feed him, then Molly will take you all back to the ward once they’re happy she’s stable. This little fellow seems to be fine, but a paediatrician will come and check him in due course, just as a matter of routine. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with Molly. She’ll look after you both.’
He threw Molly a smile and went to change, and it was as if the lights had gone out.
Oh, damn. And she’d really, really thought she was over him…
CHAPTER TWO
‘HE’S been such a good boy today, haven’t you, Jack?’
The little dark head bobbed vigorously, a smile lighting up his face like a beacon. ‘I did painting, Daddy—see!’
There was a slightly tattered piece of grey sugar paper held to the fridge door with magnets, and Sam studied the wild, multicoloured handprints on it and felt his heart contract with pride. He grinned a little off-key and ruffled his son’s hair.
‘So you did. Well done. What else did you do?’
‘Um—singing, and played in the sandpit. We had fish fingers for lunch—I’m hungry,’ he added, tipping his head back and looking hopefully up at Debbie.
She laughed softly. ‘You’re always hungry. Come on, sit down at the table and you can have your tea while you tell your dad all about your day, and I’ll make him a nice drink. Cuppa, Sam? Mark and I are just having one.’
‘Thank you, Debbie, that would be lovely.’ He shrugged out of his jacket and glanced across at Debbie’s husband. ‘Hello, Mark.’
‘Hi. You good?’
He smiled tiredly. ‘I’ll do. Yourself?’
The big man nodded from his seat by the window. ‘Good. The latest effort’s coming along—what do you think?’
He held up a large square of canvas, and even from across the room Sam could see the wonderfully subtle colours and almost three-dimensional quality of the tapestry Mark was creating. It was a study of leaves, but close up and personal. There was nothing pretty-pretty about it, but there was a vigour in the composition that was the trade mark of all his designs, and this one was no exception.
‘You’re getting a bit good at this,’ Sam said, genuine admiration in his voice, and Mark lifted a shoulder, awkward with the praise.
‘I thought I’d do apples and pears next—you know, a sort of orchard theme. Maybe some plums, or autumn leaves. The country’s really inspired me—let something loose inside. I just hope they sell.’
‘Of course they’ll sell. They always sell. The shops love your designs,’ Debbie said pragmatically, sliding a mug of tea across the table. ‘Sam, take the weight off. You look done in.’
‘Busy day,’ he said. Busy, and emotionally exhausting. He sat down at the big, scrubbed pine kitchen table that filled the centre of the kitchen and leant back in his chair with a sigh. His mind was whirling with thoughts of Molly, and all he could see was her face. He wished he’d got her number, but he hadn’t, so he couldn’t ring her—unless she was in the book?
He reached for it, conveniently at arm’s length on the dresser behind him, and flicked through the pages. Hammond. There. He ran his finger down the list, and found only a few, none of them Molly.
Unless her initials didn’t start with an M. Chewing his lip thoughtfully, he ran his finger down again, and paused. A.M.?
Yes, of course. Annabel Mary, she’d been christened. He remembered now. He remembered a lot of things…
He shut the book. Perhaps he’d ring her later.
But then Jack would be in bed.
Now, then?
He needed to sort out the videos, dig out the photos. Heaven only knows what’s happened to them, he thought. They were probably in the boxes in the loft and they’d take him ages to find.
But Jack was here, now, and Molly’s eyes, when he’d talked about the boy…
Picking up his mug, he got up and went into his study and closed the door behind him with a soft click.
Molly stared at the phone warily, hope warring with common sense.
Of course it wouldn’t be Sam. He hadn’t got her number, unless he’d looked her up in the book, but her first initial wasn’t M., so he probably wouldn’t find her automatically.
Then again, he’d known her full name all those years ago, seen it enough times on the endless paperwork, so maybe…
‘Oh, just answer it,’ she muttered to herself, and lifted the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘Molly?’
Her heart lurched and steadied again, and she closed her eyes briefly. ‘Sam.’
‘Hi. I hope you don’t mind me ringing. Um, about you seeing Jack—I meant to say something earlier, but I didn’t get round to it. Are you busy this evening? I mean, it’s not very much notice, but I thought, if you’d like…’
Her heart lurched again, and she threw a quick glance at the door. Libby was on the other side of it, scraping on her violin, trying to get to grips with a difficult passage. She’d done her homework, and now she was grappling with this. She’d been at it for nearly half an hour, but she wouldn’t give up until she’d got this bit right, at least. Molly just hoped it was sooner rather than later, for all their sakes.
‘What did you have in mind?’ she asked cautiously.
‘I wondered if you’d like to come over. I mean, don’t worry if you’ve got other plans, or you’d rather not, but I just thought—’
‘I haven’t got plans,’ she said quickly—too quickly. Slow down, she told herself, and drew a deep, steadying breath. ‘Tonight would be fine,’ she went on, deliberately calming her voice despite the clamouring of her heart. ‘I need to check with Libby, of course, but I’m sure there won’t be a problem. She’d like to see him, too, I’m sure.’
‘Fine. Whenever you’re ready—the sooner the better, really, because he goes to bed at about half-seven.’
‘That late?’ she said, and could have bitten her tongue for the implied criticism. It was none of her business…
‘He has a nap when he gets home from nursery, and Debbie lets him sleep as long as he wants. That way I get to see him when I get in,’ he told her, and she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined a mild note of reproof in his voice. ‘Whatever. I think in any case we could make an exception tonight—apart from which, he’s as bright as a button today, so I don’t suppose he’ll be in any hurry to go to bed. He’s full of it.’
She closed her eyes against the image, the ache of longing growing with every word. ‘We’ll come now,’ she said. ‘If that’s OK? It was the first day of the new term today, and Libby goes to bed at eight on school nights. I try and stick to it if I can,’ she added, trying not to sound so pathetically eager and ending
