‘But you need work in your life, otherwise you’re rudderless. That’s something you need to think about, Jen.’
‘I do want to work, Connor. I just need to decide what it is I want to do, and I think I want to do whatever it is here, in our home town.’
His brow creased. ‘What are you saying, Jen? I start work in three weeks’ time. I have an apartment. I thought, you know, we could talk about you moving in at some point.’ He made it sound as if he was doing her a favour.
‘We can still make it work. It’s just a two-hour flight . . .’
‘I’m not listening to this. Someone needs to talk some sense into you.’ His voice had returned to its arrogant and dismissive tone.
‘Fine. It’s your turn to go to the bar.’
‘No, it’s your turn to go to the bar,’ he corrected. ‘I’ll have a bourbon. I need it after this conversation. And then we’re leaving. Randy Chubb is having drinks at his parents’ house on Lafayette before they head to Maine.’
‘OK,’ muttered Jennifer as she slid off her stool and headed to the bar, which was about three deep in thirsty party guests. Glancing back, she saw Connor surveying the room with contempt and wondered, not for the first time, what she actually saw in him.
Screw you, she thought with a spike of rebellion, and made for the door.
Chapter Nine
It was dark by the time she got outside, but she always enjoyed walking the streets of Savannah at this time. It was true that there was a certain eeriness to the city when the light fell from the sky, the noise of the traffic retreated as you left the main streets and the Spanish moss in the trees rustled in the warm evening breeze, but she always felt safe and at home.
She tucked her cardigan and bag under her arm as she walked away from Broughton, weaving her way through the quiet streets of the historic district, not really knowing where she was going, just wanting a little space for her thoughts after her conversation with Connor.
Jennifer did not consider herself to be a stubborn person, but she did not want to back down from where she stood on returning to New York. She felt certain that the city was not right for her, that it was too fast, too crazy, too concerned with the things she really wasn’t bothered about: money, power and status.
Jeanne’s offer of sharing an apartment was an exciting one. She hadn’t been to her friend’s place before, and could imagine it was nothing close to the levels of comfort she was used to; even as a student she had been allocated one of the best rooms at Wellesley, and it certainly wouldn’t compare to living at Casa D’Or. But her family home meant living with her mother, and after being back in the city less than a week, she was quickly remembering how difficult Sylvia could be. Her disapproval was more corrosive than Connor’s offhanded remarks, and the pointed silences and withering looks were beginning to grind Jennifer down. She found herself tiptoeing around the house, marshalling her own silence as if she were in a library or place of worship. She didn’t want to be seen and not heard. She wanted to be not seen and not heard.
At least Savannah was still as beautiful as ever, she thought, as a horse and carriage tour trundled past, hooves clattering on the road, tourists waving as it disappeared around a corner. Most people she knew at college had been desperate to leave their home towns and reinvent themselves in New York, Boston or LA. But they hadn’t been from Savannah, which tonight looked particularly glorious.
Soft light glowed from the windows of the grand houses that lined the grassy squares; rocking chairs on porches swayed gently in the perfumed breeze. Jennifer imagined herself living in a town house in the historic district; somewhere cosier than Casa D’Or but with all its unique Southern flavour. She imagined a house with a raspberry-red door and a balcony she could step out on to and drink her French vanilla coffee and smell the magnolia bushes in the garden.
She was almost at Forsyth Park now, one of her favourite places of all. She always thought of it as the heart of the city – the perfect spot to read or relax and watch the world go by – and its grand fountain, with its arches of glittering spray, still dazzled her even though she had seen it a thousand times.
She paused as the red and blue flashing lights of a police car drove past. Her heartbeat quickened as for one crazy and paranoid moment she wondered if Connor had sent someone to look for her. The vehicle stopped a few feet in front of her, pulling over an old red pickup truck that was driving the wrong way up a one-way street. She couldn’t resist having a look at what was going on.
The driver of the truck got out and stood under one of Savannah’s old street lamps. Jennifer knew that she recognised him, but for a second she couldn’t place from where. Then it struck her. It was Jim Johnson from the Lake House. The policeman had also got out of his car and was approaching him. Jennifer quickened her pace, reaching Jim just behind the officer.
The policeman spoke first. ‘This is a one-way street . . .’
‘I’m sorry,’ began Jim, thrusting his hands into his pockets sheepishly. ‘I didn’t know . . .’
Jennifer caught his eye, then turned her attention to the officer.
‘It’s totally my fault,’ she said, leaping to Jim’s defence. ‘My friend is over from England and offered to pick me up. I gave him directions to follow because he’s only just got into town. I told him to come this way.’
‘You told him to come this way?’ repeated the police officer, looking down at her sceptically.
‘Yes. Jennifer Wyatt, by the way,’ she said, knowing that her family’s name carried some weight around town. She thrust her hand forward. The officer didn’t shake it.
‘Your friend was still driving down the street the wrong way. It’s his responsibility as the driver to check where he is going,’ he said firmly.
‘I realise that, Officer,’ said Jim, giving Jennifer a quick look.
‘I’m so sorry, Jim,’ said Jennifer, feeling herself getting sucked into the role she had decided to play. ‘I should have just got a taxi or walked home rather than asking you to ferry me around the whole time. You’re on holiday after all.’
‘Driver’s licence,’ said the police officer resignedly.
Jim pulled his wallet out of his pocket, rifled through some dollar bills and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, which he handed over. Somehow Jennifer was surprised he carried it on him, and even more surprised when he went to the glove compartment of the truck and produced the insurance document as well.