take it easy. I’m sure we can always accommodate you, Miss Holland.’
Joanna sighed. ‘Er—my suitcases are out in my car. I just parked on the forecourt. Could someone …?’
A bell-boy was summoned and while Joanna filled in the necessary registration form, her luggage was brought in from the car and placed on a trolley, ready for direction.
‘Room 447,’ the receptionist advised at last, handing the keys to the bell-boy, and feeling only slightly less selfconscious, Joanna followed the man into the lift for the trip up to the third floor. She had already learned that Americans regarded the ground floor as the first floor, and consequently the fourth floor was in actual fact only three floors above the ground.
Her room overlooked the swimming pool at the back of the hotel. It was a large comfortable apartment, comprising a twin-bedded room with a balcony and an adjoining bathroom, and after the bell-boy had left her, Joanna walked out into the sunshine. Below her balcony, the water in the pool was alive with sunspots, while beyond the fringe of palms that edged the gardens, a narrow beach was all that separated the hotel from the Gulf of Mexico. It was exotic and it was colourful, and she rested her elbows on the rail and surveyed the activity below with a feeling of satisfation. She was here. She was actually here in Mango Key. All she had to do now was find Matthew Wilder.
All!
Screwing up her eyes against the glare, she acknowledged that it was no small task that Evan had set her. She had not been lying when she said that Uncle Matt might not recognise her. There was little resemblance now between the eight-year-old schoolgirl he had brought beads for and the nineteen-year-old young woman she had become. Indeed, she didn’t remember him all that well. It was only the fact that her father had kept a photograph of Matthew Wilder in his study that had convinced her she might be able to recognise him. He couldn’t have changed that much in eleven years. Her father hadn’t. And after all, Uncle Matt was his contemporary, not hers.
On impulse, she went back into the room behind her and opened up her suitcase. She had brought the photograph with her, for reassurance, and now she drew it out and examined it once again. Marcia had made no bones about her taking any of the photographs out of her father’s study. She had not wanted them, and after her father died, Joanna had gathered all the old snaps together and stuffed them into a holdall ready to sort through later. She was glad she had. The night she left Ashworth Terrace, she had been in no state to bother about old photographs, but because they had been among her possessions they had been sent to Mrs Morris’s sister’s house along with everything else she owned.
Now, she studied the old black and white image with faintly troubled eyes. The bearded features were familiar, and yet unfamiliar. She hardly remembered the man who had come back to England from Africa, bringing with him bracelets and necklaces carved from bone and shells, weird-looking dolls, and a pair of drums, wood-framed and covered with skin. It was all so long ago, and she felt the old sense of anxiety that he would immediately suspect why she was here.
The hollow feeling inside her resolved itself into hunger, and shedding the shorts for a more modest cotton wrap-around skirt, Joanna left her room and went down to the coffee shop. She had still to decide how she was going to arrange an accidental meeting with Matthew Wilder, and over a hamburger and french fries she considered the alternatives.
Evan had given her the address, along with the information that his house was near the beach. How Evan knew this, Joanna had no idea, but as the island was only three miles wide at its broadest point, it was not unreasonable to suppose that his information was correct. ‘Palmetto Drive,’ she mused, examining the slip of paper in front of her. It sounded nice, but names, like appearances, could be deceptive.
Still, at least she knew where to find him, always assuming he was still there. All she knew for certain was that he had been there six months ago or presumably her father would have changed the address in his diary.
Swallowing a mouthful of the raspberry milk shake she had ordered to accompany her hamburger, Joanna wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. There still remained the question of how she was going to introduce herself to a man who in all probability had even forgotten her name. How could she even get herself noticed when to all intents and purposes she was no different from any one of a thousand other girls she had seen thronging the beaches from here to Miami?
She was sitting there, lost in thought, when a light hand touched her shoulder. She glanced round at once, her long green eyes wide behind the curved lenses, and found the handsome young man from the reception desk regarding her with undisguised admiration.
‘Miss Holland,’ he said, as she met his gaze coolly, ‘I thought you might be wondering about your car keys.’ He smiled. ‘Your car’s been parked in the hotel garage. When you want it, all you have to do is call the desk and it’ll be brought to reception for you.’
‘Well, thank you.’ Joanna couldn’t be impolite. ‘I’ll remember that.’
‘Good.’ The young man hesitated. ‘I hope your room is comfortable.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Joanna nodded. ‘It’s fine, really. Everything,’ she included the coffee shop in the gesture she made, ‘everything is fine—honestly.’
‘That’s good. If you have any problems, you tell me. Just ask for Carlos. Carlos Almeira, that’s my name.’
Still he lingered, and Joanna, eager to get to grips with her own problems, felt a sense of impatience. What did he want, for goodness’ sake? A written commendation? Or was he simply angling for a date? Either way, she was not interested.
‘Was there something else?’ she asked pointedly, waiting for him to leave her, and his tanned face creased into a smile.
‘Do you know this area at all?’ he enquired, confirming her worst fears, and she sighed.
‘No. But I’ll find my way around,’ she averred coolly. ‘G’bye.’
‘Perhaps you’d like me to show you some of the tourist attractions,’ he suggested, apparently immune to her indifference. ‘We have quite a famous museum, down by the harbour, and a marine centre. And some of the architecture in the town dates from the turn of the century.’
‘Thank you, but I prefer to do my own exploring,’ replied Joanna crisply, and then caught her breath as a thought occurred to her. If—Carlos—knew the town well, he would doubtless know who lived here, and also how far Palmetto Drive was from the hotel.
‘Tell me,’ she said, as he was turning away, and his philosophic expression gave way to one of anticipation. ‘Yes?’
‘I—is the island very big?’ she asked, fingering the stem of her spectacles. ‘I mean, could I walk from one end to the other?’
‘You could,’ conceded Carlos. ‘But why walk when you have a car? It’s too hot to walk. Except on to the beach.’
‘I like walking,’ said Joanna, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Besides, you see more that way.’ She paused. ‘I like to look at the names of the streets, to see if I recognise them. Some well-known people have lived on these islands from time to time. I suppose I’m just inquisitive.’
Carlos shrugged. ‘No famous people live on Mango Key,’ he declared, flattening her hopes in that direction. ‘Key West now, that’s different. That’s where Ernest Hemingway used to live.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Joanna tried not to show her disappointment. ‘I have read the guide books. I just thought you, being a local, might know of some interesting places.’
‘Oh, I know a lot of interesting places,’ declared Carlos, taking her innocent words as a sign of encouragement, and Joanna expelled her breath wearily.
‘Thank you for your help,’ she said, deliberately turning her head away, and with a gesture of impatience the young man left her.
Back in her room again, Joanna consulted her map. If Carlos had but known it, she knew exactly how big the island