‘What? No! Are you at home?’
‘No, Wiltshire.’
‘Wiltshire?’ Jen exclaimed. ‘What on earth…? No,’ she said disgustedly, ‘don’t tell me. That’s why you wanted me to find the article, isn’t it? You went to see him! I don’t believe you, Sorrel! You can’t just go knocking on people’s doors!’
‘Of course I can,’ Sorrel argued softly. Easily conjuring up an image of Garde’s face, she smiled to herself. ‘You can meet the most delightful people.’
There was a little silence, and then Jen reproved meaningfully, ‘I don’t like the way you said that. What’s happened?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Sorrel,’ Jen warned, ‘you know I’ll get it out of you in the end so you might as well tell me now. What happened?’
‘Nothing happened!’ Her eyes lit up with sudden laughter. ‘I just found him—interesting,’ she murmured softly.
Her sister gave a snort of disgust. ‘Well, don’t get too interested,’ she cautioned brusquely.
‘Why not?’ Sorrel grinned. ‘I haven’t had a decent flirtation in ages!’
‘Because he’s dying!’
CHAPTER TWO
HER mind suddenly blank, her whole body empty, Sorrel whispered in shock, ‘Dying? But he can’t be. He looks so healthy.’
‘Well, that’s what it says in the article I found. The one you didn’t have time to finish reading at the dentist’s. Hang on a minute and I’ll read it to you.’ There was a momentary silence at the other end, followed by the rustling of pages and then Jen’s voice again. ‘Er, blah, blah, blah. Oh, yes, here we are. At the end of the article it says—although I have to admit it’s a rather odd statement,’ she commented with brief puzzlement. ‘It mentions some of his business dealings and that he’s recently sold off his finance company to the Americans, and, bearing in mind,’ she added, ‘that the article is over six months old, it then says that perhaps it’s not surprising he’s so successful as he’s riven by cancer.’
‘Cancer?’ Sorrel echoed, and the alarm and pity she felt seemed out of all proportion to the fact that she barely knew him. ‘Are you sure that’s what it says?’
‘Of course I’m sure!’
‘But it doesn’t make sense!’
‘Well, no, but that’s what it says.’ There was another small silence, and then Jen stated in what sounded like exasperation, ‘You liked him.’
‘Yes, I did, but please, please, don’t tell me that I have screwed judgement, that I—’
‘But you do.’
‘Not always,’ she defended.
‘Yes, Sorrel, always!’ Jen insisted.
‘But Garde’s not in the least like Nick,’ Sorrel protested. ‘You begin to make me feel as though I should suspect everyone!’
‘Not everyone.’ Jen sighed. ‘It’s just that—well, I worry about you, Sorrel. Go on, then, tell me about him!’
‘You don’t need to say it like that! He really isn’t in the least like Nick.’
‘Then what is he like?’
‘Oh, large, abrupt, derisive. Quite rude, in fact.’
‘And you liked him?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed defiantly. ‘He was—different. And I can’t believe he’s ill! He looks so disgustingly well!’
‘Perhaps he’s in remission,’ Jen murmured. ‘Is he going to let you do his gardens?’
‘I don’t know. I’m to see him again in the morning.’
‘But why go all the way to Wiltshire?’ Jen demanded worriedly.
‘Because I didn’t think Nick would have any influence down here!’ Sorrel stated crossly. ‘And the girl I was covering for at the garden centre is coming back on Monday,’ she added gloomily.
‘Oh, hell, I’d hoped she wasn’t coming back.’
‘So did I.’
‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. Does the job look hopeful? Although, if he’s dying,’ Jen murmured worriedly, ‘it’s probably best not to get involved. I couldn’t bear for you to be hurt again.’
‘I’m not intending to get involved! All I said was that I found him interesting!’ Anyway, even if she’d wanted to, which she didn’t, there probably wasn’t going to be an opportunity to get involved. Sorrel quickly changed the subject. She didn’t want to discuss Garde further, she found. Not even with her sister. ‘How’s my nephew?’
‘In disgrace!’ Jen laughed, but Sorrel could still hear the underlying worry in her sister’s voice. ‘He pulled the wallpaper off the wall behind his cot and when I told him off, the little wretch just looked at me with his big blue eyes and said softly, “Oh, dear.”’
Sorrel laughed. ‘I seem to remember someone else doing that. Must run in the family.’
‘The difference being I got a smack!’
‘Mmm, I remember.’
‘When are you coming home?’
‘Oh, tomorrow, I expect. Give my love to the naughty one, and to your delightful husband. I should be back about five—and I’m all right. Really,’ she insisted. ‘Take care of yourself. Bye.’
Slowly replacing the receiver, she continued to stare at it for a few minutes. She didn’t want him to be ill. She couldn’t believe he was. But was that why he’d said he didn’t give interviews? Possibly. Once the article had come out…Anyway, she wasn’t likely to see him again after tomorrow.
Sorrel tried to stop thinking about it, about him. She swung her legs to the floor and went to have a shower and wash her hair before going down for something to eat. But her mind wouldn’t leave it alone. All that evening and long into the night she continued to think about him, and the next morning, driving out to the house, she continued to think about it.
He must have been watching for her, or maybe it was coincidence, but he answered the door himself before she even had a chance to tug at the old bell-pull. Then she realised that it wasn’t either of those things as the little dog they’d rescued the day before trotted out.
‘He got home all right, then,’ she murmured inanely.
‘One can only assume so.’ At her look of astonishment, he added brusquely, ‘He isn’t mine.’
‘Oh.’
‘He
