she had known she would never love anyone else. Taylor was part of her, he was in her blood, her bones, and whatever she did to try to forget him it didn’t work.
It had been so good when they had first been married … She let her mind wander back to those golden days in a way she hadn’t done for a long time because it was too painful. She had adored him, had been over the moon that a man like Taylor—sophisticated, handsome, wealthy, powerful—had noticed her. Not just noticed her but fallen madly in love with her if he was to be believed. And he had been so gentle, so tender with her.
She pushed back the silk of her hair, her eyes cloudy with the memories which were crowding in.
Right from their first date it had been enough to be together; they hadn’t needed anyone else. In fact it had been something of a sacrifice when they had shared their time with other people, even old friends. They had practically lived in each other’s pockets before they were married, their relationship so intense it had disturbed her when she stopped to think about it. Which wasn’t often. Not with Taylor by her side, filling every moment, every thought, every breath.
She sighed deeply, her body still holding the tingling awareness of their lovemaking and her breasts full and heavy with the remnants of passion.
She had told him they shouldn’t have made love, but it had seemed the most natural, the right thing to do. So where did that leave her?
Up the creek without a paddle. An old saying of the home’s matron, a severe, grey-haired lady with the name of Armstrong, came to mind. Matron Armstrong had been a Yorkshire lass, and full of such little gems, but she had been kind beneath her grim exterior. Marsha could still recall when the second set of prospective parents had returned her to the home, making no effort to hide their disappointment in her, and the way Matron had whisked her into her quarters once they had gone, feeding her hot crumpets and jam by the fire and talking long and hard about how stupid some grown-ups could be. Yes, she had been a nice woman, Matron Armstrong.
She sighed again, gazing round the bedsit as though the little home she had created for herself would help her sort out her confusion. Why did she still, knowing all she knew about Tanya—or at least thought she knew, she corrected, trying to be fair—ache for his touch, his love?
Because she loved him in a way she could never love anyone else.
The thought thrust itself into the forefront of her mind, causing her to lower her head as she made a sound deep in her throat.
She sat quite still for some minutes before raising her head, and now her mouth was set in a determined line, her eyes narrowed. She would go and see Susan and bear whatever came of their meeting, good or bad. She owed it to herself to do that, even if she didn’t owe it to Taylor.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SUSAN’S large, faintly ostentatious house was gently baking in the morning sun as Marsha paid the taxi driver. As he drove off she turned, standing and looking at the building for a moment.
The small select estate of three-year-old executive style properties was all manicured green lawns, pristine flower borders with not a petal in the wrong place and pocket-size back gardens without a bird in sight. Windows gleamed, drives were immaculate and the odd silver birch tree—the only trees which had been planted by the builders in the middle of every other front lawn—were neatly trimmed and perfect. Marsha found it hard to imagine that real flesh and blood people lived in such uniform perfection.
She had telephoned Susan earlier that morning, and it was clear the other woman had been keeping an eye out for the taxi as the front door suddenly opened. ‘Marsha.’ Susan smiled at her. ‘How lovely to see you. Do come in.’
As Marsha reached her sister-in-law she was briefly enfolded in a cool perfumed embrace, and then she was in Susan’s elegant cream and biscuit hall—the same colour scheme being reflected throughout the five-bedroomed house.
‘Come through to the sitting room,’ Susan continued, leading the way into the large and expensively furnished room Marsha remembered from when she had still been living with Taylor. Brother and sister had had a few altercations over the price of several items, not least the three two-seater cream leather sofas, the cost of which had run into six figures. Dale’s salary—as Taylor’s general manager—should have been able to cover the mortgage and the cost of any necessary new furniture or appliances when they had moved from their more modest house just after Marsha and Taylor had wed, but neither Susan’s husband nor her brother had expected her to go on a spending spree as she had. When Susan had come crying to Taylor that she couldn’t keep up the repayments on various items he had taken the debts and paid them, but not before he had made it very clear he wasn’t happy with her wild squandering of what was essentially his money.
Susan had argued and cried and sulked, taking herself off for a weekend to a health farm at the height of the dispute, but with the debts all paid off and her new home furnished exactly the way she wanted she had soon been herself again—with Taylor, at least. With Dale she had seemed a little distant.
It was through this fracas that Marsha had seen Taylor’s relationship with his sister was more father to daughter than sibling to sibling. One night when the dust had settled he had explained to her that their father had been such a transitory figure in their lives, even before their mother had died, that he had taken on the responsibility of Susan from childhood. It had explained a lot. Susan’s adoration of her big brother and Taylor’s indulgent humouring of his sister’s sometimes excessive demands had fallen into place.
‘I’ve missed you.’ Susan placed a beringed hand on Marsha’s arm once they were sitting in air-conditioned comfort. Mrs Temple—Susan’s daily—bustled in a moment later with a tray of coffee.
Once the two women were alone again Susan leant forward, her light brown eyes—which were a washed-out version of Taylor’s deep tawny orbs—uncharacteristically warm as she said, ‘How are things, Marsha? What have you been doing with yourself?’
Marsha gave a brief description of her job and her home, to which Susan listened intently. Taylor’s sister had never aspired to further education and she had left school at sixteen, working for a few hours a day in a flower shop before her marriage to Dale, when she had been just over twenty-one. At that point she had given up work entirely.
‘And do you enjoy your job? Are you happy?’
There was something of an urgency to Susan’s tone, which surprised Marsha. She looked at her sister-in-law, her smile soft at the other woman’s concern as she said, ‘Yes, I love my work. It’s challenging and rewarding and every day is different.’
‘But are you happy?’
Marsha took a sip of her coffee to give herself time to think. She had never worn her heart on her sleeve and she wasn’t about to start now, but she couldn’t in all honesty say she was happy, not even before Taylor had burst into her life again and turned everything upside down. She was satisfied with the life she had carved out for herself of necessity, and with that satisfaction had come more self-respect than she had ever had before, along with a belief in her own strength and fortitude, but happy? Happiness was Taylor. Joy was Taylor.
She took a steadying breath as she placed the delicate one china cup on its fragile saucer. ‘Happiness is different things to different people,’ she prevaricated quietly, ‘but can I tell you why I came today?’
‘It’s something to do with Taylor, isn’t it?’ It was more a statement than a question.
‘He’s told
