Rejection Runs Deep (The Canleigh Series, book 1: A chilling psychological family drama), Carole Williams [ebook reader 8 inch .TXT] 📗

and in shock Delia stood in the Caribbean sun, feeling the intense rays from above penetrating the wide brimmed white hat she was wearing.  She didn’t know if it was the overwhelming heat or the news he had just imparted making her feel nauseous and weak.  She stared at the man who had taken her mother away all those years ago.  He looked ill and gaunt. Last time she had seen him, that unforgettable day at Canleigh, he had been a good-looking young man, slim, clean-shaven and with a good head of thick fair hair.  Eight years down the line and she wouldn’t have said it was the same person.  Although his chin was covered in greying stubble, he was virtually bald, wore grubby black shorts, socks and sandals and his bare torso was so well tanned it was virtually black.  He looked filthy and didn’t smell too good either.  She wondered when he had last had a bath.

He sank down wearily on the floor of the veranda of the run-down bar, which certainly wasn’t the luxury hotel Delia had been envisaging.  She couldn’t imagine her mother here, helping him run this place.  It was dire.  No more than a large wooden shack with a roof that was rotting and the veranda didn’t look safe either.  A few grubby looking white plastic chairs and tables rested on the uneven planks of wood between which grass and weeds grew.  The only redeeming feature was the view.  The building was set on a hill overlooking the beach.  The sea was crystal clear, a sparkling turquoise in the dazzling sunshine and Delia watched fascinated as pelicans dived for fish.  She turned and saw an iguana ambling through the bushes behind her, its skin virtually the same colour as the undergrowth.  She had only ever seen one in a zoo when she was young and she watched it with fascination as it trundled out of view while she let the information Simon had just delivered sink in.

“I’m sorry.  It must be a shock,” he uttered, waving a hand at the entrance door.  “Help yourself to a drink if it helps … and while you’re at it, bring me the brandy bottle.  No need for a glass.”

Numb from the news of her mother’s untimely demise, Delia gingerly entered the shack with its louvered doors, glad she was wearing flat flip-flops and not heels.  The floor inside was nearly as bad as the roof and there was a nasty aroma of sweat mixed with urine and booze.  The bar was in the far corner, dirty glasses everywhere.  Lots more plastic tables and chairs dotted the room and there was an uneven dance floor in the centre with a discotheque unit in the opposite corner to the bar.

Grabbing a half empty bottle without a label but which looked and smelled like brandy Delia stumbled back out to the veranda, desperately wanting a drink too but not daring to risk using one of the brown stained glasses or putting her lips to the bottle.  The small hotel she had booked into a couple of miles down the road had looked relatively clean when she had offloaded her luggage a couple of hours ago so she could have a drink later.

Parfitt was still on the floor, his back to the wall.  He took the bottle and drank deeply.  She watched him.  Did he remember what she had done to his car all those years ago, she wondered.

“What on earth happened?” she asked.  “How did Mother die?  And how did you end up in this place?  I thought you had a thriving business out here.  Father gave her a generous divorce settlement so she should have been able to afford something better than this.”  She sniffed disdainfully as her eyes roamed over the decrepit dwelling and the neglected piece of land circling it.

Parfitt lifted his head and looked at her.  She reminded him so much of Margaret.  In fact, she was just a younger version of the woman who was supposed to have made his life an easy and comfortable ride.  It had been fine at first but for the last five years it had been a bloody nightmare and he wished to God he had never met the damned woman.  He would have been much better off staying in London.  He badly wanted to go back but he doubted if he would be able to raise enough from the sale of his ramshackle home and business for the flight home.  He knew his mother wouldn’t help him, as much as she might want to, thanks to her bloody husband, and he had lost contact with his friends.  With no hope of going back, depression engulfed him when he thought of lovely cool, busy, exciting London with plenty of decent booze and no flaming mosquitoes.  Thanks to that damned Duchess, he was trapped here now.  He took another swig of the rough brandy.

He squinted in the strong sunshine and held a hand over his eyes as he looked up at Delia.  “We bought a somewhat popular hotel and bar with a damned good turnover not long after we arrived, over in Grenada, near St. Georges.  It was good for a while.  We made money, quite a bit of money in fact but as fast as it came, even faster it went.  We partied, we had long holidays … but not having a clue how to run such a place, we hired a manager.  He robbed us blind for months, ran the business into the ground, and then cleared off with the takings.  They eventually found him in St..Lucia, living it up, and now he’s languishing in a rotten Caribbean jail.”

“But if you had a good business … couldn’t you have turned it round?”

“No.  It was too late for that.  We had spent your mother’s divorce settlement and were living on the rapidly diminishing proceeds of the hotel.  We didn’t have