Sophie stared at him. “Well – yes, I’m Eve Hollister. But – but who are you?”
He straightened. “My name is Edge St. Vincente. Surely my father mentioned me.”
“Edge –” Sophie brought herself up short. “You were – I mean – you’re my mother’s brother?”
“I believe I have that privilege.” She had the feeling he was enjoying her consternation.
“Then – then are you the – the Mr. St. Vincente who – who is waiting for me?” Eve could scarcely take it in. This man was Edge St. Vincente, the brother of Eve’s dead mother, the man Eve had described to Sophie as being a widower of middle age!
She shook her head. Edge St. Vincente wasn’t middle-aged. She doubted he was much over thirty-five, and she had the feeling that the experience in those strange amber eyes of his had not been put there by his wife.
“THAT is correct,” Edge St. Vincente was saying now. “Who were you expecting?”
Sophie gathered her scattered wits. “I – I thought – my grandfather –”
“Oh, I see.” Edge inclined his head. “Well, no. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my father seldom visits Port of Spain. He doesn’t care for the – er –” he glanced round expressively, shrugging, “– the atmosphere of the place.”
“I see.” Sophie pressed her hands together.
Edge returned his attention to her, studying her intently, bringing the hot colour to her pale cheeks. “So you’re Eve. You don’t look much like your mother.”
Sophie tried to return his gaze. “I suppose I must take after my father.”
“I suppose.” His expression had become brooding. “Well –” He looked towards the bar. “Shall we have a drink?”
Sophie hesitated. “I don’t – drink much.”
“Don’t you?” Again the dark brows were lifted. “I thought all newspaper women enjoyed the social side of their work.”
“Newspaper women?” Sophie was really shocked now and she couldn’t hide it.
“Yes.” Edge turned back towards the bar and she had perforce to fall into step beside him. “You are a reporter, aren’t you? Or is that some other Eve Hollister?”
Sophie felt shattered. In one sentence Edge St. Vincente had destroyed the whole image Eve had so painstakingly built around her. They ought to have realized that a family like the St. Vincentes would not accept a stranger into their midst without first checking up on her. But how much checking up had been done? And by whom?
She chanced a swift sideways glance at her companion. He seemed relaxed enough. There had been no censure in his remark. But how could she tell? All her old fears came to haunt her. She should not have given in to Eve; she should not have agreed to come. She ought to have known that she could never get away with it.
They had reached the bar and Edge indicated that she should take one of the tall stools while he attracted the attention of the barman. Sophie climbed on to the stool with some misgivings, trying desperately to think of some reply to make.
Edge sat easily on the stool beside her, his arms resting on the bar. He was much taller than she was and had not had the difficulty getting on to his seat that she had had. He summoned the bartender and when he came he ordered himself another Bacardi and Coke and then looked quizzically at Sophie.
“Well?” he urged her. “What’s it to be?”
Sophie ran her tongue over dry lips. “Perhaps – a sherry?” she suggested.
“Sherry?” He sounded amused. “All right. And a sherry, too, Gene.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. St. Vincente.”
The bartender grinned and moved away to get their drinks. Sophie rested her hands on the bar to stop them from fidgeting. She glanced nervously round the dimly lit area, and shifted rather awkwardly on her stool. She wondered whether he was aware of her extreme state of tension. She thought it was likely.
He drew out a long case of cigars and regarded them thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you a cigarette, but Gene can give you some if you need them.”
“I – I don’t smoke.”
“Don’t you now?” His eyes narrowed as he placed a thick cigar between his teeth. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
Sophie was convinced he was playing some sort of cat and mouse game with her. She opened her mouth to say that he had no need to say anything else. She admitted the truth; she was not Eve Hollister and she intended leaving Trinidad as soon as she could possibly get a flight.
But the words were never uttered, because he said: “I suppose you should call me Uncle, shouldn’t you?”
Sophie’s fingers curled into her palms. “I – I – if you like.”
Edge St. Vincente was serious now, the mockery gone from his eyes. “It’s what my father will expect,” he stated quietly, lighting his cigar with a gold lighter. “But whether or not you choose to use the definition is, I suppose, up to you.”
The bartender, Gene, returned with their drinks. He put them down and then rubbed the bar nearby with a damp cloth as though waiting for something more. Edge nodded his thanks, and then said: “You tell your brother-in-law to give me a call. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Yes, sir.” Gene’s face broke into a wide grin. “I’d sure be grateful, Mr. St. Vincente.”
“That’s okay.” Edge gave a gesture of dismissal and the bartender moved away to attend to another customer. Then Edge turned his attention back to Sophie. “Now: tell me. Did you have a good flight ?”
Sophie’s fingers curved round the stem of her glass as though it was a lifeline. “Yes, thank you,” she replied quickly. She was about to go on and say that she had not done enough flying to know what was good and what was not, but she was wary now of what he might know and Eve was used to taking trips to the continent. “I – the flight landed late last night.”
“Yes.” Edge swallowed a mouthful of the Barcardi and Coke. There was a slice of lemon cut and draped to the side of his glass and he took it off and squeezed its juice into the spirit. The action drew attention to his hands, long-fingered brown hands, totally unlike the hands of any farmer Sophie had ever seen. But then the St. Vincentes were not ordinary farmers, were they? “My father was delighted to receive your telegram. You should have let us know the time of your flight and someone could have met you at the airport.”
“I – I knew it would be so late in arriving. I thought it would be easier ...” Sophie’s voice trailed away. She sipped her sherry. This was only the beginning, she told herself severely. It was going to get much harder than this.
“Never mind.” Edge let her off the hook. He drew on his cigar, exhaling a delicious aroma of Havana tobacco around them. “You’re here now, and that’s what matters, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Sophie wished she felt as confident. “I – er – how far is it to – to your home ?”
“Pointe St. Vincente?” He shrugged. “About thirty miles; north of here and along the coast.”
“Oh, yes.” Sophie looked into her drink. “I – I’m looking forward to meeting my – my grandfather.”
“I expect you are.” Edge’s eyes were unnervingly penetrating. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Now?”
“In a few minutes.”