Shadows of the Heart

  Shadows of the Heart

  By

  Lorena McCourtney

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Published by

  Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

  1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza

  New York, New York 10017

  Copyright © 1980 by Lorena McCourtney

  ISBN: 0-440-17998-X

  First printing—November 1980

  Chapter One

  The San Jose sunlight was blindingly bright as Trish Bellingham stepped off the plane. Mountains soared in the distance, mist-shrouded tops looming regally above cloaks of incredibly green vegetation—vegetation that thrived on soil made rich and fertile by the same volcanic ash that in ages past had rained down destruction. Trish found the vividly illustrated paradox a little breathtaking, somehow unexpectedly inspirational, but then she realized that the other tourists found her blocking their way. She smiled apologetically and hurried into the modern terminal building.

  The formalities with Costa Rican officials took only a few minutes. Trish spotted Edith before the other woman saw her. It was Edith, wasn’t, it? Trish paused, mentally trying to project into the present that old photograph of the half-sister she had never met.

  The woman turned and looked at Trish. She had dark brown hair, fine dark eyes. She was prettier than the plain, unsmiling girl in the photograph. No, perhaps not prettier, Trish decided, cocking her head thoughtfully. Handsome. A handsome woman, her hair done up in a regal coil of braids, tall, with the defiantly proud posture of a woman who knows conventional beauty is not one of her assets. The young woman took a tentative step toward Trish.

  “Trish?”

  “Edith?”

  Impulsively Trish threw her arms around Edith and hugged her enthusiastically. She felt Edith stiffen and she stepped back and smiled awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I—I guess back home we’re just a hugging family.”

  “I know,” Edith said softly, her dark eyes suddenly, unexpectedly bright with a hint of tears. “I remember.”

  Trish caught her breath with the sudden realization that, of course, Edith would remember. How old was she when the breakup occurred? Five? Six?

  Edith reached out and took Trish’s hand in hers. “You look so much like I remember our mother. I used to brush her hair and wish that mine were as pretty and golden. And she was so petite and slim. Like you.”

  Trish laughed, feeling oddly uncomfortable with Edith’s obviously painful memories. “She still is, though now it takes a couple of weeks each year at some expensive health spa to keep her that way.”

  “Edith?”

  Both young women glanced up at the sound of the male voice, Trish startled, Edith apologetic. Edith smiled and tucked a hand under the man’s arm to draw him closer.

  “This is Armando Albeniz,” she said proudly. “My fiancé.” Edith’s face changed, subtly softening as she looked at the dark-haired, handsome young man at her side. Now she really was pretty, Trish decided. There was a light about her face, almost a glow. Trish had heard love could do that for some women, but she had never seen such visible proof of it until this moment.

  “Armando,” Trish repeated warmly. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  His smile flashed and he dipped his head in acknowledgment of the introduction. “You have made us both very happy by coming for our wedding.” His English was excellent, with only a trace of an accent.

  “I hope I’ll be of some help and not just get in the way,” Trish said.

  “I would be happy if we would just do it simply and do it now,” Armando said. He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “But women… they must fuss with dresses and veils and flowers and food. Three months yet to wait,” he groaned.

  Edith laughed, obviously delighted with his mild teasing. “Trish, are you hungry? Let’s have lunch before we drive back to the cafetal.”

  Cafetal. Coffee plantation, Trish translated slowly, still a little awed that she had actually come. She usually did not do things so impulsively. Then she realized they were waiting for her reply.

  “I’m starving,” she said honestly.

  Armando gathered up her luggage and led the way to a sleek Mercedes parked outside. Trish tried to see everything on the drive through the city streets, but that was impossible. She found herself mostly surprised that San Jose was such a bustling, energetic city, not at all slow and sleepy as she had expected.

  The restaurant was dim and cool, a relief after the dazzling brightness and noise outside. Armando recommended the seafood and Trish had a delicious shrimp salad, exotic with a mixture of tropical fruits. The talk was light, drifting from subject to subject with ease: the college she had been attending, the current coffee harvest on the cafetal, wedding preparations, a new horse added to the stable, the food. Finally Trish leaned back, blissfully full and relaxed.

  “Would a cigarette be out of order? I don’t smoke much, but after such a meal—” She glanced around, seeing only one other woman, obviously a tourist, smoking.

  Armando laughed and produced both a cigarette and a flick of his lighter. “We expect anything of you American women.”

  The remark was made laughingly, without malice, and Trish accepted it in the light vein in which it was offered. She leaned back, savoring the coffee and cigarette, letting Armando and Edith’s conversation, now in soft Spanish, drift by her pleasantly.

  But then she became aware of something less pleasant, a distinctly uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching her. She straightened up and looked around tentatively, finding herself staring directly into the intent, dark eyes of a man sitting a few tables away. He made no effort to look away or to pretend he had not been watching her, and Trish’s eyes uneasily broke the contact first. There was nothing bold or flirtatious in the man’s steady gaze. Trish was not unaccustomed to that flirtatious sort of look and would have known how to handle it, but this was different, and there was something disconcerting in this dark, almost brooding inspection.

  Finally she leaned forward uncomfortably. “Do you know that man over there in the corner? He keeps looking this way.”

  Edith was prevented from seeing the man by an obstructing support column, and Armando had to turn and deliberately look. The man in the corner gave Armando a cool nod of recognition, and Armando returned it with equal coolness.

  “Our neighbor,” he said. There was a totally different tone in his voice now: a sneer, almost a curl of the lip. “Seňor Marcantonio de la Barca himself.”

  Trish, puzzled at the change in Armando, glanced at Edith. Edith shrugged. “It’s an old story,” she said. “I’ll tell you about it some other time.”

  The chance meeting seemed to have shattered the pleasant atmosphere, and Armando stubbed out his cigarette. “We should be going. I’m sure Trish would like to have some rest.”

  That was true. She had spent most of the night on the plane and then had an uncomfortable layover in Mexico City at an hour when there was little to do but sit and wait. But the lunch had been so pleasant and agreeable that she hated to see it end on this rather unpleasant note.

  “Is he alone?” Edith asked curiously.

  Armando did not turn to look, but Trish did cautiously. “No, there is a woman with him.” Trish hadn’t noticed her before, so disturbing had she found the man’s gaze. Now the woman, whose back had been turned to Trish, shifted slightly and Trish saw her face in profile. She was a beautiful woman, with cream
y skin, gleaming black hair caught up with a jeweled comb, and eyes with just a hint of an almond shape. Even in a roomful of attractive Costa Rican women she stood out, her beauty more vivid and dramatic than the others. “She’s very lovely,” Trish said.

  “It must be Ramona de Cordoba. I heard he was seeing her. She’s a very well-known singer here in San Jose.”

  As if to confirm that comment, the American woman who had been smoking suddenly went over and asked for her autograph. Armando stood up, rather abruptly signifying the meal had come to an end. Trish could still feel the man’s eyes on them as they left the restaurant.

  Outside, the unsettling vibrations created by Marcantonio de la Barca’s presence lingered, and Armando was silent as they left the city and headed for the coffee country to the north. Edith talked sporadically, drawing Trish’s attention to points of interest, though her words were mixed with occasional anxious glances at Armando. Trish was interested in the sights, of course, but weariness from the activities of the last few hectic days was beginning to catch up with her.

  She leaned back, wondering what her parents were going to say when they learned she had abruptly dropped out of college and gone to Costa Rica. Trish had never been quite able to understand her mother’s seeming indifference toward Edith, the child from her first marriage. That indifference seemed even more puzzling now that she realized Edith’s memory of their mother was of an affectionate, hugging person. And yet, Trish reflected, that contradictory part of her mother’s nature was evident even in her treatment of Trish herself. Her mother was affectionate, bubbling, and loving when she was around, true, but Trish’s actual upbringing had been left mostly to her grandparents in Minnesota, while her parents chased around the world on business and social pursuits.

  Trish and Edith had carried on a rather stilted, penpal correspondence while Trish was in grade school, but since then the contact had dwindled to the occasional birthday card. Then, completely out of the blue, had come Edith’s letter inviting… no, more than inviting, almost begging… Trish to come visit and stay for Edith’s wedding to Armando Albeniz, manager of the coffee plantation. It was an important time of life, a time when a woman needed family around, Edith had said, and Trish was all she had.

  The letter had come at a propitious moment in Trish’s life. The quarter was ending at college. She had no real thoughts about dropping out, but she had no real desire to continue either. She felt as if she were drifting aimlessly, without a goal. She had many interests in life but none that seemed compelling enough to pursue deeply. Spending the next few months in Costa Rica suddenly seemed like a marvelous idea. It would enable her to get to know the half-sister she had never met and also get a long-distance perspective on her life and what she wanted to do with it.

  Trish dozed, vaguely conscious of passing through a medium-size town and some small villages, but not really wide awake until they started up the rougher, winding road that led to the cafetal. Here the incredible green that she had seen on the mountain slopes from a distance was all around them. The road twisted again and she had a breathtaking view of the volcanic mountain whose shoulders they were traversing like insignificant insects creeping around on a giant. The green vegetation became sparse near the top then yielded to barren, lifeless rock, as ominous and alien as a part of some dead planet.

  “What is that?” Trish gasped. “I mean, is it an active volcano?”

  Edith laughed and shook her head. “No, you needn’t worry. It won’t send rivers of lava pouring down on us in the middle of the night—though Marcantonio de la Barca says his grandfather could remember steam escaping from it when he was a boy.” She hesitated. “And I suppose its name might hint that it is not as sleepy as it appears.”

  “What is its name?”

  “Monte Decepcion.”

  Mount Deception. Oh, yes, Trish thought with a little shiver, that name could be significant. Somewhere back in time the mountain had evidently done something to earn that ominous title. Another twist in the road and they were in the shadow of the towering mountain.

  “But Edith is right about the lava,” Armando added reassuringly. “Our Costa Rican volcanos are of the ash-producing variety, which is not to say, of course, that they cannot be extremely dangerous. But you don’t need to worry about Decepcion.”

  “There is an interesting place we’ll have to show you though,” Edith said. “Quite unusual because, as Armando says, these are ash-producing volcanos. But sometime long ago lava evidently escaped from a fissure near the base and formed huge, hollow underground tubes.”

  This bit of information earned Edith a narrow, disapproving scowl from Armando, which puzzled Trish at first until Edith went on rather hurriedly.

  “My father was always convinced there should be early Indian artifacts in or around those tubes and caverns, and he used to spend hours poking around there, though he never found anything. I used to go along and scare myself silly peering into those eerie tubes. A little like peeking through your fingers at a horror movie, I suppose.” Edith laughed, though she sounded a little uncertain and Armando did not join in.

  No doubt the possibility of artifacts was what disturbed Armando, Trish thought. As a native Costa Rican, he probably would not approve of an American making off with native artifacts, even as long-term a resident as Edith’s father had been.

  They rounded another curve and there was the house. Trish caught her breath in sheer delight at its loveliness. The house had two stories in back, with rambling wings surrounding a central courtyard. The roof was red tile and there was an iron-grilled balcony overlooking the courtyard. Lush bougainvillea tumbled everywhere, shadowing the windows, draping the deeply overhanging verandas.

  A servant came and collected Trish’s luggage, evidently already having been instructed as to which room she would occupy. Armando excused himself to take care of some business, suggesting Trish have a good nap before dinner, to which she readily agreed. Edith accompanied her directly to the room and Trish had only a vague impression of wood-beamed ceilings and richly appointed rooms in the other parts of the house.

  Trish was quite delighted with the pleasant little room and adjoining bath to which Edith showed her. There was colorful handmade furniture that Trish recognized as probably having come from the famous oxcart-making area of Sarchi. She went to the window and pulled back the filmy curtain. She had expected to see a shady courtyard and instead was surprised to see a modern swimming pool.

  “When my father’s health started to fail, the doctors told him a daily swim might do him good, so we had the pool installed,” Edith explained. “He still tries to take a swim occasionally, but—”

  “You mean he is still alive?” Trish turned away from the window, surprised. Then she apologized. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s just that I assumed you wouldn’t have invited me if he were still alive.”

  Edith smiled. “I love my father and we still have long talks. But somehow, at the time of a marriage, it is not the same as having another girl, a woman relative around.”

  “I can understand that,” Trish said quickly. “It’s just that… I mean, under the circumstances…” Her voice trailed off doubtfully.

  Edith nodded. “Yes, I know. And that is why I hope you will understand when I do not introduce you to my father. He has never forgiven my… our… mother for the way she left him for another man. And you, as the daughter of that other man…” She lifted her eyebrows slightly, questioningly, lowering them when Trish nodded in understanding. “I’m sure you can appreciate that in his present physical and mental condition the shock of meeting you might be very bad for him, especially since you do resemble our mother so much.”

  “He has… mental problems?” Trish asked tentatively.

  Edith hesitated. “Bitterness takes many unpleasant forms,” she said enigmatically. “His mind wanders. But he stays mostly in his room and has a private nurse, so there is little danger that you will run into him. And if you should
accidentally meet him—” She broke off, hesitated again, frowned. “I think it would be best, of course, if you do not reveal to him who you are and get away as quickly as possible.”

  Trish nodded. “Of course. I’d never want to do anything to upset him.” She hesitated, tempted to ask more about that curious meeting at the restaurant with the cold, aloof neighbor, but she decided that this was not the time. For a moment she tried to bring his face back into focus, but she could not. Those dark, intense eyes had dominated everything about him, though she had a vague impression that he had been handsome in a lean-faced, aristocratic way.

  Edith left then and Trish undressed and relaxed on the comfortable bed. The room seemed a little stuffy and she slid the window open to let in a breath of fresh air. There was a slight breeze that ruffled the filmy curtains and Trish dropped into a restful sleep almost immediately.

  She woke sometime later, not certain how long she had slept but feeling much more relaxed and refreshed. Edith had not said what time dinner would be served nor how formal the attire would be. After some minor mental debate with herself, Trish opted for comfortable tangerine pants and a sleeveless white blouse. She was eager to get out and look around and did not want to be encumbered with dressy dinner clothes.

  She wandered down the long, cool hallway, not seeing anyone until she found a side door that opened into the courtyard. The pool was clean and shimmering, with a cluster of lounge chairs at one end. Trish debated about changing into a bikini and taking a dip, but she decided that could wait. She was too eager to see everything now. She let herself out the iron-grilled gate and wandered around, inspecting the unfamiliar blooms and shrubbery. She had no idea what a coffee tree or bush or whatever they were looked like, but it appeared the commercially cultivated areas must be some distance from the house.

  Then a high-pitched whinny attracted her attention. Horses? Yes, of course. She remembered Armando saying something about adding a new horse to the stable. She hurried around the corner of the house and delightedly headed toward the sound of the whinny. As a child in Minnesota, horses had been her frequent companions, but she hadn’t been near a horse since high school.