Sarah's Secret (2 page)

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.

She looked at him questioningly. ‘Your name’s familiar. The Hogan part.’

‘Tiles,’ he said, resigned.

Sarah smiled. ‘Oh, of course! Pentiles. We used them in the new bathroom. Imported, and
very
expensive.’

He shook his head. ‘Not all our lines. We provide for all tastes and pockets.’

‘I know. I read about your company in the local paper. Quite a success story.’

‘Then you probably know my father started it off with just one hardware shop?’

She nodded. ‘He obviously expanded big-time at some stage. Is it true that you now have retail outlets all over the country?’

‘Pretty much. The whole thing took off at amazing speed when I finally persuaded Dad that ceramic tiles were the way forward.’ He shrugged. ‘These days people expect more than one bathroom—power showers, bigger kitchens, conservatories—all good for our line of business.’

‘Is it entirely family-run?’

‘The only Hogans in Pentiles are my father and myself. My brother’s CV is more glamorous. Liam’s an investment banker, and lives in London.’ He smiled. ‘I distribute tiles and live here in Pennington. I was making a detour through Campden Road to my place yesterday, trying to dodge rush hour traffic in the town centre.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘At which point you gave me the worst fright of my entire life.’

‘I gave
you
a fright?’ Sarah said indignantly. ‘For a
moment my life flashed past before my eyes. I’ve got the scars to prove it, too.’ She held out her grazed palms.

He leaned forward to inspect them, and for a wild moment Sarah thought he was going to kiss them better, but he sat back, giving her the straight blue look again.

‘I apologise. Again. So, Miss Tracy. You know about my tiles. May I ask what you do with your life?’

Wishing it was more interesting, Sarah described her job briefly, then offered him another drink. And wished she hadn’t when he took this as a signal to leave.

‘I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time,’ he said, getting to his feet, then smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Thank you for seeing me. And for the beer.’

When Sarah led the way inside he paused, his attention caught by a photograph on a side table. On their one and only excursion as a threesome Brian, who prided himself on his skill with a camera, had snapped Sarah and Davy laughing together from their perch on a five-barred gate. The result was so happy Sarah had framed it. Bright sunshine gleamed on two heads of glossy nut-brown hair, and picked out gold flecks in identical brown eyes.

‘She’s yours, of course,’ commented her visitor. ‘The likeness is remarkable. How old is she?’

‘Davina will be nine soon.’

‘
Nine?
’ His eyes were incredulous as he turned to look at her. ‘You must have been very young when she was born!’

Sarah nodded. ‘Eighteen.’ She went ahead of him along the hall to open the front door, and held out her hand to her unexpected guest. ‘It was very kind of you to come round, Mr Hogan. And I assure you that my dignity was the worst casualty during our encounter. Not
counting my temper,’ she added ruefully. ‘I’m sorry I screamed at you like a fishwife.’

‘Hardly surprising—you’d had a hell of a shock. I was shattered myself.’ He took her hand very carefully for a moment, mindful of the grazes, and gave her a look she couldn’t interpret. ‘I hope your wounds heal soon, Mrs Tracy.’

‘Actually, it’s
Miss
Tracy,’ she corrected casually, and smiled. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Hogan.’

His sudden answering smile held a warmth Sarah responded to involuntarily. ‘It was my pleasure—a great pleasure,’ he assured her. ‘And I answer to Jake.’

S
ARAH
was reading when her grandmother called in to report on the play. Margaret Parker’s eyebrows rose when she heard about the unexpected visitor.

‘Hogan? I’m sure I’ve heard that name somewhere quite recently.’

‘You probably read his success story in the local paper. He’s the brains behind Pentiles.’

‘The tiles we used in your bathroom? How impressive.’

‘He called this morning, too, while I was out. You were probably in the garden and didn’t hear the bell.’ Sarah gave her grandmother a challenging little smile. ‘Actually, I’m glad I was out. It meant I enjoyed a pleasant interlude in the garden with a very attractive stranger. Spiced up my Saturday evening no end.’

‘You’ve changed your tune since last night,’ said Margaret tartly. ‘Although you should be grateful to this Mr Hogan for making you miss the play.’ She looked down her nose. ‘The ex-soap star may have drawn the crowds in, but Oscar Wilde was probably spinning in his Paris grave at her interpretation of Lady Windermere.’

‘Oh, dear. You think Brian disapproved?’

‘Her costumes displayed so much cleavage I’m sure the male half of the audience were
very
happy.’

Sarah chuckled. ‘Brian’s not that sort.’

Margaret’s mouth tightened. ‘All men are that sort. As you very well know.’

Sarah took a while to get to sleep that night, trying to
remember exactly what she’d read about Pentiles. She knew that Jacob Hogan had taken over the family business when quite young, and eventually turned it into its present success story. But to her annoyance she couldn’t remember if a wife had been mentioned in the article.

She sighed despondently. Not that it mattered. Men tended to lose interest in her once they found she came as a package with Davy. One look at her child’s photograph had probably killed all personal interest on Jake Hogan’s part. Brian, to his credit, had insisted that Sarah’s responsibilities as a single parent made no difference to their relationship. And in principle, she conceded, they probably hadn’t. Not that this had ever worried Sarah much because she had known from the beginning that, no matter how much her grandmother stressed Brian’s eligibility, there was no future in the relationship. Quite apart from the problem with Davy, he just didn’t appeal to Sarah in the normal male-female way.

Jake Hogan, on the other hand, appealed to her a lot. In every way. A fright and a graze or two were a small price to pay for meeting the most attractive man to enter her life to date, even if it was just a one-off experience.

Next morning Sarah drove out of town for a couple of miles to make for the Rogers home, where screams of laughter could be heard coming from the depths of its vast, wild garden when she arrived. Alison Rogers welcomed her into the house and took her straight to a big, comfortably untidy kitchen, where it was pleasant to sit for a while and chat over coffee while Don Rogers went to collect Polly and Davina.

‘Thank you so much for having Davy,’ Sarah said gratefully. ‘This was quite a big step for her. She’s never
wanted a sleepover before, let alone a whole extra day away from home.’

‘She told me that,’ said Alison, pleased. ‘We’re flattered. And as far as we’re concerned Davy can make a return visit any time. It was far less trouble for us than keeping Polly entertained on her own. Now she’s a weekly boarder our daughter demands our undivided attention every minute of the day at weekends. I expect it’s the same with Davy.’

‘Absolutely!’

‘But you have to cope on your own, which must be hard.’ Alison bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah. I didn’t mean to get personal. But Davy told us she’s never had a daddy.’

‘That’s right,’ said Sarah cheerfully. ‘Men don’t feature in Davy’s life, so I hope your husband didn’t find her too much of a nuisance.’

‘Don took to her on sight—as you can see.’ Alison got up to point through the window, where her large husband was tearing towards the house in mock terror, with two little girls chasing after him, screaming in delight.

Sarah laughed as she watched Don Rogers capture a little girl under each arm and run with them into the house.

‘Right,’ he panted as he set them down. ‘Which one would you like, Sarah?’

‘Mummy!’ Davy launched herself at Sarah to hug her, looking flushed and grubby and thoroughly pleased with herself. ‘We went bowling and had pizzas and we talked
all
night.’

‘Most of it, anyway,’ said Alison indulgently.

‘You’ve obviously had a marvellous time,’ said Sarah, ruffling Davy’s hair.

‘Mummy says Davy can come
every
weekend,’ said Polly hopefully.

Her father chuckled. ‘We might like that, but I think Sarah would miss her.’

‘How about coming to stay with Davy and me some time, instead, Polly?’ suggested Sarah. ‘Our garden’s not as big as yours, but we could go swimming, and to the cinema, maybe.’

Polly clamoured at once for permission, a date was set for two weeks later, and Alison suggested Sarah drove Polly back afterwards. ‘Join us for Sunday lunch that day. Davy too, of course. We’ll invite some of the neighbours in, make it a party.’

Sarah made no attempt to hide her pleasure. This was the kind of invitation which never came her way. ‘That’s so kind of you, I’d love to.’

On the way home Davy chattered incessantly, giving Sarah every detail of her stay with Polly. ‘Mr Rogers is lovely,’ she said with enthusiasm. ‘Mrs Rogers, too,’ she added hastily, ‘but she couldn’t play with us all the time, because she had to do cooking and stuff.’

‘A woman’s lot,’ said Sarah with a dramatic sigh, and Davy giggled.

‘You don’t cook
all
the time.’

‘True. Grandma’s making Sunday lunch at this very moment.’

‘What are we having?’ said Davy, eyes sparkling.

‘I know about lots of vegetables, because I did them for her before I came out. And I’m sure Grandma’s rustling up something yummy to go with them.’

When they hurried upstairs in Campden Road, delicious scents of roast chicken came wafting from Margaret’s kitchen. She came down to meet them, smiling with a warmth she never showed Sarah as she
opened her arms for Davy to fling herself into them and give a second account of her activities over the weekend.

‘Goodness, what an exciting time you’ve had,’ said Margaret fondly. ‘Now, go and wash in my bathroom, Davina Tracy. Lunch is nearly ready.’ She exchanged a look with Sarah as the little girl raced off. ‘She obviously enjoyed herself.’

‘She certainly did. But brace yourself, because we’ve got Polly on a return visit in a fortnight.’ Sarah’s lips twitched. ‘You could always take off on holiday a few days sooner than scheduled.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Margaret briskly. ‘I shall be here as usual. But the Rogers child will be your responsibility, Sarah, not mine.’

The rest of the day went by in a flash, with only time for the cake Margaret always made for Davy’s tea before Sarah drove the child back to school. This was a task she never looked forward to, though it was easier these days, now Davy had made friends. During her first term Davy had hated going back to school on Sunday evenings, and had been so tearful the journey had been purgatory for Sarah.

Given her own choice of education Sarah would have kept Davy at home and sent her to a local day school. But Margaret Parker had contributed to the money Sarah’s parents had put in trust for school fees at Davy’s birth, and had made sure that when the time came the child was sent to Roedale. And if Sarah suspected that Margaret had chosen the school for its social cachet, rather than its excellent academic record, she kept her thoughts to herself.

So, although Anne and David Tracy had died on holiday when Davina was only five, Sarah had kept her promise and eventually sent the child as a weekly
boarder to the girls’ school Margaret Parker had persuaded them to choose. But Sarah had never imagined beforehand how painful it would be to part with Davy every term-time Sunday evening.

When Brian rang after the weekend, with a belated enquiry after Sarah’s health, she agreed readily when he suggested they had dinner together the following evening, glad of the opportunity to tell him it was over between them.

Over dinner at Brian’s favourite restaurant Sarah listened patiently while he gave her a detailed account of the play she’d missed.

‘The actress who played Lady Windermere was particularly good,’ he informed her. ‘Beautiful creature.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ murmured Sarah absently, her mind on the kindest way to tell him it was over between them. In the end Brian gave up on her, openly relieved when she refused pudding and coffee. He walked her back to the car at such a pace she assumed he was in a hurry to get home, then sat silent for a moment, making no move to switch on the ignition.

‘Sarah, there’s something I need to tell you,’ he informed her heavily.

Because he’d taken the exact words out of her mouth she eyed him in surprise. ‘Talk away, then, Brian.’

‘I’m sorry I was poor company tonight,’ he began, staring through the windscreen. ‘Because, well—oh, dammit, there’s no easy way to say this.’

‘Are you by any chance giving me the push, Brian?’ asked Sarah unsteadily, desperate to laugh.

‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,’ he protested, and shot a hunted look at her. ‘Look, my dear, I hate to do this to you in your particular situation.’

She stiffened. ‘My situation?’

‘Don’t be offended,’ he implored her. ‘I think you do a wonderful job as a single parent. But—well—the truth is, Sarah, I’m just not cut out to be a stepfather,’ he added in a rush.

Since Sarah, in her wildest dreams, had never cast him in the role, she agreed readily. ‘No, Brian, I don’t think you are.’

‘But I must be honest. That’s not the only reason,’ he went on doggedly, and took a deep breath. ‘It’s been obvious to me for some time that a physical relationship between us is never going to happen, Sarah. And, contrary to the impression I may give, I’m a pretty normal kind of man, with the usual male needs, you know.’

‘Oh, Brian, of course you are,’ said Sarah in remorse. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t fulfil them for you. I never meant to hurt you.’

‘I know that, my dear.’ He patted her hand. ‘So I’ll be straight with you, Sarah. I’ve met someone else. Amanda’s just joined the firm. I took her to the theatre when you cancelled, and we found we were—well—instantly compatible in that way. Highly compatible. In fact I spent most of the weekend with her. Something which was never possible with you, because of Davina. Amanda knows I’m with you tonight, of course,’ he added. ‘But she was very sporting about it.’

‘Good for her,’ managed Sarah, trying to get her head round the idea of Brian involved in a hot, passionate relationship.

‘I hope this isn’t too upsetting for you,’ he said, tugging at his tie. ‘I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.’

Sarah took a deep, steadying breath. ‘Brian, I’m not upset and I’m not hurt. Truly. In fact I’m very happy for you. Now, drive me home.’

When she got in Sarah went straight upstairs to break the news she knew very well would annoy Margaret Parker. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Grandma, but I thought you should know right away that Brian doesn’t want to see me any more.’

Margaret stared in horror. ‘Why ever not?’ Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What did you do to offend him, you silly girl? Brian Collins is such a good catch. His father owns half of Pennington—’

‘It’s more a case of what I didn’t do,’ interrupted Sarah.

‘I don’t understand.’

Sarah met her grandmother’s eyes squarely. ‘Oh, I think you do. I know you dislike the word, but sex was to blame.’

Margaret stiffened. ‘Then you have only yourself to blame. You, of all people, know what happens when a woman drops into a man’s arms like a ripe plum!’

Sarah’s eyes flashed coldly. ‘You’ve got it all wrong, Grandma.
Lack
of sex was the problem. I never cared for Brian in that way. So he’s found someone who does. And good luck to him.’

Margaret Parker’s face was a study. ‘I—I see. I apologise,’ she added with difficulty.

‘Apology accepted.’ Sarah turned at the door for her parting shot. ‘And to top it all Brian came clean and admitted he couldn’t see himself as Davy’s stepfather.’

Feeling liberated after the departure of Brian from her life, Sarah rushed home from work the next afternoon to sit out in the garden and make the most of the heat wave. Not bothering to cook, she ate salad, and left the firm’s daily quota of mail until the evening, when it was cooler. Margaret Parker, in conciliatory mood after the misunderstanding over Brian, had added extra salad vegetables
to the shopping she’d offered to undertake for Sarah, and never mentioned the subject again, adhering to the rule of non-interference kept to on both sides from the day Sarah had taken Davy to live in the house in Campden Road.

To achieve privacy and independence for both Sarah and herself, Margaret Parker had divided her home into two separate, self-contained apartments before they’d set up house together. Though she would have infinitely preferred a place of her own for herself and Davy, Sarah knew this wasn’t practical, and never forgot that she was a lot better off than many in her situation as a single parent. She had the huge advantage of a low-rent home, a steady, if not lavish, income from her job, and the knowledge that Davy’s education was financially secure at a reputable school. Even if it wasn’t the school of Sarah’s choice. And now Davy had started boarding Sarah enjoyed evenings out with friends made through her job—if she were honest, she enjoyed herself more with Esther and Maggie from the agency than dining out with Brian.

Although Sarah was happy enough with her life she was human enough to yearn sometimes for an extra dimension to it, a feeling which intensified the next morning, when she received a long-expected wedding invitation from Nick Morrell, her closest friend from college days. He enclosed a note, urging her to bring her current man with her and stay for the dance afterwards, and emphasised that the old crowd were all looking forward to seeing her again.

Sarah’s own standing within their group had been unique from the first. She had been afraid beforehand that her fatherless baby would be a handicap where friendships were concerned. But to her surprise and gratitude Davy’s existence had been accepted as part of life
by the kindred spirits met at university, both male and female. Nick Morrell had been one of the friends close enough to invite home, to meet her parents and play with Davy, and they had kept in close touch ever since. But now Nick was acquiring a wife things would be a lot different.