when she returned to her book. It was the first time Davy had spent a night away from her, apart from school, and the child was obviously having such a good time with Polly she was even happy to skip part of her weekend at home. Suppressing a wry little pang at the thought, Sarah felt pleased that Davy was beginning to spread her wings at last. At nearly nine years old Davina Tracy was tall for her age, but an endearing mixture of maturity and little-girl dependence. To want to spend her precious weekend away from Sarah was a first in Davy Tracy’s young life.
Next morning Sarah felt no ill effects after her adventure in the storm, other than the discovery that Mr J. Hogan’s car had left a spectacular bruise on her thigh. Hoping she’d left a corresponding dent somewhere on its chassis, she went off to load the washing machine, then took her breakfast out to the table in the sunlit courtyard outside the sitting room windows. Sarah went through the Saturday morning paper while she ate, and had read it from cover to cover by the time her grandmother came outside in her gardening clothes.
‘You look fully recovered this morning, Sarah,’ Margaret commented.
‘I’m fine now. It seems funny without Davy on a Saturday morning, but I did enjoy the extra hour in bed. And I’ve read all my favourite bits of the paper in one go for once. By the way,’ Sarah added, pulling up the leg of her shorts, ‘take a look. My souvenir of yesterday’s adventure.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Only if I bump into something.’ Sarah stretched luxuriously. ‘It’s a lovely day. Once I’ve hung out my laundry I’m off into town for some shopping. Can I fetch you anything?’
Sarah’s Saturdays were always given over to Davy. And, much as she looked forward to spending them with her child, it was a pleasant change to be on her own for once, free to browse as long as she liked in the numerous bookshops in the town. After treating herself to a cut-price bestseller she made a preliminary foray through the summer sale in the town’s largest department store, then went up to the coffee shop on the top floor. While she enjoyed a peaceful sandwich Sarah couldn’t help comparing it with the pizza Davy invariably clamoured for, and hoped her child was enjoying something similar with the Rogers family.
Sarah lingered over coffee afterwards, looking down on a view of the Parade through the trees, and afterwards went down a couple of floors to find a dress in the sale. With regret she dismissed a rail of low-cut strappy little numbers. As usual, her aim was a dress for all seasons: office, prize day at school, even the odd evening out.
Eventually, after checking the price tags of every possibility in her size, Sarah found a dress in clinging almond-pink jersey. It draped slightly, sported a minor designer label, and displayed exactly the right length of long, suntanned leg she was rather vain about. She examined herself critically, checked on her back view, and decided she could do no better with the money she could afford.
When she got home Sarah went up to her grandmother’s flat to hand over the vitamin pills Margaret had asked her to buy, showed her the dress, then reported that she was off to read in the garden for a while before getting on with her homework.
Sarah went out with her new book to lie on an old steamer chair under an umbrella for a while, a brief interlude which did nothing at all, later, for her enthusiasm for the work she always brought home with her. Her job entailed a nine-to-three working day for a specialist recruitment firm, where she dealt with client liaison, database management, and the most urgent of the daily correspondence. The bulk of the latter she took home with her, to finish on a computer supplied by the firm for the purpose. It was an arrangement that suited both Sarah and her employers, and she was well aware that the job was as ideal as she was ever likely to find in her circumstances. The salary was generous for part-time work, and the hours were convenient for someone with a child. Her grandmother shared some of the responsibility for Davy, but Margaret Parker was an active member of her church, played bridge regularly, and served on the committees of several high-profile charities. She led such a busy social life Sarah asked her to look after Davy only in emergencies.
Later that evening, when Margaret Parker had gone off to the theatre with a friend, to see the play her granddaughter had missed out on, the doorbell rang just as Sarah was switching off the computer.
‘Ms Tracy?’ said a man’s voice through the intercom. ‘My name’s Hogan. Could you spare a moment to talk to me, please?’
Her eyebrows rose. What on earth did he want? But, eager to find out, Sarah asked him to wait a moment, exchanged her glasses for contact lenses, did some lightning work with a lipstick and hairbrush, then opened the front door to confront a tall man dressed in jeans and a plain white shirt. Now it was dry his hair wasn’t black but dark blond, tipped with gold at the ends. And the eyes she’d thought dark were the ultramarine blue of one of Davina’s crayons. Sarah liked the look of him now she could see him clearly. And suddenly wished she were wearing something more appealing.
‘I apologise for intruding on a Saturday night,’ he said, after a silence spent in gazing at her with an intensity she found rather unnerving, ‘but I wanted to make sure you came to no harm yesterday.’
Sarah hesitated, then opened the door wider. ‘Please come in.’ She led the way along the hall to the sitting room, opened the glass doors and took her visitor outside. She motioned him to one of the chairs at the garden table, and sat down.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ he said at once, the blue eyes very direct. ‘I was worried last night after you refused to let me take you to a hospital.’
‘The fault was more mine than yours, Mr Hogan,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘And thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.’
‘My olive branch.’ He smiled a little. ‘Actually, this is my second visit of the day. I came round to see you this morning, but you were out.’
Sarah smiled back, then on impulse offered him a drink.
A flash of surprise lit the striking, dark-lashed eyes. ‘Are you sure I’m not keeping you from something?’
‘Not a thing,’ she admitted reluctantly, wishing she could say that some handsome escort was about to sweep her off to dine and dance the night away.
‘Then thank you. I’d like that very much. It’s thirsty weather.’
‘I’m afraid it’s just beer or a glass of wine.’
‘A beer sounds wonderful.’
Sarah hurried off to fetch one of the cans kept for the man who helped in the garden, filled a stein which had once belonged to her father, then half-filled a glass for herself and topped it up with Davy’s lemonade.
‘Time I introduced myself properly,’ said her visitor, rising to his feet when she got back. ‘Jacob Hogan.’
‘Sarah Tracy,’ she responded with a smile, and sat down, waving him back to his chair.
‘I kept thinking I should have insisted on taking you to the hospital yesterday,’ he said ruefully. ‘You were on my mind all evening.’
Sarah shrugged. ‘You needn’t have worried. My main problem was fright. Not just from the encounter with your car, either. I suffer from chronic cowardice in thunderstorms. Which is why I wasn’t paying attention to the traffic.’
‘Understandable.’ He leaned back in the chair as he sipped his beer, looking relaxed, as though he meant to stay for a while. Something Sarah, rather to her surprise, found she didn’t object to in the slightest.
