apart.
Gabriel was breathing rapidly, the warmth in his eyes turned to a dangerous flame.
His voice was low, savage. “‘Nay, I have done: you get no more of me.”’ He threw back his head in an oddly defensive gesture. ‘You’d better get out of here, Joanna.’
Without another word, she obeyed.
The hospice shop was only open on a part-time basis, so it was invariably busy.
Joanna, asked to take charge of the nearly-new clothing section, found herself too occupied to brood—a blessing in itself. But the memory of that kiss and its aching sweetness stayed with her like a shadow, no matter how hard she tried to put it from her mind.
She’d left the study and gone straight up to her room, remaining there until she was sure that Gabriel, and then Cynthia, had left the house.
But when she was alone, the house seemed strangely oppressive, and she’d taken the dogs up onto the hill. It was a cold, clear day, and she’d sheltered from the wind by the Hermitage stones.
She’d looked down at the Manor, standing below her, absorbing every detail, imprinting it on her memory for all the long, lonely days ahead. Saying goodbye for ever.
Then she’d walked slowly back, changed, and driven into Westroe, pale but composed, for her stint at the shop.
Towards the end of the afternoon, she was approached by a harassed Mrs Barton.
‘Mrs Verne, could you possibly stay on and lock up for me? My husband’s just rung to say that Sarah’s fallen and hurt her wrist, and one of us should take her to Casualty.’
‘Oh, poor kid.’ Joanna grimaced sympathetically. ‘You go straight away. I’ll cope.’
‘That is good of you.’ Mrs Barton rolled expressive eyes at the ceiling. ‘Children—there’s always something.’ She patted Joanna’s arm. ‘As you’ll soon find out, I expect.’
Joanna felt the smile freeze on her lips. So many people blithely assumed that she and Gabriel were reconciled, she thought unhappily. They were the focus of a lot of genuine goodwill.
She only hoped that he would find a solution to their problems soon, and release her from this treadmill of other people’s expectations. And her own unfulfilled longings, she thought with a little sigh.
As closing time approached Joanna cashed up, and then took some unwanted carrier bags and packing materials out to the dustbins at the rear of the shop, then went into the little curtained changing room to retrieve some dresses which had been tried on but not purchased.
‘Well, I think it’s a proper scandal.’ It was the tart voice of Mrs Golsby, one of the regular helpers and an inveterate gossip. ‘He must be years younger than she is, and he’s round there at that cottage with her all the hours God sends. I feel heart-sorry for Mrs Verne,’ she added self-righteously, and there was a brief murmur of assent from her two colleagues. ‘It can’t be nice for her—her own stepmother carrying on like that.’
Joanna shrank into the corner of the cubicle. It was what she’d feared. Gabriel’s affair with Cynthia was becoming common knowledge. But, as a result, her own departure wouldn’t cause quite as many shock waves, she reminded herself without pleasure.
She tiptoed back into the rear passage, then came back noisily, rattling the clothes hangers she was carrying. She gave the other women a smiling goodnight, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, and watched them leave.
Then she hung the discarded dresses back on the rail, and bent to take the shop keys from their hook under the counter. As she did so the doorbell tinkled.
Joanna straightened. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just closing. We’ll be open again on Friday,’ she began, then stopped abruptly.
‘I know.’ Paul Gordon smiled at her. ‘I’ve been hanging round outside for ages, waiting for you to shut up shop.’
‘Why?’ Joanna stared at him.
‘Because I spotted you when I was passing earlier, but you were obviously too busy to interrupt.’ He paused. ‘So I decided to let the rush die down, then ask you to have dinner with me.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’ Joanna was taken aback. ‘But I couldn’t possibly.’
‘Why can’t you?’
‘For all kinds of reasons. We hardly know each other.’
‘And we never will, if you keep turning down my invitations.’ He looked at her with a half-smile. ‘So what’s the problem? Do you have to rush home like a good little wife to dish up your husband’s dinner?’
‘No,’ Joanna returned, nettled. She already knew she was destined for another solitary meal tonight. Unless…
Paul Gordon was not what she wanted, and never would be, but as that was beyond her reach anyway, why shouldn’t she take him up on his offer?
With which slightly muddled reasoning she accepted. ‘All right. I’d like to have dinner. Shall I go home and change, and meet you later?’
‘You look fine to me. And this—’ he indicated his jeans, roll-neck sweater and elderly tweed jacket ‘—is as good as it gets. My wardrobe down here is strictly limited, I’m afraid. But I’m told the wine bar in the High Street doesn’t operate a strict dress code.’ He gave her a hopeful look. ‘And perhaps we could go for a quiet drink first. Get acquainted.’
In spite of herself, Joanna was amused. ‘You have the whole evening planned, I see.’
‘Not all of it,’ he said softly.
Joanna caught an audacious gleam in the blue eyes and knew a flicker of misgiving, which she firmly crushed.
She said, ‘I’ll get my coat.’
They went for a drink to the White Hart. Paul ordered beer for himself, but could not talk Joanna out of her request for a mineral water.
‘I’m driving,’ she reminded him. ‘But I’ll have a glass of wine with the meal.’
He was an amusing enough companion, she was forced to admit. He seemed to have had a variety of jobs, including writing advertising copy and working in some minor production capacity for an independent television company.
‘There aren’t many media opportunities round here,’ Joanna remarked lightly.
‘Which is probably a good thing.’ Paul wrinkled his nose. ‘Because it’s freed me for the serious bit. I started a novel some time ago, and now I’ve got an agent and a publisher definitely interested, so I’ve come down here to finish it in peace and quiet.’
‘I thought you were looking for a social life,’ Joanna remarked, sipping her mineral water. ‘Yet writing’s supposed to be a solitary occupation, isn’t it?’
He shrugged expansively. ‘Well, of course. But I don’t intend to devote every waking moment to it.’ He smiled at her with what she felt was conscious charm. ‘You know what they say about all work
