Sarah's Secret

‘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.

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.’

CHAPTER TWO