so much her father came in to help part-time, but she still had a lot of extra paperwork to do.
One evening in late November she was working at her desk after all the other shops had closed when the phone rang.
Grimacing, she answered. ‘Hello?’
‘You sound bad-tempered.’
A jab of shock went through her, but she pretended she hadn’t recognised his voice. ‘Who’s speaking?’ she asked distantly.
He laughed. She flushed.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I need to have a team of men look over Dark Tarn to recommend how it can be modernised without losing its atmosphere. Will you see that they have the keys for a day? My architect is Bernard Atkins. He’ll be in touch this week.’
‘Very well, but nothing can be done until you actually own the house, of course!’
‘I realise that. How long do you think it will be before the contract is ready for signature?’
‘A week or two.’ She paused, then, her voice chilling even more, asked, ‘I presume you know Helen is very ill?’
‘Yes, I had a letter from her, explaining. If I’m back in time before she goes off to Majorca, I’ll go and see her.’
‘I shouldn’t,’ Clare said quickly. ‘She needs complete rest; she isn’t having visitors.’
‘She’ll want to see me,’ he said with a soft inflexion that made Clare shiver.
‘Maybe she would,’ she bit back. ‘But it wouldn’t be good for her!’
His voice even softer, he said, ‘You don’t like me much, do you, Miss Summer?’
‘I don’t know you well enough to have an opinion one way or another!’
‘When I get back, we must do something about that!’ he murmured, and she bit her lip.
‘I must go, Mr Black—I’m very busy, I’m afraid. I’ll make sure your architect gets the keys. Goodbye.’
Clare put the phone down hurriedly before he could say anything else and sat there staring out into the dark, empty street, feeling a hot pulse beating in her throat. She put a nervous hand up to it, pressed down into her flesh and felt the leap of blood under her fingertip.
Snatching her hand down, she angrily told herself not to let the man get to her. He was on the other side of the Atlantic, and she hoped he would stay there for a very long time, but when he did get back Clare had no intention of getting to know him any better!
She went home an hour later and wasn’t surprised to find that nobody had cooked the evening meal yet. They were all supposed to do it in turn, but in practice it was more often than not Clare who ended up doing the cooking. Clare’s father did the shopping most days, but cooking wasn’t something he enjoyed or was good at, nor were any of the others. Robin and Jamie thought cooking was ‘for girls’ and Lucy, although always willing to do it, often drifted off into daydreams and forgot.
That evening she wasn’t even home yet, and only walked in halfway through the meal. ‘Oh, terrific! Sausages and onions,’ she said happily, sitting down in her usual chair, and helping herself from the large dish in the centre of the table.
‘You were supposed to cook tonight, Lucy!’ her father reproached her.
Lucy gave a groan. ‘Oh, no, I knew there was something I’d forgotten! Who cooked it, then?’
‘Who do you think?’ enquired their father wryly, and Lucy gave Clare a guilty look.
‘I’m sorry, Clare, I honestly forgot! It went clean out of my head! I’ll do it next time it’s your turn; when’s that?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Right, I won’t forget.’ Lucy looked down at her food. ‘There wasn’t a letter from Mike again today. That’s nearly ten days. I hope he isn’t sick.’
‘It’s probably the post,’ Clare said quickly, watching her sister anxiously.
Lucy was delicate and sensitive, and easily hurt, and it had been a relief to her family when she met Mike Duncan a year ago, while she was still at college. Mike had been doing postgraduate research at the same college; he was four years older than Lucy, and had had some work experience before returning to do his postgraduate work.
Quiet, steady, friendly—the whole family had liked Mike at once, and been delighted when Lucy got engaged to him, but then Mike had taken a job in Africa for a year in a teacher-training college there. He had insisted that he and Lucy postpone their marriage until he returned, and again the whole family had agreed with him, although from time to time Clare had her doubts. It had been the sensible decision. Lucy was very young, and a year wasn’t an eternity, but Clare realised that Mike’s absence was making Lucy restless.
He had been away now for six months; he would be back in the spring, for their wedding. He wrote all the time, and sent recorded audio tapes of messages too; but it wasn’t the same as having him there and Lucy was lonely and often bored.
‘As long as he hasn’t met someone else!’ Lucy said, pretending to laugh, but not acting very well.
Clare and her father exchanged glances, but neither said anything. They knew what the other one was thinking. What if Lucy’s fears proved true? The tremor of her lips told them how badly she would be hurt.
‘Can I have some more chocolate mousse? Oh, did I tell you what I want for Christmas? I made a list, to help you, save you time trying to guess what I want,’ Jamie said, only interested in his own concerns.
‘Don’t even mention Christmas!’ Clare thought of all the work the festive season entailed and groaned aloud. She would have to make some lists of her own any day, but for the moment she was putting off all idea of Christmas until she felt strong enough to cope with it.
‘Eat your mousse and then you can help clear the table,’ George Summer told his younger son. ‘And after that you can finish your homework.’
Clare watched Jamie take another huge helping of mousse without even thinking about him. She had Denzil Black on her mind. It would take months for him to have Dark Tarn modernised—would he stay in America meanwhile? Now that he had won this big award, maybe he would be offered other jobs? She remembered him saying that he was leaving America because he hadn’t been asked to make another film. What if he was? Maybe he wouldn’t be moving back here at all. Maybe he would sell Dark Tarn again, once he had had it renovated?
She felt her pulse take that odd, disturbing skip again, and bit her lip. She didn’t like the man. Why should she care?
December started badly: icy winds blew sleet and snow through the town from the sea, which had a chill grey look as it heaved and surged under a sky banked with dull, heavy clouds pregnant with yet more snow.
Lucy finally heard from Mike. Three letters came at once; the post was erratic from Africa, especially at this time of year. Lucy was flushed with excitement and relief, but Clare still worried. Her sister’s wild mood swings bothered her. Lucy was far too volatile. Clare wished Mike were coming home sooner.
Early
