at the older woman’s kind face. She wondered if she should tell her, and took a breath to steel herself, tears swelling behind her eyes, but as her mouth opened, she could not find the words to even begin to describe what had happened to her.
A wave of shame engulfed her. She felt dirty, stupid, afraid. The consequences of even hinting at what had gone on in the boathouse were too awful to contemplate. No one would believe her, and even if they did, there was unlikely to be any sort of happy ending. How would anything make it better? What was done was done.
A tear leaked down her cheek and she blinked it away.
‘Are you OK?’ said Marion. She moved closer and put her arms around Jennifer. For a split second, Jennifer flinched at the touch of another person, but as she relaxed into it, it became clearer what she had to do. She had to forget.
‘I will be,’ she muttered into the housekeeper’s shoulder.