temperature she would have to keep him home from school today.
‘Is your throat sore?’ she asked, noting the way he dawdled his spoon around and around his bowl of cereal, then sipped half-heartedly at his orange juice.
Ethan nodded, and beneath his floppy blond fringe his big brown eyes grew round as he sent her his sad puppy look.
She’d seen rather too much of that look lately.
‘Why didn’t Dad come home for Fourth of July?’ he asked her. ‘He promised.’
Mary sighed. Ever since she’d received the terrible news that her husband was missing in action and presumed dead, she’d tried to keep the news from Ethan. Coping with her own sickening fear was hard enough.
Ethan idolised Ed, and Mary was concerned that his cold was a symptom of his distress as much as a seasonal chill.
‘Sometimes soldiers can’t keep their promises, but I’m hoping Daddy will be home very soon, sweetheart.’
She wasn’t prepared to tell him the truth. She still clung to the hope that Ed was safe and well.
But the boy was supersensitive to her tension, to her friends’ kid glove treatment of them both, to Grandma McBride’s open concern and Grandpa McBride’s stoic acceptance.
Not knowing was the worst. There was so little news—just that Ed was missing behind enemy lines. She couldn’t stop thinking about what might have happened to him. As an Army wife, she’d always known something like this might happen, particularly when he’d joined the Special Squad, but she’d pushed that knowledge to the back of her mind.
But now he was missing. And missing could mean so many things. Awful, unbearable things.
‘What’s the matter, Mummy?’
Oh, God, she’d nearly given in to tears in front of Ethan. Flashing him a quick, tight smile, she said, ‘Would you like to stay home from school and rest up today?’
He nodded listlessly. ‘Can I watch TV?’
‘Sure,’ she said, frowning as she watched him wander through to the adjoining family room.
Until they’d received the news about Ed, Ethan had always loved school. She told herself that one day wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps today, when he wasn’t well, the comforting sight of the familiar bright puppets on his favourite children’s show would cheer him up.
As her son settled on to a beanbag, in front of the television, she poured herself another cup of coffee, put her feet up on the opposite chair and forced her thoughts to practical things—like the changes she would have to make to her day’s plans.
With Ethan sick, she wouldn’t be able to play tennis this morning but, because she ran her business from home, she would still be able to get on with her work this afternoon. She reached to the phone on the nearby kitchen counter, planning to call one of her tennis friends, but she’d only dialled the first digit when the doorbell rang.
Surprised, she swung her feet from the chair and looked around for her slip-on shoes. Where had she left them? Her hand flew to her hair. She hadn’t taken any trouble when she’d brushed it this morning and she hadn’t given a thought to make-up. Who would be calling her at this hour? It was too early for tennis.
Could it be someone from the Army?
Oh, God. The unwelcome thought hit her like a smack in the face. The Army would send someone around if there was bad news about Ed.
Her stomach screwed itself into a nervous knot as her feet found shoes beneath the table. Ed, please be safe. Please let him be safe.
Her hand was shaking as she opened the front door.
‘Good morning, Mrs McBride—’
Oh, help!
In an instant she recognised the man standing on her doorstep.
Tom.
Tom Pirelli…Staring at her as if he’d seen a ghost.
After eight long years.
‘Mary!’
Tom. She couldn’t get a word out. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Her hands pressed against her chest as she felt something snag in its centre, as if a pulled thread was unravelling her heart, spooling her back into the past.
Within a mad second she was twenty again, feeling the same swift clutch in her throat, the same painful, aching rush she’d always felt whenever she saw Tom.
Her legs trembled. She was drenched in a thousand sweet memories.
Eight years had hardly changed him. He was dressed in neat civilian trousers and a snowy white open-necked shirt, but his black hair was still clipped short, military style.
Perhaps he was more mature-looking—his body more honed and muscular, his face a little more rugged, lined and lean—but in every other way he was the same Tom. His eyes were the same haunting, deep black-brown and were teamed with the same strongly defined cheekbones and, heaven help her, the same mouth.
But today there was no slow smile. Tom Pirelli looked as shell-shocked as she felt.
‘It’s you. It’s Mary Cameron.’
‘Yes. I—I’m M-Mary McBride now.’
‘McBride?’ He seemed to wince as he bit off an exclamation. ‘You don’t mean—don’t tell me you’re Ed’s wife.’
He looked so suddenly ill her heart almost stopped beating. She opened her mouth to ask him how on earth he was connected with Ed, but confusion and fear held her back.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m Ed McBride’s wife.’
‘Oh, God, Mary. I can’t believe this. I—I—’ He shook his head and rubbed the back of his hand over his brow. ‘I had no idea you were still here in America.’
She was so numb she couldn’t think of the right way to respond.
‘I hadn’t heard you were married,’ Tom went on. ‘I heard that your father was posted back to Australia and I assumed—’
‘No, I didn’t go back with my parents.’
Tom muttered something harsh beneath his breath and Mary felt her face heat. Seeing him sent her compass points suddenly haywire, her emotions swinging wildly between joy and despair. She had loved this man. She’d broken her heart over Tom Pirelli and it had taken far too long to mend.
But this was the very worst time to be meeting him again. If she’d had Ed by her side, she would have been able to handle this. But alone?
‘Why are you here?’ she managed to ask.
At first he shook his head, as if he couldn’t remember, then blinked and said, ‘Uh—because of Ed. We were in the same Special Squad.’
‘Really?’
