LITMIR.BIZ

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before Tara’s sixth birthday, a space had been cleared on the lawn for the pretty chaletstyle Wendy house they had bought as a birthday present. Claudia had spent the whole of the previous month sewing pretty gingham curtains for it, complete with tie-backs and matching appliquéd gingham cushions for the child-sized furniture.

      In time, at Tara’s insistence, a small ‘garden’ area had been fenced off around her ‘house’, taking the place of the slide and swing whose scuff marks had made bald patches in the lawn over the years. They had planted a rambling rose against the house, Garth insisting that she hold the rose straight while he dug and then filled in the hole he had made for it. It now virtually covered the small wooden building, but Tara had steadfastly refused to allow her to do anything to change her now-outgrown childhood retreat until last Christmas when she had suddenly announced that she was going to ‘clear her stuff’ out of the Wendy house and that it was high time that it was passed on to someone who could enjoy it.

      Perhaps she should have guessed then, Claudia reflected. Perhaps that instinct that all mothers had, were supposed to possess and that she had believed she did possess, should have told her that it wasn’t just the Wendy house that Tara had now outgrown and was ready to leave behind, but it hadn’t fully sunk in. Perhaps she had been too engrossed with the adrenalin-spiked sense of urgency that Christmas, with its unique blend of planning and chaos, always brought her or it could be that she simply hadn’t wanted to face the truth. And even if she had, what could she have done? Prevented Tara from seeing Ryland, stopped her from loving him?

      The garden, she reminded herself fiercely. Think about the garden. You were so excited about it … remember?

      Remember! Of course she did. After all, for the past few months, she had spent virtually every spare moment she had poring over gardening books, her mouth watering as she studied the temptation of their photographs depicting formal yew hedges—the perfect green backdrop for a profusion of artlessly and deliciously blowsy massed plantings of cottage garden–type flowers, their softness relieving the architectural sternness of their supporting hedges—pergolaed walkways dripping with wisteria and soft pink roses, the picturesque tranquillity of a formal pond … She wanted them all like a child let loose in a sweet shop.

      Yes, far better to think about her garden than to allow herself to fall back into the quicksand of panic and fear that recalling Tara’s visit brought, she decided quickly.

      A friend had warned her against introducing koi carp to her as yet non-existent pond.

      ‘They might be beautiful, but they are also the most dreadful scavengers. I’ve watched them push my poor lilies from one end of our pond to the other,’ she had complained, ‘and then they’ve got the cheek to come up to the surface demanding food every time I walk past.’

      Claudia pictured a pond, a double row of neatly clipped yew hedges bisecting her immaculate new lawn and framing the kind of borders that would be filled with a profusion of traditional perennials like delphiniums, poppies, alliums and lupins. A path would lead through them to a small, secluded, secret inner garden, perhaps with a weeping pear and a bed of pure white flowers, she decided frantically, attempting to visualise the garden plan she was hastily trying to construct but that kept on being obscured by the far clearer image of her daughter and the news she had brought her last night.

      Sharply, Claudia warned herself not to give in to her panic. What good would it do? She looked away from the window, pushing her fingers into her hair.

      She needed time. Time to think, time to …

      5

      Garth had left London later than he had planned due to an urgent phone call from a client. To compound things, he had been caught up in a series of roadworks that had delayed him by over another hour, so that it was gone eleven o’clock before he finally drove into Upper Charfont.

      His own three-storey town house with its long narrow garden and neat Georgian sash windows backed onto the river and was part of a civic conservation area. The architect and the builder who had been responsible for the renovation and rebuilding of the original neglected Georgian terrace and its surrounding environs were both clients, and a little bit of old-style country bargaining had led to Garth’s getting the house at a very advantageous price.

      In recent years he hadn’t spent as much time in it as he would have liked. During the recession the business had demanded his full attention, which had necessitated his living in London virtually full time, though he had always made sure that he could work from Upper Charfont during Tara’s school holidays.

      As in everything else appertaining to their divorce, Claudia had been meticulous about ensuring that Tara was encouraged to spend time with him; there had been no set-down and rigidly enforced ‘visiting rights’.

      ‘Tara is, after all, your daughter,’ Claudia had told him, her back stiff, her face averted from him, her voice low and so calm that if he hadn’t known better, he would never have guessed that while she spoke to him she was crying, ‘and she loves and needs you in her life as her father.’

      For once, the weather had lived up to its early-morning promise with clear blue skies and sunshine. It was market day and the town was thronged with sightseers and locals alike, dressed casually in shorts and T-shirts. This was one of the times when he regretted the uncharacteristic impulse that had led to his following the Prince of Wales’s example by driving a highly visible and highly enviable Aston Martin, he acknowledged as he saw the looks not just of envy but also of recognition greeting him as he drove through the town.

      As he found a parking space close to the offices from which Claudia ran her business, he reflected wryly that knowing the town and its people, news of his arrival would probably reach her office before he did. Although he knew she would have argued to the contrary, pointing out with that chilly, distancing manner she almost always adopted towards him these days that since she was no longer a part of his life, nor he of hers, there was no reason or purpose to have him hold any views about anything she did, he was quite extraordinarily proud of her and all that she had achieved, not just in establishing her business and turning it into such a successful venture, but he was proud of her and for her in many other ways, as well.

      She was a kind counsellor, a good friend, a loving daughter and daughter-in-law, and as a mother …

      A female tourist in the town watching him as he climbed out of his car would have wondered who or what it was that could have brought such a pensive look of pain, mingled with compassion, to the face of so sexy a man. Whoever or whatever it was, she didn’t doubt for one moment that there would be plenty of female volunteers to help him banish it.

      Maxine Jarvis, Claudia’s assistant, was in the reception area of the offices when he walked in. Recognising him, she told him quickly, ‘I’m afraid Claudia isn’t here. She’s working at home today.’

      ‘That’s no problem,’ Garth assured her, but Maxine noticed that he was frowning as he turned to leave.

      After he had gone, she wondered if she ought to ring Claudia and warn her that her ex-husband had been in looking for her, and then, remembering the shuttered look with which Claudia tended to react to any comments about her ex-husband or her marriage, she decided that she might be better off simply saying and doing nothing.

      Like everyone else who knew Claudia, Maxine admired the way she had handled her divorce, which, if the rumours that had gone round the town at the time were to be believed, had been brought on by Garth’s infidelity, and the way she had refused to allow her own feelings to damage Tara’s relationship with her father.

      Not many women would be so altruistic, so determined to control their own feelings no matter what the personal cost, and to put those of their child first, but then, Claudia had always been a wonderfully devoted mother. Demanding though her work might be, there had never been a single occasion that Maxine could remember in all the years she had worked for her when Claudia had not put Tara’s needs first, even if that had meant risking losing an important contract by putting a client second to her daughter. In Maxine’s view, the friend who had suggested once when Claudia was out of earshot that if Claudia had more often

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