‘Why, Dad?’
‘Why what?’
Andy uttered a sound of exasperation. ‘Why must I keep away from “that woman”?’
She said ‘that woman’ in a tone of dark melodrama, which Logan chose to ignore. ‘Because, daughter mine, rightly or wrongly, society judges people by the company they keep. I want you to stick with people whose values are the same as your own. A good reputation’s worth its weight in gold—and it’s something you can lose only once.’
‘Kind of like virginity, right, Dad?’
Logan cleared his throat, and busied himself with gathering up his dishes. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Darned right.’
A feeling of helplessness and inadequacy almost swamped him. He was no good at this; he was clumsy, awkward—or, to use Andy’s latest expression of derision, ‘pathetic’.
She needed a mother, especially at this stage in her life, where she was herself on the threshold of womanhood. And he did intend to take himself another wife...but only because of his promise to Bethany.
Just the memory of it broke his heart.
‘Darling,’ she’d whispered as she’d lain dying in the stark white hospital bed, ‘promise me you’ll marry again.’ Her voice had caught. ‘I couldn’t bear it if I thought you’d go through the rest of your life grieving...’
He’d have promised her the moon if he’d thought it would give her a moment’s respite from her suffering.
‘I promise—’ the lump in his throat had almost choked him ‘—if that’s what you want, I’ll marry again...’
And the promise had been worth it, to see the quick shine of relief in her dulled eyes, to feel the tiny surge of strength in the fragile fingers clutching his.
He’d had to turn away to hide his tears.
Five years had passed since he’d made that promise.
Five long years, and his failure to honour it weighed on him more heavily with each passing day.
No more.
He’d sworn to himself that this summer he’d find himself a wife.
She’d have to be someone Andy liked.
She’d have to be someone he himself found compatible.
She’d have to be someone sensible. Someone with no frilly romantic notions. Someone willing to enter into a marriage of convenience.
He felt a dark cloud of despair settle over him as he carried his dishes into the house.
Where the hell would he find somebody like that?
Marriage to Travis Wynter had stifled Sara’s creativity. Had all but killed it.
It hadn’t happened straight away, but it had started to happen soon after the honeymoon.
Unhappy memories flowed into Sara’s mind as she tugged the last item from her travel bag—an elegant silk and rayon sweater of turquoise and silver, with the trademark Sally Cole label hand-sewn inside the back neckline.
Her label.
Her design.
Her pride.
She sighed, and ran a gentle hand over the soft fabric. Her marriage had been a mistake; she and Travis had been totally wrong for each other. His possessiveness, the way he’d treated her like an item in his collection of beautiful artifacts...well, that had been one thing... but his dismissal of her talent had been another.
Travis was an accountant; he saw life in terms of facts and figures. His favourite expression was ‘the bottom line’. And she’d discovered, to her dismay, that where their marriage was concerned ‘the bottom line’ was that he expected her to run his home the way he ran his business: efficiently and economically. He’d seen no reason to hire a housekeeper when he had a wife. He’d entertained clients at home on a regular basis, and on those occasions he’d expected her to cook the meal, serve it, and be the perfect hostess. And he’d expected the enormous Wynter house, in Vancouver’s glitziest suburb, to be kept in immaculate condition.
If he’d seen as much as one mote of dust on the furniture, his disapproval had been swift and harsh.
‘For God’s sake, Sara, what do you do all day? All I ask is that you keep house and provide meals for my clients. Make them feel special. How special do you think they feel when they see you haven’t even dusted the damned coffee table before they turned up? This is business—’
‘But my designs, my knitwear—that’s business too,’ she’d protested vigorously in the beginning. ‘I’m not going to give it up!’
‘Nobody’s asking you to give it up. Just for God’s sake get things in perspective. Could we survive on the income from your little sweaters? I think not. The bottom line is, I’m the breadwinner here. If you want to draw and knit, go ahead. But after everything else gets done, mmm?’
His business had been prospering by leaps and bounds, and before very long Sara had found, wearily, that there was no ‘after’. And even if there had been his cold dismissal of her work had shrivelled something inside her.
Life with Travis Wynter had allowed no room for that soaring of the spirit that she needed if she were to create.
She’d wondered, sometimes—and still wondered—if he had not only stifled her creativity, but had killed it.
Inhaling a deep breath, she rose from the bed and slung the lightweight sweater over her shoulders. On her way to the bedroom door, she paused as a movement outside the window caught her attention.
It was the girl from the white house—Logan Hunter’s daughter. She was running down the sloping lawn, towards the cottage.
What could she want?
Sara walked along the narrow passageway to the front door, and opened it. The girl was now just a few feet away, coming up the path. She stopped abruptly when she saw Sara.
‘His,’ Sara greeted her, and thought, What a lovely child...huge brown eyes, smooth clear skin, neat little figure...but oh, that hair! ‘Were you looking for me?’
The girl’s cheeks had turned pink, and she seemed on the point of flight.
‘I was up in the attic,’ she said in a rush, ‘looking for boxes...for packing...and I found this.’
‘This’ was a mouse trap! Somehow Sara managed to keep her face straight. ‘Just what I need!’ She took the trap, gave a dainty shiver. ‘I’m such a coward when it comes to mice. A lion, now...if I saw one of those in the bathroom, I’d just grab a back scrubber and attack with gusto!’
The girl giggled. ‘Oh, yeah, sure...’
‘Would you like to come in...have a cup of coffee?’
‘I don’t drink coffee.’
‘Iced tea, then, or a pop?’
‘No, thanks.’ Her gaze trailed wistfully over Sara’s sweater. ‘That’s a Sally Cole original, isn’t it? They’re way cool...my friend Chrissie’s mom has one; she bought it years ago but she says you can’t get them any more.’ She sighed. ‘Well, I’d better get back...’
‘Ah, yes, the packing.’
‘We’re going to sell. The house and the cottage. Everything. My dad’s putting the property up for sale.’
‘I guess you’re in a hurry to go back and help him, then. Many hands make light work, don’t they say?’
‘Well, he’s upstairs and I’m not actually