Love in Another Town

Barbara Taylor Bradford

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1995

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 1995

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2011 ISBN: 9780007443185

Version: 2017-11-16

For my dearest husband Bob,

to whom I owe so much

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

JAKE CANTRELL SLOWED his pick-up truck as he approached Lake Waramaug near the Boulders Inn, came to a standstill and gazed out of the window.

The lake was still; it held a glassy sheen, looked almost silver in the late afternoon light of this cool April day. He lifted his eyes to the etiolated sky, so bleached out that it, too, seemed as pale and as unmoving as the water. In stark contrast were the rolling hills rising up around the lake, darkly green and lush with trees.

Jake could not help thinking once again how beautiful the view was from this angle: a dreamy landscape of water and sky. To Jake, it was somehow evocative, reminded him of another place, yet he was not sure of where … some place somewhere he had never been, except in his imagination perhaps … England, France, Italy or Germany, maybe even Africa. Some place he would like to go one day. If he ever got the chance. He had always wanted to travel, dreamed about going to exotic lands, but thus far in his twenty-eight years of life on this planet he had only been to New York City a few times, and twice to Atlanta where his sister Patty was now living.

Shading his eyes with one hand, Jake scanned the vistas of land, water and sky once more, then nodded. How incredible the light is today, almost other-worldly, he thought, as he stared ahead.

He had always been fascinated by light, both natural and artificial. The latter he worked with on a daily basis, the former he frequently endeavoured to capture on canvas, when he had time to pick up a paintbrush and indulge himself. He loved to paint whenever he could, even though he wasn’t very good at it. But it gave him a great sense of satisfaction, just as did creating special lighting effects. He was working on a big lighting job now, one that was tough, tested his talent and imagination and fired his creativity. He loved the challenge.

The car behind him honked him forward, and, rousing himself from his thoughts, he pushed his foot down on the accelerator and drove on.

Jake headed along Route 45 North which would take him up to Route 341 and all the way to Kent. As he drove he kept noticing the unusual clarity of the light today; it echoed the light over the lake and seemed to get even brighter the farther north he drove.

Lately he had come to realize that this clear bright light was endemic to this part of the state, called the northwestern highlands by some, the Litchfield Hills by others. He did not care what people called the area. All he knew was that it was beautiful, so breathtaking he thought of it as God’s own country. And the extraordinary, incandescent skies, almost uncanny at times, inspired awe in him.

This particular area was relatively new to him, even though he had been born in Hartford, had grown up there, and had lived in Connecticut all his life. For the past four-and-a-half years he had been a resident of New Milford, but he had rarely ventured beyond the town’s boundaries. That is until a year ago, just after he had finally separated from his wife Amy.

He had stayed on in New Milford, living alone in a small studio on Bank Street for almost a year. It was around then that he had started driving into the countryside, going farther afield, looking for a new place to live, something a bit better than the studio, an apartment or, preferably, a small house.

It was on Route 341 near Kent that he had found the little white clapboard three months ago. It had taken him a few weeks to get it cleaned up, painted and made reasonably habitable, then he had scoured the local junk shops and sales looking for furniture. He was surprised at the things he managed to find, at prices which he considered reasonable. In no time at all he had managed to make the little clapboard fresh-looking and comfortable. His final purchases were a brand new bed, a good rug and a television set, all bought in one of the big stores in Danbury. Finally, he had moved in three weeks ago and had felt like a king in his castle ever since.

Jake drove on at a steady speed, not thinking about anything in particular except getting home. Home. He found himself contemplating that word all of a sudden.

It hovered there in his mind. ‘Home,’ he said out loud. And yes, he was going home. Home to his house. He savoured this thought, liking it. A smile lingered on his sensitive mouth. Home. Home. Home. The word suddenly had a very special meaning to him. It signified so much.

It struck him then that never in nine years of marriage to Amy had he ever called their various apartments home; usually, whenever he referred to them, he would say our place, or back at the ranch, or some such thing.

Now he realized that until today the word home had always meant the house in Hartford where he had been raised by his parents, John and Annie Cantrell, both dead for several years.

But the little white clapboard on Route 341, with its picket fence and neat garden, was indeed home, and it had become his haven, his place of refuge. There were several adjoining fields with a large barn standing in one of them, and this he had turned into a workshop and studio. Currently, he was renting the property, but he liked it so much he was seriously thinking of buying it. If he could get a mortgage from the bank in New Milford. If the owner would sell. Jake wasn’t sure about either possibility at this moment. He could only hope.

Apart from being the right size, the house was close enough to Northville, where he had moved his electrical business a few weeks ago. He had wanted to be out of New Milford altogether because Amy still lived and worked there. Not that there was any animosity between them; in fact, they were quite good friends in spite of their break-up.

Their separation had been reasonably amicable, although initially she had not wanted to let him go. Eventually she had agreed. What option did she have? He had been long gone from her emotionally and physically, even when they still shared the same apartment in New Milford. The day he had finally packed his bags and made his intentions clear for the last time, she had exclaimed, ‘Okay, Jake, I agree to a separation. But let’s stay friends. Please.’

Long absent in spirit, and with one foot already out of the door, he had willingly agreed. What harm could it do? And, anyway, if it mollified her so much the better. Anything to make his escape easier, to get away from her at long last, in a peaceful way and without another row.

Jake’s thoughts centred entirely on Amy for a moment or two. In many ways he felt sorry for her. She wasn’t a bad person. Just dull, unimaginative and something of a killjoy. Over the years she had become an albatross around his neck, dragging him down, and inducing in him an unfamiliar state of depression.

He knew that he was bright and quick and clever. He always had been, even as a child. And he was good at his job. His former boss at Bolton Electric had constantly told him he was a genius with lighting and special effects. And because of his drive, hard work and talent he had moved up in life; he had wanted to move even farther, but she had held him back.

Amy was always afraid – afraid things would go wrong if they did anything out of the ordinary, or if he made a move to better himself and them and their existence. She had fought him two years ago when he had left Bolton Electric and started his own business.

‘It’s not going to work, it’ll fail and then where will we be?’ she had wailed. ‘Anyway, what do you know about being a contractor?’ she had gone on nervously, her face pinched and white and tight-lipped. When he hadn’t answered her, she had added, ‘You’re a good electrician, Jake, I know that. But you’re not good at business.’

He had been infuriated by her remark. Glaring at her, he had shot back, ‘How do you know what I’m good at? You haven’t been interested in me or anything I do for years.’

She had gaped at him, obviously shocked, but he was speaking the truth. It seemed to him now, as he remembered those words, that Amy had lost interest in him during the second year of their marriage.

Jake sighed. It had all become so sad and discouraging, and he wondered, for the umpteenth time, how it could have gone so wrong. They had grown up together in Hartford, had been childhood sweethearts, and had married right out of school. Well, almost. In those days the future had glittered brightly for him, had been full of promise.

He had his dreams and ambitions. Unfortunately Amy had neither. Within a few years he had come to realize that she not only fought change with great tenacity but actually feared it.

Whatever he wanted to do to grow, to make things better for them, she threw cold water on it. Five years into the marriage he had begun to feel that he was drowning in all that cold water of hers.

The future with Amy had started to look so bleak, so without promise or happiness, that he had eventually begun to drift away from her.

Content to plod along, following her usual routine, she had never even noticed when he was gone from her in body and spirit. He might live in the same apartment but he was no longer really there.

Inevitably, he strayed and had a couple of affairs with other women and discovered he didn’t even feel guilty. He had also realized at the time – over two years ago now – that the game was up between them. Jake was not a promiscuous man, and the very act of infidelity told him that there was nothing left of their relationship, nothing left to salvage. At least for him.

Through her apathy and fear, her lack of trust in him and in his ability, Amy had killed their marriage. She had taken hope away from him.

Everyone needed hope … everyone needed dreams. What did a man have, for God’s sake, if not his dreams? Amy had trampled on his.

And yet he did not blame her; he felt sorry for her, perhaps because he had known her for so long, nearly all of his life. Then again, he was aware that she had never meant to hurt him in any way. Amy gave so little of herself she therefore had so little. She was missing out on life.

Amy was still pretty in a pale blonde way, but she did nothing to help her delicate colouring, so she appeared faded and drab these days. And she had put on weight. Not a lot, only a few pounds, but because she was small that bit of extra weight made her look dumpy.

She’ll never get married again, Jake thought with a sudden flash of insight, and groaned inwardly. He would probably end up paying her alimony forever, until the day she died. Or he did. But what the hell, he didn’t care. He knew he could always make money. He had an unfailing self-confidence.

Jake slowed the pick-up when he came to his white clapboard house, pulled into the yard and parked in front of the garage. Walking around to the back, he let himself into the kitchen.

Home, he thought, and glanced around the room. Then he grinned. He was home. He was free. He had his own business now, and it was doing well. He had a bright future again. His dreams were intact after all. Nobody could take them away. He was at peace with himself. And with the world at large. He was even at peace with Amy, in his own way. Eventually they would divorce and truly go their separate ways.

And if he was lucky he would meet another woman one day and fall in love. He would get married again. And hopefully there would be a child. Maybe even children. A wife, a home, a family, and his own business. Those were the things he wanted and it seemed to him that they were simple, fundamental things. Certainly there was nothing complicated about them. Yet Amy had made them seem unattainable because she had not wanted them. She hadn’t even wanted to have a child. She’d been afraid of that too.

‘What if there’s something wrong with the baby?’ she had said to him once, just after he had told her he wanted to have a child. ‘What if the baby’s born defective in some way? What would we do, Jake? I wouldn’t want a defective baby.’

Startled, he had stared at her in complete bafflement, frowning, not understanding how she could mouth such things. It was then that he had felt a spurt of anger inside, and that anger had stayed with him for a very long time.

Just over a year ago he had realized that Amy had cheated him of life for the entire time they had been married. To him that was a crime. But then he had allowed her to do it, hadn’t he? You were only a victim if you permitted yourself to be one, his mother had told him once. He reminded himself not to forget that.

Amy was so negative she was a genuine loser. He had tried to help her to change but she had looked at him blankly, obviously not understanding what he was getting at.

Suddenly impatient with himself, he pushed away thoughts of Amy. After all, she was on her own now. As was he.

Opening the fridge door, Jake took out a beer, prised off the cap with the opener on the counter, then stood leaning against the sink, drinking from the bottle, enjoying it; beer always tasted better from the bottle.

The phone began to ring. He reached for it. ‘Hello?’

‘Jake, is that you?’

He straightened slightly on hearing the voice. ‘Yes, it is. How’re you, Samantha?’

‘I’m fine, Jake, thanks. You haven’t forgotten the meeting tonight, have you?’

‘No, I haven’t. But I’m running late. Just got in from work. I’ll be there soon. Real soon.’

‘Don’t kill yourself. I’m late myself today. I’ll see you at the theatre.’

‘Okay.’ He glanced at the kitchen clock. It was just turning five-thirty. ‘In about an hour?’

‘That’s good for me. ’Bye.’

‘See you later,’ Jake said, and hung up.

He finished the beer and went through into the bedroom. After pulling off his boots and jeans he stripped off his heavy sweater, T-shirt and underpants, then strode into the bathroom to take a shower.

Five minutes later he was towelling himself dry, and after putting on a terry-cloth robe he padded through into the small living room.

Standing in front of his CD player, his eyes scanned the shelf of discs next to it. He had inherited his love of music from his mother, especially classical music and opera. She had had a beautiful voice, and he had been reared on Verdi and Puccini, as well as Mozart, Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky, and other great composers. He’d always thought it a pity his mother had not been able to have the proper musical education and training, since in his opinion she’d had a voice worthy of the Metropolitan Opera in New York City.

Automatically, his hand reached for one of her favourites, Puccini’s Tosca, but after looking at the Maria Callas disc for a moment he put it back, pulled out another one, a selection of Puccini and Verdi arias sung by Kiri Te Kanawa, whose voice he loved and who was his preferred opera star. After turning the volume up, he went back to the bathroom, leaving all of the doors open so that he could enjoy the music.

Staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, Jake ran a hand over his chin. No two ways about it, he needed a shave. He lathered himself with soap and scraped the razor over his chin, rinsed his face, combed back his damp black hair and then went back into the bedroom, all the while listening to Te Kanawa singing arias from Don Carlos, Il Trovatore, and La Traviata.

By the time he was dressed in clean blue jeans, a fresh blue-and-white checked shirt and a dark blue sports jacket, she was still singing.

One of the arias he liked the most was ‘Vissi d’arte’ from Tosca, and now he walked through into the living room, touched the track number for Tosca on the CD player and sat down. He didn’t want to be late for the meeting with Samantha Matthews, but he did want to hear his favourite piece from Tosca.

As Te Kanawa’s voice filled the room, soared up to the rafters, Jake was engulfed. He felt himself falling down into her wonderful voice, falling into the music, which never failed to touch him with its beauty and sadness.

Te Kanawa was Tosca, and she was singing of her sorrow, her tribulation, her hour of need, and Jake leaned his head back against the chair, closed his eyes, gave himself up to the music.

Unexpectedly, he felt choked. Tears welled. His emotions were suddenly laid bare … he was filled with yearning … for something … although he was not exactly sure what he yearned for. Then he knew … he wanted to feel again. I know there’s more, he thought, there’s got to be more to life …

He let the music wash over him, relaxing his body, and he remained very still even after the aria had finished. In repose, his lean, sharply-sculpted face looked much less troubled.

After a short while Jake roused himself, and went to turn off the CD player. He had to be in Kent in five minutes, and it would take him longer than that to get there.

He left the house through the kitchen, and ran to his pick-up truck.

On the way to Kent he thought about the meeting he was about to have with Samantha Matthews. He had met her a few weeks ago on the big lighting job he was doing at a mansion in nearby Washington. She was a resident of the town who designed and produced unusual, handmade fabrics which the owner, his current client, was using throughout the house.

He and Samantha had started talking over a cup of coffee one day, when they were at the house together, and she had been interested in hearing more about the special lighting effects he was creating inside the house and in the grounds.

Several days later she had phoned him with an offer. It was an invitation to work with her on the stage sets for an amateur dramatic group she was involved with in Kent.

He had agreed to come to one meeting at least. And it was tonight. He had no idea what to expect, and he wasn’t sure whether it would be the first and last, or the first of many.

Although he had not told Samantha, he was excited about working in the theatre, if only with an amateur group such as hers. It was a wonderful challenge and a way to learn more, he felt.

As he drove towards Kent, his mind preoccupied with lighting techniques, Jake Cantrell had no idea that he was being propelled towards his destiny. Nor did he have any way of knowing that his life was about to change, and so profoundly it would never be the same again.

Later, when he looked back to this night, he would do so wonderingly, reminding himself how ordinary it had seemed. He would ask himself why he had not sensed that something momentous was going to happen, why he had not realized that he was about to set out on the journey of his life.

CHAPTER 2

SAMANTHA MATTHEWS LOOKED UP from the script she was making notations on and stared across the table at her friend Maggie Sorrell, frowning. ‘Now you tell me you think I’ve chosen the wrong play! Just when I’ve got it cast and everyone’s madly learning their lines!’ she exclaimed, her voice rising slightly.

‘I didn’t say that!’ Maggie protested. ‘I asked you why you’d chosen it. I was merely thinking out loud. Honestly.’

‘Thinking out loud or not, you sounded critical.’

‘I didn’t, Sam!’

‘Doubtful, then.’

‘Not doubtful either. You know very well I never doubt you, or anything you do. I really was only wondering why this particular play, that’s all.’

Samantha nodded. ‘Okay, I believe you. I know you’re my true blue friend who’s stuck by me through thick and thick and thin and thin over the years. My very best friend in the world.’

‘Just as you’re mine,’ Maggie murmured. ‘So come on, tell me. Why did you pick The Crucible?’

‘Because last year, before you’d come to live here, we did Annie Get Your Gun, and I didn’t want to direct a musical again. I wanted to stage a drama. Preferably one by a great American playwright who was still alive; that’s why I chose an Arthur Miller play. But I must admit, there’s also another reason –’

‘Because we did it at Bennington all those years ago,’ Maggie cut in knowingly, smiling. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’

Samantha sat back in her chair and regarded her friend intently for a moment, then she shook her head slowly. ‘No, not at all.’

‘And I thought you’d chosen it for sentimental reasons.’ Maggie made a face and shrugged. ‘Oh silly me.’

‘Sentimental reasons?’ Samantha echoed.

‘Of course. We were nineteen and rapidly becoming fast friends. Best friends, actually. We’d both fallen in love for the first time; also, we were treading the boards for the first time. In The Crucible. It was a very special year for us, but you’d forgotten, hadn’t you?’

‘No, I do remember that year at college. It was 1971. In fact, I thought about it only the other day. And in a way you’re correct. When I selected The Crucible I was playing it a bit safe, because I do know it so well. But when I said I chose it for another reason it was because Arthur Miller lives in Connecticut and we’re a Connecticut theatrical group. So, call me sentimental if you like, Mag.’

‘You are a sentimentalist at heart, even though you like to pretend you’re not,’ Maggie answered.

‘Maybe I am,’ Samantha agreed and laughed. ‘Although there are those who call me bossy.’

‘Oh you’re that all right!’ Maggie shot back, laughing.

‘Thanks a lot, friend. Anyway, getting back to the play, you know it pretty well too, and that’s going to be a decided advantage when you start designing the sets.’

‘You do realize I’m very worried about this whole project, don’t you, Sam? I can’t imagine how I ever let you talk me into it. I’ve never designed a stage set in my life.’

‘But you have designed some beautiful rooms, especially lately, and anyway there’s a first time for everything. You’ll be okay, you’ll do fine.’

‘I wish I felt as confident as you sound. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure where to begin. I read the play through again last night and my mind went totally blank. In fact, I balked at the project. Are you certain there’s no one else to do the sets for you?’

‘There isn’t, Maggie. Besides, you’re only suffering from a touch of stage fright, and that’s quite normal. Look, you’ll be fine as soon as you pick up your pencil and start sketching. Trust me.’

‘I’m not so sure I should do that, Sam. When I’ve trusted you in the past it’s only got me into a heap of trouble.’

‘No, it hasn’t,’ Samantha countered and pushed her chair away from the card table. She stood up, walked across the stage, gesturing as she did.

‘You’ll have to create some sort of major scenic backdrop here, Mag, and the furniture must be representative of the period. Early American, obviously. But you’re an expert on furniture, so I don’t really know why I’m even mentioning it.’

Samantha swung to face her old friend. ‘I see something dramatic in my mind’s eye, something really unusual for the backdrop. Black and white, maybe even a few greys, something like a painting in grisaille. What do you think?’

Maggie rose and went to join her, nodding as she did. ‘Yes!’ she exclaimed, sounding excited by the project for the first time. ‘I know exactly what you mean. It needs to be stark. Bleak almost. Certainly sombre, very eye-catching as well. I think the set has to be a little offbeat, not the usual thing. Let’s take the audience by surprise.’ Maggie raised a brow. ‘Don’t you agree?’

Samantha grinned at her. ‘I sure do and I knew you’d catch the bug, once I got that clever little brain of yours working. You’re so talented, Maggie, and very imaginative, and I’m certain you’ll come up with exactly the right thing.’

‘I hope so, I’d hate to let you down –’ She broke off, looking thoughtful, then added, ‘You know, I think I’ll drive into New York later this week, pick up some books on theatrical design and stage sets.’

‘Yes, do that. No, wait a minute, there’s no need to go into Manhattan. Try the bookstore in Washington and the one in Kent. I know they’re both well stocked. They have everything from soup to nuts.’

Maggie laughed, as always amused by her friend’s colourful expressions, as she had been since their college days.

The two women stood centre stage, discussing ideas for the backdrop and the sets for a few minutes longer. At one moment Maggie went and got her notebook, began to sketch rapidly, all the time listening to Samantha and nodding.

Both women were forty-three and good-looking, but they were strikingly different in appearance and personality.

Samantha Matthews was of medium height and slim, with prematurely silver hair cut short with a fringe. The silver colour did not seem at all ageing since she had a youthfully pretty face and a fresh complexion. Her large eyes, set widely apart, were dark brown and full of soul.

Energetic, enthusiastic and gregarious, she had an outgoing personality and a friendly nature. Somewhat given to taking control, she liked to be in charge. Nonetheless, she was kind, good hearted and easy to get along with.

In contrast, Maggie Sorrell was tall, willowy, with the brightest of light blue eyes that were, at times, highly appraising. Her thick mane of chestnut hair was shot through with auburn lights and she wore it brushed back and falling to her shoulders. Although her face was a little angular and arresting rather than pretty, she was attractive and appealing in her looks.

Maggie had a fluidity and a gracefulness when she moved and she appeared to take things at a more leisurely pace. But she had as much energy and vitality as Samantha. Very simply, her style was slightly different. It was calm, controlled, and she was the quieter and more reserved of the two. And yet she was a vibrant woman, full of life and optimism.

Even in their style of dressing they were true to themselves. Tonight Samantha wore what she termed her uniform: well-tailored blue jeans, a white cotton shirt, a black gabardine blazer with brass buttons, and highly polished black oxfords with white socks.

Maggie, who tended to be less tailored, was dressed in a full, three-quarter length skirt made of brown suede, matching suede boots, a cream silk shirt and a brown cashmere stole flung over her shoulders.

Both women had a casual style about them which reflected an understanding of clothes and what suited them; it also bespoke their privileged backgrounds.

Best friends since college days, they had remained close even though they had been separated by thousands of miles for many years. They had managed to meet quite frequently, at least twice a year, and they had spoken to each other on the phone every week for as long as they could remember. Maggie had moved to Connecticut eight months ago, after a dreadful upheaval in her life, and they had become inseparable again.

The banging of a door at the back of the theatre startled both women, made them jump. Automatically they swung around, peering into the dimly lit auditorium.

‘Oh, it’s only Tom Cruise,’ Samantha said immediately, a look of pleasure settling on her face. She waved with a certain eagerness to the man walking down the aisle towards the proscenium.

‘Tom Cruise,’ Maggie hissed, grasping Samantha’s arm, following the direction of her gaze. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, for God’s sake! Has he moved here? Is he taking an interest in the theatre group? Oh my God, I hope he’s not slumming, doing a part in the play just for kicks. I’ll never be able to design the sets! Not with a real pro around.’

Samantha burst out laughing. She said, in a low voice, ‘As far as I know, Mr Cruise is still living in Westport. The guy walking towards us could be him though, and that’s why I call him Tom Cruise.’

Maggie let go of Samantha’s arm as the young man walked across the stage to join them.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said to Samantha, stretching out his hand, shaking hers.

‘No problem,’ Samantha answered. ‘Come and meet my friend. Maggie, this is Jake Cantrell. Jake, this is Margaret Anne Sorrell, usually known as Maggie. She’s an interior designer and will be designing our sets. Maggie, Jake’s a genius with lighting and special effects. I hope he’s going to become part of our little group and work with us. We certainly need a lighting expert of his calibre.’

Jake gave Samantha a small smile that hinted of shyness and then turned to Maggie. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ he said politely and offered her his hand.

Maggie took it. His hand was cool, his grasp firm. ‘I’m happy to meet you too,’ she murmured.

They stood staring at each other.

Maggie thought how extremely good-looking he was, realizing at once that he was completely unaware that he was. He’s a troubled man, she thought, recognizing the sadness in his eyes.

Jake was thinking that he’d never met a woman like this in his life, so beautifully groomed and well put together. He was suddenly awed by this woman who was looking at him so thoughtfully through her cool, intelligent eyes.

CHAPTER 3

THE THREE OF THEM sat down at the table on the stage and Samantha handed Jake a copy of the play.

‘Thanks,’ he said, glancing at it, then looking up at her as she continued, ‘As you can see we’re doing The Crucible, and I think you should read it as soon as possible.’ She flashed him a vivid smile, and added, ‘Basically, the meeting tonight is for us to become acquainted. I was hoping the three of us could get together again later this week, maybe on Friday or Saturday, to have our first detailed discussion about the scenery and the lighting. By then you’ll have a better understanding of what’s required.’

‘I know the play,’ Jake replied, giving her a pointed look. ‘And very well. From high school. I also saw a revival of it a few years ago. I’ve always liked Arthur Miller.’

If Samantha was surprised to hear this she certainly disguised it. Merely nodding, she murmured, ‘That’s great. Obviously I’m delighted you know the play; it’ll save us a lot of time in the long run.’

‘I’ve never done any stage work before, as I told you when you phoned,’ Jake said. ‘But what’s required for this play in particular is real mood, that I do know. All stage lighting should underscore the meaning of the drama, the scenes being acted, and create an atmosphere. In The Crucible it should be one of … mystery. Deep mystery, I think. And revelation … impending revelation. It’s important to introduce a sense of time as well as place. In this instance, Salem, Massachusetts in the seventeenth century. Candles are going to be important, as are special effects. It’s necessary to simulate dawn and night-time. I remember a night-time scene in the wood. You’ll need interesting combinations of light and shadow–’ He stopped, wondering if he’d said too much – even worse, made a fool of himself.

Jake sat back in his chair and looked at the women. They were both staring at him intently. He felt himself flush and experienced a surge of acute embarrassment.

Maggie, who had been observing him closely and giving him her entire attention, sensed that he was suddenly feeling uncomfortable, although she wasn’t sure why. But wishing to put him at ease, she said swiftly, ‘You’ve hit it right on the mark, Jake. I’m fairly familiar with the play myself, but I know the scenery is going to be tough for me to do. This is my first stab at theatrical design. Like you I’m a bit of a novice. Maybe we’ll be able to help each other as we go along.’

Smiling, Maggie finished, ‘Samantha has a good point about meeting again later in the week, once we’ve both had a chance to refresh our memories about the play. I’m available either Friday or Saturday.’ She glanced at Samantha and then back at him. ‘Which day do you both prefer?’

‘Saturday,’ Samantha answered.

Jake was silent. An unfamiliar discomfort had settled over him. They were taking it for granted he was going to get involved with their drama group, but he still wasn’t sure that he would. Or whether he even wanted to. He wondered if he’d said too much a moment ago, if he had led them to believe he intended to participate.

‘Would Friday be better for you, Jake?’ Maggie asked.

He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. I – ’ He cut himself off abruptly, suddenly wary of making any kind of commitment to them. It might take up too much of his time; after all, he did have a business to run these days. Also, he was beginning to feel a bit out of his depth with these two women. They were so sure of themselves, were from another world, one he didn’t know at all. And there was another thing: it seemed to him that they took their amateur theatrical group very seriously. Certainly they were determined to put on a good production, he could tell that. He knew Samantha Matthews was a perfectionist, his client in Washington had indicated that only the other day. It was apparent to him that she would be a hard taskmaster, very demanding. Better to skip it, he thought.

Clearing his throat, he looked across at Samantha and said, ‘I agreed to come tonight because I’m always interested in extending my knowledge, so the idea of designing stage lighting appealed to me. But I have the feeling you want a real commitment from me, Samantha, and I can’t give you that. What I mean is, I’m very busy with my electrical business. I work late most nights – ’

‘Oh, Jake, don’t be so hasty,’ Samantha interrupted. ‘Maggie and I are also up to our necks with work. We’ve all got to earn a living, you know.’

Once again she offered him that vivid smile of hers, and added, ‘Whatever you might think, you wouldn’t be making such a huge commitment. Not really. Once you’d created the lighting effects you wouldn’t have anything else to do. I’d take it from there. I’ve got several good stagehands to help me and an electrician as well.’

‘Lighting isn’t easy,’ he answered. ‘In fact, it’s very complicated and especially so for this play.’

‘You’re absolutely correct,’ Maggie interjected. ‘But I do wish you’d reconsider. From what Sam’s told me about your work at the Bruce house, you really do know what you’re doing. Look, I know how you feel, I just started a new business myself a few months ago, and I’m totally committed to it. Nonetheless, I think I’ll learn a lot from this little theatrical venture.’ She smiled at him winningly.

He looked at her, looked right into her eyes, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristling. Maggie Sorrell was not pretty in the given sense. But there was something about her that went beyond mere prettiness. She was arresting, intriguing, the kind of woman a man would look at twice. She had an elegance that had nothing to do with her clothes, but with herself. He felt oddly drawn to her. Instantly, he pulled back. He had never known a woman like this; he was not sure he wanted to.

Since he had remained mute, Maggie continued talking. ‘You did say yourself that initially you thought you’d learn something. Actually, Jake, we’ll both benefit, and in innumerable ways. For instance, there’s the publicity. We’ll get quite a lot, and that can’t be bad for your business or mine. Anyway, I’ve come to realize that whatever I’m doing I’m usually meeting a potential client somewhere along the line.’

‘Bravo! Said like a true professional!’ Samantha exclaimed. ‘And Maggie’s correct, Jake, you can profit from this in a variety of different ways.’

When he still said nothing, she pressed, ‘What do you have to lose?’

Hesitating for a moment longer, he finally said in a quiet voice, ‘It’s the time that’s involved, I can’t let my business suffer.’

‘None of us can,’ Maggie pointed out. ‘Come on, Jake, give it a try. I am. The whole project is challenging and I love a challenge, don’t you?’ Not waiting for his answer, she said, ‘In any case, I think we’ll have a lot of fun together.’

Before he could stop himself he agreed. He wondered what he was doing, making such a commitment. To cover himself, he added swiftly, ‘If it gets to be too much, gets in the way of my work, I’ll have to quit. You do understand that, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Samantha replied.

‘What about the next meeting, Jake? Do you prefer Friday or Saturday?’ Maggie asked.

‘Saturday’s definitely better,’ Jake told her. ‘I’m working late on Friday, and on Saturday morning. Can we make it Saturday afternoon? Late afternoon?’

‘Fine by me,’ Maggie murmured.

‘You’ve got a deal!’ Samantha cried, her voice suddenly full of excitement. ‘We’re going to make a great team! And you’ll enjoy it, Jake, you’ll see. It’s going to be a gratifying experience. Incidentally, I was impressed with what you said earlier, about the lighting for the play. Your ideas are brilliant. Personally, I think you’ve already got the lighting licked.’

‘I hope so,’ he replied, trying not to look pleased at her compliment. ‘I’ve always found that play very powerful.’

‘Yes, it is, and frightening in a sense, when you think it all hinges on lies – the terrible lies people tell,’ Maggie remarked.

It was a few minutes before nine when Jake walked back into his kitchen, and he realized how hungry he was as he opened the fridge door and took out a cold beer.

After swallowing a few gulps, he went through into the living room, draped his sports jacket over a chair back and returned to the kitchen. Within a few minutes he had opened a can of corned beef and a jar of pickles and made himself a sandwich.

Carrying the plate and the beer back into the living room, he put them on the small glass coffee table, sat down, picked up the remote control and flicked on the television. He ate his sandwich and drank his beer, staring at the set. It was a sitcom on one of the networks and he wasn’t paying much attention.

Jake was preoccupied with the drama group, The Crucible and the two women he had left a short while before. They were opposites, but they were both very nice and he liked them. And so he had let himself be persuaded to do the lighting for the play. Now he wished he hadn’t agreed. He had done so against his better judgement and instinctively he knew it was going to be more trouble than it was worth. Why did I let myself get swept up into this? he asked himself yet again.

Suddenly impatient with the television and with himself, he flicked off the set and leaned back in the chair, taking an occasional swallow of beer.

After a moment Jake got up, walked over to the window, stood looking out at the night sky. He wondered what she was really like, Maggie Sorrell, but he figured he would never get to know her well enough to find out.

CHAPTER 4

MAGGIE SORRELL AWAKENED with a start. Reaching out, she turned on the bedside lamp and looked at the alarm clock. It was three-thirty.

Groaning to herself, she doused the light, slid down under the covers and attempted to go back to sleep. But her mind raced when she began to think about the living room and library of the house in Roxbury she was redecorating for a client. Fabric patterns, carpet swatches, paint colours and wood finishes swirled around in her head.

She finally gave up trying to envision a scheme. Jake Cantrell kept intruding into her thoughts. There was something about him that was appealing, very engaging, and of course he was stunning looking. But he doesn’t know it, not really, she thought again, as she had a few hours ago. And then remembering the sadness she had detected in his light green eyes, she wondered what had gone awry in his life.

Obviously someone had hurt Jake Cantrell and very badly. She recognized that look only too well. The shell-shocked look she called it.

A woman did him in, Maggie thought, still focusing on Jake. She sighed to herself. Women. Men. What they did to each other in the name of love was diabolical. It bordered on the criminal. She ought to know, it had been done to her.

Mike Sorrell had destroyed her just as surely as if he had stuck a knife in her. But then he’d been killing her soul for years, hadn’t he?

The big upheaval had happened two years ago, but the memory of it was still there. Although most of the pain had receded, there were moments when it came rushing back, took her by surprise with its intensity. She tried to squash the bad memories but they seemed determined to linger.

I’ll be forty-four next month, she thought. Forty-four. It didn’t seem possible. Time had rushed by with the speed of light. Where had all the years gone? Well, she knew the answer to that. Mike Sorrell had devoured them. She had devoted most of her life to Michael William Sorrell, attorney-at-law by profession, and to their twins, Hannah and Peter, college students both, soon to be twenty-one years old.

The three of them were gone from her life and she had learned to live without them. But it still pained her when she thought of the twins. They had sided with their father, even though she had done nothing wrong. He was the guilty party. But then he was Mr Money Bags and that apparently carried weight with them.

How terrible it was to know your children were greedy, avaricious and selfish, when you’d tried so hard to bring them up right, to instil proper values in them. But there it was. They had proved to her that she had failed with them.

In taking his side they had destroyed something fundamental deep within her. She had borne them, brought them up, looked after them when they were sick. She had always been there for them and guided them all of their lives. What they had done to her was rotten, in her opinion. They had flung all that caring back in her face. Flung her love for them back at her, as if it were meaningless.

In a sense, their cold-hearted defection had stunned her more than Mike’s ugly betrayal of her. He’d dumped her when she was nearly forty-two for a younger woman, a woman of twenty-seven who was a lawyer in another Chicago law firm.

But I survived, Maggie reminded herself, thanks mainly to Samantha. And myself, of course.

It was Samantha who had reached out to her two years ago, that awful day in May, the day of her birthday when she had finally admitted to herself that she would be spending it alone.

Hannah and Peter were both attending Northwestern, but were far too busy with their own lives to make time for their mother’s birthday celebration. And their father had left that morning on a business trip without wishing her a happy birthday. Apparently he hadn’t even remembered it.

That May morning, sitting alone in the kitchen of their apartment on Lake Shore Drive, she had felt totally, completely alone. And without her husband and children she was. Her parents were dead and she had been an only child. That special morning she had felt something else – abandoned, cast aside, of no use to anyone anymore. Even now, so long after, she was unable to pinpoint her exact feelings, but she had been disturbed, she knew that.

When the phone had rung and she had answered, had heard Samantha singing ‘Happy birthday’, she had burst into tears. Between sobs she had explained that she was spending her birthday alone because the kids didn’t have time for her and Mike had gone away on a business trip.

‘Pack a bag, get out to O’Hare and take a plane to New York! Immediately!’ Samantha had exclaimed. ‘I’ll book us into the Carlyle. I have some pull there, I can usually get rooms. I’m taking you out on the town tonight. Somewhere posh and smart. So pack your fanciest gear.’

When she had tried to protest, Samantha had said, ‘I’m not listening to your excuses. And I won’t take no for an answer. There’s a plane leaving every hour on the hour. Just get on one and get yourself to New York. Pronto, pronto, pronto, honey. I’ll meet you at the hotel.’

True to her word, Samantha had been there when she arrived, full of warmth and love, sympathy and support. They had enjoyed their two days together in Manhattan, doing a little shopping and eating at nice restaurants. A Broadway play and a trip to the Metropolitan Museum had been mandatory; they had also found time to talk endlessly, reminiscing about their days at Bennington College, when they first met, and their lives thereafter.

Samantha had married several years after Maggie. Her husband had been a British journalist based in New York. She and Angus McAllister had tied the knot when she was twenty-five and he was thirty-one. It had been a very happy marriage, but Angus had been tragically killed in a plane crash five years later, en route to the Far East on an assignment.

It was only a few months after this that Samantha, who was childless, moved back to Washington, Connecticut, where her parents had long owned a country house they used at weekends. Heartbroken though she had been, she had managed eventually to get her grief under control. But she had never remarried, although there had been several men in her life in the intervening years.

At one moment, during the birthday visit, Maggie had asked Samantha why this was so. Samantha had shaken her head and said, in her colourful way, ‘Ain’t found the right man, honey chile. I’m looking to fall head over heels in love, the way I did with Angus. I want my stomach to lurch and my knees to wobble.’ She had laughed, and finished, ‘I want to be swept off my feet, into his arms, into his bed and his life forever. It must be like that for me or it won’t work. And I’m still waiting to meet him.’

Later, on the plane going back to Chicago, Maggie had admitted to herself that her marriage to Mike was growing more and more unsatisfactory with the passing of every day. She did not know what to do about it. He did. A day later he returned from his trip. He walked into the apartment, announced he was leaving her for another woman, and walked right out again.

Once the shock had subsided and she had recovered her equilibrium to a degree, she had set about cleaning up the mess his unexpected departure had created.

Divorce proceedings were started, the apartment went on the market, and once it was sold she moved back east, back to her home town. New York.

She had lived there for six months in a small, rented studio. Her parents were already dead, she had no family, and she’d lost touch with all of her old friends from her youth. It was a lonely life for her.

It didn’t take much persuasion on Samantha’s part to get her to start looking at houses in the northwestern part of Connecticut.

Samantha also talked her into working as an interior designer again. Some years ago, she had been the junior member of a successful Chicago decorating firm and had loved every moment working there. She had finally given up her job because of pressure from Mike.

But she did what her best friend suggested and hung out her shingle, once she was installed in her small Connecticut colonial in Kent. The house, a little gem in her opinion, was only a few miles from Washington, where Samantha lived.

Thanks to Samantha’s many contacts, design work had started to come Maggie’s way quickly. They were small jobs. However, they had helped to pull her back into the swing of decorating, and the money she earned paid part of the mortgage.

Samantha, the eternal optimist, kept telling her a really big job would come her way one day soon. Maggie believed her because she was also an optimist.

Soon Maggie began to accept that sleep would be evasive for the rest of the night. Putting on the light, she peered at the alarm clock again and decided to get up. It was just turning four o’clock and she often rose at this hour. She accomplished a lot before eight whenever she did.

An hour later Maggie sat at her desk, sipping a mug of coffee. She was dressed and made up and ready for the day ahead. Later in the morning she would be driving over to Samantha’s studio in Washington to look at her latest handpainted fabrics for a bedroom she was doing in New Preston. Then she would be presenting the scheme for the library to the owner of the house in Roxbury. Pulling the swatches and samples together for this room was the order of the day and of vital importance.

Maggie began to assemble the small samples from various canvas bags at her feet. There was a variety of different greens and reds, colours the owner wanted, but not one of them was pleasing to her. Most of the reds were too bright, the greens too pale. Something sombre, she muttered under her breath. And then for a reason she couldn’t explain she thought of The Crucible, and of the meeting last night.

Again Jake Cantrell insinuated himself into her thoughts. If she were honest with herself, she’d have to admit she felt rather foolish, believing as she had, if only for a few moments, that he was Tom Cruise. But Samantha had sounded so convincing when she’d spotted him coming down the aisle of the auditorium. He’d taken them both by surprise when he started to talk about his ideas for the lighting. It was obvious to her from that moment on that he was knowledgeable about his work, and most likely as brilliant as Samantha said. Of course, you never knew with Sam. She had always liked a pretty face, Maggie thought, as she shuffled the samples on the desk, and then she stopped and sat back in her chair, staring into space. ‘But he’s too young for her,’ she muttered aloud. And for you too, she added to herself silently.

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