The Sanchez Tradition Read online

Vittorio seemed to have been appointed her protector, or perhaps the operative word was gaoler, for he never let her out of his sight, nor did he make any moves towards growing restless, too. Obviously, he had had his instructions and she was expected to follow hers.

  But on the morning of the third day she had a visitor. It was Ramon. He had flown over from Palmerina in André’s helicopter, and came striding down to the beach where she and Vittorio were lying on the sand. Irena had been prevailed upon to lend Rachel a bathing suit while she was here and Rachel’s body was already tanning to a delicious golden brown. Her chestnut hair too had streaks of brightness in it and despite her misgivings about being idle for so long she had never looked better in her life. The rest and relaxation and the good food Madam Sanchez had seen that she ate were working wonders, and Vittorio looked up at his brother rather complacently as he stood regarding them.

  ‘Hello there!’ he remarked lazily. ‘You look hot, Ramon. You must be working too hard.’

  Ramon’s face was serious. ‘At least no one can say the same about you,’ he retorted grimly. ‘Hello, Rachel! Enjoying your holiday?’

  Rachel propped herself up on her elbows. ‘Thank you, yes.’ Then she frowned. ‘What’s wrong, Ramon? You look very solemn. Have you some news for me?’

  Ramon sighed. ‘Yes, I’ve some news, Rachel. Look, we can’t talk here. Is there somewhere we can go?’

  Vittorio grimaced. ‘Take a walk along the beach,’ he suggested dryly. ‘Don’t let me keep you!’

  Rachel got to her feet and pulled on a striped beach coat which Irena had also provided, and then stepped over Vittorio’s prostrate form to join Ramon. Ramon tucked a hand inside her arm and they walked away along the soft curving line of the beach.

  It was another wonderful morning, the sky a deep blue that combined with the sea on the skyline to form an even deeper shade. The white sails of a yacht broke the smooth surface of the ocean, while away in the distance the outline of other islands could be seen. Beside the beach, palm trees grew in abundance, and it was into the shade of these that Ramon took her to talk to her. A log provided a resting place, and Ramon put her on it and then placing one foot on the log he rested his arm on his knee and looked down at her compassionately.

  As though sensing that Ramon’s news was not good, Rachel said: ‘Please. Tell me what it is you have to tell me!’ an awful anxiety gripping her suddenly.

  Ramon obviously found it difficult to know how to begin, and she said: ‘It’s—it’s my father, isn’t it? What’s happened? Is he ill? Has he—well, has someone attacked him?’ Her eyes were wide and troubled.

  Ramon shook his head. ‘No one hurt your father,’ he said slowly. ‘But what I have to say does concern him. I’m sorry to have to tell you—but he’s dead!’

  ‘Dead!’ Rachel couldn’t take it in. ‘You can’t be serious!’

  ‘I’m afraid I am.’ Ramon sighed. ‘Oh, Rachel, I’m sorry to have to be the one to break this news to you, but André isn’t here to do it himself.’

  Rachel tried to gather her thoughts. ‘But why is he dead? What happened?’ She licked a tear from the corner of her mouth. ‘He—he was perfectly all right when I left.’

  Ramon shook his head. ‘No, he wasn’t, Rachel.’

  Rachel stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘What do you mean? Of course he was all right, or I should never have left him!’

  Ramon removed his foot from the log and turning seated himself beside her, placing a gentle arm about her shoulders. ‘Rachel, your father has been ill for the past year,’ he said firmly. ‘Now’—he raised a hand—‘before you start protesting, I should tell you that doctors have already verified this. He had an incurable disease of the liver, and he had frequently been told that he must stop drinking.’ He bent his head. ‘But as no doubt you know, he did not.’

  ‘But he didn’t drink as much. I—I saw to that.’

  ‘You saw to it when you were there, but how often did your father go out and leave you at times when he could have obtained alcohol?’

  Rachel hunched her shoulders. ‘He went to race meetings,’ she murmured unsteadily.

  ‘Exactly.’ Ramon looked at her, brushing another tear from her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘Oh, Rachel, don’t you see? He sent you here because he knew he was dying. He—he must have known from what the specialists had told him that he hadn’t much longer.’

  ‘He saw specialists?’ echoed Rachel disbelievingly.

  ‘Yes, yes. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Rachel.’

  ‘But why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t he let me share his pain?’ she cried passionately.

  Ramon shrugged. ‘I guess he considered that one way and another he had been enough of a drain on you,’ he answered quietly. ‘As to the pain, I imagine the barbiturates he was supplied with—–’ He halted. ‘Rachel, you’ve got to know, his death was the result of barbiturate poisoning.’ And as her eyes darkened in dismay, he continued: ‘Oh, don’t imagine he killed himself. The police don’t think it was like that at all. It’s a common enough occurrence these days for someone combining alcohol with drugs to inadvertently create poison in their bodies.’

  Rachel shuddered and buried her face in her hands. ‘Oh, it’s terrible! Terrible!’ she cried, shaking her head agonisingly. ‘Oh, Ramon, what must he have suffered, dying alone like that, with no one to care or to be with him….’

  Ramon pressed her close against him. ‘I don’t suppose for one moment that your father knew anything about it,’ he replied softly. ‘He was a sick man, aware that his days were numbered. I don’t think his death is any more of a tragedy than it might have been had he had to spend months in the incurable ward of some impersonal hospital.’

  Rachel cried quietly for several minutes, accepting the handkerchief Ramon handed her and eventually using it to dry her eyes. When she had composed herself a little, she said: ‘There—there’s things to arrange.’ She licked her lips. ‘The—the funeral, and so on.’ She bit her lip. ‘When—when did he die?’

  Ramon compressed his lips. ‘Actually, Rachel, he died five days ago.’

  Rachel stared at him in horror. ‘Then he must have died the day after I left England.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But why wasn’t I informed? Someone should have contacted me. I left a forwarding address!’

  Ramon tried to calm her. ‘Listen,’ he said firmly. ‘Your father was alone in the flat above the shop, wasn’t he?’

  Rachel nodded, and he continued: ‘Four days ago it was Sunday, remember? No one went to the shop, no one tried to get in, no one noticed that there was no one about. Your father must have died on Saturday night, after he got home.’

  ‘He went out?’ she asked weakly.

  ‘He was seen in the bar of a nearby hotel just before closing time,’ said Ramon heavily.

  ‘Oh no!’ she moaned.

  ‘I’m afraid so. At any rate, it wasn’t until Monday that the alarm was raised, and by the time they were trying to contact you, André arrived in London.’

  ‘André is in London?’ she gasped.

  ‘That’s right. He went to help your father, remember?’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘I never thought he would go himself,’ she murmured almost to herself.

  Ramon gave a derogatory snort. ‘Didn’t you? Oh well, he did. And so he was there to deal with everything.’ He sighed. ‘That’s how I got this job. I spent the best part of an hour on the phone to him last night, but he insisted I wait until today to tell you.’

  Rachel ran a hand over her forehead in a bewildered fashion. ‘I must make arrangements,’ she murmured feverishly. ‘I’ve got to get to London myself.’

  Ramon shook his head. ‘No.’

  Now Rachel got unsteadily to her feet, staring at him incredulously. ‘What do you mean, no?’

  ‘I mean, no!’ replied Ramon pleasantly. ‘Rachel, sit down again. I haven’t finished telling you everything.’

  Rachel’s bro
ws drew together. ‘I prefer to stand, and besides, what more could there be?’

  Ramon sighed. ‘Very well. Your father was buried yesterday.’

  Rachel grasped the bole of a tree disbelievingly. ‘No!’ she said, in horror. ‘No, I don’t believe you!’

  ‘It’s true!’

  ‘No, I don’t believe it. You’re only telling me that to get me to stay here because André has told you to. They—they couldn’t bury my father without me being there!’ It wouldn’t be right!’

  Ramon stood too, grasping her shoulders. ‘Rachel, listen to me, and listen good! Your father had been dead four days when he was buried, and an autopsy had been performed. In addition to which he died of barbiturate poisoning! I hate to be cruel, Rachel, but have you ever seen anybody who died from barbiturate poisoning?’

  Rachel choked and wrenched herself away from him, leaning against a tree feeling nauseated. It was incredible, fantastic, impossible! She pressed her fingers to her temples. Only half an hour ago she had been sunbathing on the sand with Vittorio, anxious about her father but secure in the knowledge that André was dealing with his problems for him. And now, only minutes later, she found that the man she had known and loved all her life was dead—and buried! It was too cruel! Too inhumane to be true! How could he have kept his illness from her! Why hadn’t he confided in her? She had known he had never fully recovered from the death of her mother, but she had hoped that in some way she had compensated him for her mother’s loss. But obviously not sufficiently to prevent his weakness from gaining the upper hand.

  But what was the most destroying thing about his death was that she had been kept completely apart from it, having no part in it, sharing no last ceremony with his remains. In his usual arrogant, indomitable way, André had used his influence to prevent her being involved. No matter what his reasons had been, and no doubt he would consider he had some, she would never forgive him for this!

  Leaning her back against the tree, she turned to look at Ramon. ‘How dare André do such a thing?’ she cried hysterically. ‘He was my father. I had a right to be there!’

  Ramon shook his head. ‘Rachel, I know it’s difficult for you to understand now, at this time, but what André has done was for the best, believe me! Your father had a decent burial, and André was there representing you! What more could you have done? Your father was already dead when André arrived. And certainly he wasn’t around to care whether or not you attended his funeral! Be sensible, Rachel, for God’s sake! Isn’t it better to remember your father as you last saw him? As a living, breathing human being, not as a corpse?’

  Rachel pressed the palms of her hands to her cheeks. ‘I ought to have realised that you would never understand!’ she cried bitterly. ‘You’re one of them, one of the omnipotent few, a Sanchez!’

  Ramon straightened violently, almost as though she had slapped him. ‘Just remember, Rachel, that you are a Sanchez, too,’ he reminded her tautly, but Rachel began to shake her head.

  ‘Never,’ she gasped wildly, ‘never, never, never!’ And without another word, she turned and fled back along the beach towards the house.

  Rachel sat on the patio of her mother-in-law’s house, an unopened magazine in her lap, staring out to sea with concentrated intensity. There was a numbness about her which nothing seemed to erase, and in truth she didn’t know whether or not she wanted it erasing. It was two days since Ramon arrived with the terrible news about her father, and although she had got over her hysterical outburst at that horrifying revelation and had accepted the condolences of André’s family calmly, nothing really penetrated the shock that still held her in its thrall. Instead, she had withdrawn into herself, realising that to return to England now would accomplish nothing. Her father was dead, and there was absolutely nothing anyone could do about that, and in any case she was virtually a prisoner on Veros until André returned.

  Several times Madam Sanchez had attempted to get her to discuss her bereavement in an effort to destroy the shell Rachel had erected about herself, but always Rachel turned aside from it as though it was abhorrent to her and her mother-in-law had been forced to accept her decision. Instead, an uneasy camaraderie prevailed in which life seemed to go on in its normal way, and only beneath the surface did emotions cause undercurrents.

  And now it was late afternoon, and Rachel was considering whether she ought to go and take her bath before dinner. Earlier in the afternoon Madam Sanchez had sat on the patio with her, sewing, and carrying on a rather one-sided conversation, until Maria came and claimed her attention and the older woman had agreed to go and supervise Maria’s bath as a special treat. In truth, Rachel thought she was glad of the excuse to escape from her daughter-in-law for a while, although she had to admit that Madam Sanchez had treated her with kindness and sympathy and had tried to understand her feelings even though it was difficult in her position.

  Suddenly, a strange noise broke the stillness of the air, and Rachel looked up instinctively, seeing the gleaming metal of the silver helicopter approaching swiftly. Immediately her heart skipped a beat, and for the first time since she had heard of her father’s death she felt compulsively aware of her surroundings and of her appearance. Getting to her feet, she walked quickly into the house and going to her room she combed her hair into sleek order, smoothed the crispness of the chocolate-coloured dress she was wearing, and applied a small amount of eye make-up. Then, satisfied that she looked cool and composed, she descended the stairs again, slowing as she heard the sound of voices from the lounge. She recognised the tones of Madam Sanchez, and disturbingly, of André, but there was another voice, another feminine voice which she did not recognise.

  With determined effort she reached the bottom of the stairs and walked swiftly across to the arched entrance into the lounge, checking in the doorway almost nervously, for the room seemed full of people. But actually, as her eyes surveyed the scene before them she realised that apart from Madam Sanchez and Vittorio, there was only André and the girl, Leonie Gardner, present. Rachel compressed her lips. Why had André brought her here today, now, this moment? Didn’t he realise that she would want to talk to him? That she would have things to ask him? To confront him with? Or was that his idea? An attempt to delay an unpleasant interview!

  Silence fell on the company as they became aware of her presence, and she stepped into the room uncomfortably, saying: ‘Please, don’t let me interrupt you.’

  André was the first to speak, coming across the room to her with compassionate eyes and attempting to take her hands. But she deliberately put her hands behind her back, her eyes blazing into his, leaving him in no doubt as to her anger.

  But André controlled any annoyance at this almost childish display of temper, and said: ‘I am so sorry, Rachel. I should have been here myself to break to you the news of your father’s death. But it was impossible. I could not be in two places at one and the same time!’ He lifted his shoulders in an eloquent gesture. ‘Be assured, you have my sympathy!’

  Rachel glared at him tremulously. ‘Am I supposed to be grateful for that?’ she cried, uncaring of the startled glances of the others.

  ‘Rachel…’ began Madam Sanchez patiently. ‘Not now!’

  Rachel chewed her lower lip. ‘I’m sorry, madam,’ she said tightly. ‘Will you excuse me?’ and turning she walked quickly out of the room again.

  Once in the hall, she took a deep breath, aware that she was shaking with the force of suppressed emotions. Let André stay with the women, let him protect himself with their presence, sooner or later she would have it out with him.

  Fingers suddenly closed cruelly round the flesh of her upper arm, startling her into awareness that she was no longer alone, and her eyes widened when she saw André. ‘Come!’ he commanded coldly. ‘We need to talk!’

  Rachel was too startled to protest; besides, this was what she had wanted, wasn’t it? Why then did she quiver in his grasp like a frightened insect caught on the pin of an ardent collector? They crossed the hall,
and André thrust her through a panelled door which led into a small library. The walls were lined with books and cabinets, and open french windows led on to the patio at the rear of the house. André released his cruel grip on her arm, and crossing to these windows he closed them abruptly.

  ‘Now,’ he said, turning, an angry look marring his attractive features, ‘what in hell is going on?’

  Rachel rubbed her arm mutinously. ‘You hurt me!’ she accused him coldly.

  ‘Believe me, that’s nothing to what I’d like to do when you persist in behaving like a shrewish schoolgirl,’ he reviled her mercilessly. ‘All right, your father’s death has been a terrible shock to you, I’m prepared to accept that, but what I will not accept is this childish behaviour in my mother’s house! Kindly keep any outbursts you have to make to me for when we are without witnesses!’

  Rachel’s cheeks burned. ‘I’m sorry if I embarrassed you in front of your future wife!’ she muttered scornfully, ‘but you really should get rid of one wife before producing another!’

  André’s hands gripped her shoulders savagely. ‘I warn you, Rachel,’ he threatened her violently, ‘one of these days you will drive me too far!’ He thrust her away from him as though he couldn’t bear to touch her. ‘As for embarrassing me, you ought to know by now that you couldn’t do that!’

  Rachel’s breath came in jerky gulps. For a moment she had been close against his hard body, and her own traitorous emotions had yearned for a closer contact. But the momentary nearness had been in anger, and obviously André had been affected by no such feelings.

  Gathering her small store of composure, she said tightly: ‘All right, André, let’s be civilised about it!’ There was sarcasm in her voice. ‘I won’t push you, if you don’t push me!’ She bent her head. ‘And now I think you’ve evaded your responsibilities long enough.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He was suspicious.

  ‘I’ll explain,’ said Rachel tautly. ‘You accuse me of behaving childishly. Well, maybe the reason I do is because you treat me like a child!’ She took a deep breath, staring at him accusingly.