Penny Jordan Tribute Collection. PENNY JORDAN
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in her sleep the kitten smiled a knowing, naughty feline smile.
John might not have approved of pets but she had always wanted one, Claire admitted to herself. Already just watching the small sleeping creature made her feel happy.
Happy… that was it. She was going to call her Felicity, she decided. Felicity. She said the name out loud, her smile turning into a small bubble of laughter as the kitten opened her eyes and stretched out her small body as though in approval of her new name.
A telephone call to a friend who had cats of her own had provided her with the name of a vet, and she now walked over to the calendar hanging on the wall to make a note of the appointment she had made for Felicity, plus a note of her follow-up appointment six weeks later, and as she did her attention was caught by the red cross she had placed on the calendar to mark her lunch-date with Poppy and Star.
Well, she certainly wasn’t going to have any difficulty in keeping to their agreement to resist the supposed power of their contact with the bride’s bouquet.
It would, of course, be different for the other two, or at least she hoped it would be. Poppy would eventually get over her teenage infatuation for her cousin and be able to put it aside and recognise it for what it was, leaving her free to give her adult love to a man who loved her in return.
Star’s past history meant that it would not be easy for her to allow herself to trust anyone enough to form a commitment to them… Difficult, but not impossible, and Claire sincerely hoped that she would one day be able to do so.
Beneath that determined front of independence that Star wore so challengingly and fiercely, Claire suspected that there was still a part of her that was very much the lonely, unhappy little girl who had seen her parents destroy one relationship after another and, with them, her security and her belief in the capability of adults to genuinely love one another.
Claire had gone along with their vow to remain unmarried because she had sensed that they needed her support, but her sincerest hope for both of them was that there would come a day when, out of the security of loving and being loved, they could look back and laugh at the vulnerability and pain which had led them to be so afraid of love.
She was just on the point of returning Felicity to her temporary ‘basket’, having fed her again, when Brad returned. He was earlier than she had expected and had obviously not forgotten his promise to her—or rather to Felicity—because he came in carrying several packages.
‘Found a name for her yet?’ he asked as Claire went to let him in, still holding the kitten.
‘Felicity,’ she informed him, ‘because her arrival in my home is most felicitous.’
Unlike mine, Brad reflected wryly. He was not oblivious to the fact that she was not entirely at ease with him and silently cursed Irene for having—he was sure—put pressure on her to have him to stay.
If the arrival in her life of something as small and waiflike as the kitten could make her mouth soften and her eyes warm with so much happiness, it didn’t say much for the ability of the man in her life to make her happy, he decided critically. If he were in his shoes…
But he wasn’t, he reminded himself, and the shoes he was in at the moment—his own shoes—were pinching just a mite too much for comfort.
His interview with Tim had been every bit as difficult as he had envisaged, with Tim being defensive and pessimistic. He preferred a situation where he could praise rather than blame; it got better results faster and, even more important, it helped to keep the sick-pay down. In his opinion, good self-esteem was the best incentive scheme that any workforce—any man—could have.
‘Something smells good,’ he commented to Claire as he put his packages down on the kitchen table and watched her replace the now sated kitten back in its box.
‘It’s beef-steak pie,’ she told him, lifting her chin, the words almost a challenge. ‘I suppose you’d have probably preferred a pot-roast or some pumpkin pie,’ she added.
Ah… Brad thought; he now understood the reason for the challenge and the firm determination of that tilted chin.
Hiding a grin, he told her gravely, ‘Well, now… that would depend… The kinda pumpkin pie and pot-roast I’m used to, I guess it would be pretty hard for you to serve…’
Claire glared at him in indignation. What was he trying to say? That she wasn’t a competent enough cook to make his precious national food?
She opened her mouth to refute his claim firmly and then saw the laughter warming his eyes and paused.
‘Go on,’ she invited him grimly, letting him know that she wanted to be let in on the joke.
The gleam of amusement became open, rueful laughter as he recongised that she had realised that he was teasing her. That was something he had missed when the kids had been growing up—someone to share his own more mature amusement… his laughter and sometimes his tears at their learning mistakes… Someone to share… Someone just to share his life, he acknowledged—someone like Claire who could recognise when he was deliberately baiting her… Someone like Claire.
Hastily he dragged his thoughts back under control.
‘Well, you see, back home the girls kinda cut their milk teeth, in the cooking sense, on pot-roast and pumpkin pie, although, to be fair to my four sisters, mostly they’ve already had some experience of watching their moms cooking it before they’re let loose on the real thing. Have you ever actually eaten charred pot-roast?’ he asked her, adding feelingly, ‘Four times… and that was just for starters…’
Claire started to laugh. She could well remember her own early attempts at cooking, and Sally’s.
‘Oh, no, poor you,’ she said, her own mirth overcoming her instinctive sympathy as she started to laugh again.
‘You can laugh,’ Brad complained. ‘I sure as hell feel I’m lucky to still have my own teeth… That’s my side of the story,’ he told her, and then asked softly, ‘So, what’s yours? What is it you’ve got against pot-roast?’
He had caught her off guard with no easy excuse at hand, and after an agitated hesitation she admitted reluctantly, ‘Irene wanted me to cook it for you. She brought me this book of American recipes she had borrowed from someone. She thought it would make you feel… more at home…’
Aware of Claire’s small, tell-tale pause before completing her explanation, Brad guessed that it was her husband’s job which Irene had been concerned with rather than his stomach. But he couldn’t blame her for that. There was nothing wrong in being a loyal wife.
Brad glanced round the kitchen. In every room of the house bar this one he had been immediately and intensely aware that this was another man’s home, and if he felt conscious of that fact then how much more conscious must Claire be that this was, in reality, still another woman’s home? How had she lived with that knowledge? he wondered. How had she managed to endure knowing that her husband was still in love with his first wife?
Was that why she had become involved with someone else…? If so, he could scarcely blame her, although…
‘I… I thought we’d eat in here rather than in the dining room,’ he heard Claire saying uncertainly. ‘Sally and I always did and—’
‘Sure. It’s more homely in here,’ he agreed calmly. ‘But I’ll need to shower first; is that OK? I’ll only be about ten minutes, but if you give me a shout when you want me…’
Claire could hear him going upstairs as she started to lay the table. She and John had never really laughed together, never shared a sense of humour. John simply hadn’t been that kind of man. He had taken life seriously, probably because of Paula’s death, Claire acknowledged.
Laughter was supposed to be good for you but it had made her feel rather odd, she decided. She felt slightly dizzy, light-headed almost—’giddy’, her great-aunt would have called it disapprovingly. Her mouth curled again and again