The Wedding Promise. Grace Green

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      Her pride.

      She sighed, and ran a gentle hand over the soft fabric. Her marriage had been a mistake; she and Travis had been totally wrong for each other. His possessiveness, the way he’d treated her like an item in his collection of beautiful artifacts...well, that had been one thing... but his dismissal of her talent had been another.

      Travis was an accountant; he saw life in terms of facts and figures. His favourite expression was ‘the bottom line’. And she’d discovered, to her dismay, that where their marriage was concerned ‘the bottom line’ was that he expected her to run his home the way he ran his business: efficiently and economically. He’d seen no reason to hire a housekeeper when he had a wife. He’d entertained clients at home on a regular basis, and on those occasions he’d expected her to cook the meal, serve it, and be the perfect hostess. And he’d expected the enormous Wynter house, in Vancouver’s glitziest suburb, to be kept in immaculate condition.

      If he’d seen as much as one mote of dust on the furniture, his disapproval had been swift and harsh.

      ‘For God’s sake, Sara, what do you do all day? All I ask is that you keep house and provide meals for my clients. Make them feel special. How special do you think they feel when they see you haven’t even dusted the damned coffee table before they turned up? This is business—’

      ‘But my designs, my knitwear—that’s business too,’ she’d protested vigorously in the beginning. ‘I’m not going to give it up!’

      ‘Nobody’s asking you to give it up. Just for God’s sake get things in perspective. Could we survive on the income from your little sweaters? I think not. The bottom line is, I’m the breadwinner here. If you want to draw and knit, go ahead. But after everything else gets done, mmm?’

      His business had been prospering by leaps and bounds, and before very long Sara had found, wearily, that there was no ‘after’. And even if there had been his cold dismissal of her work had shrivelled something inside her.

      Life with Travis Wynter had allowed no room for that soaring of the spirit that she needed if she were to create.

      She’d wondered, sometimes—and still wondered—if he had not only stifled her creativity, but had killed it.

      Inhaling a deep breath, she rose from the bed and slung the lightweight sweater over her shoulders. On her way to the bedroom door, she paused as a movement outside the window caught her attention.

      It was the girl from the white house—Logan Hunter’s daughter. She was running down the sloping lawn, towards the cottage.

      What could she want?

      Sara walked along the narrow passageway to the front door, and opened it. The girl was now just a few feet away, coming up the path. She stopped abruptly when she saw Sara.

      ‘His,’ Sara greeted her, and thought, What a lovely child...huge brown eyes, smooth clear skin, neat little figure...but oh, that hair! ‘Were you looking for me?’

      The girl’s cheeks had turned pink, and she seemed on the point of flight.

      ‘I was up in the attic,’ she said in a rush, ‘looking for boxes...for packing...and I found this.’

      ‘This’ was a mouse trap! Somehow Sara managed to keep her face straight. ‘Just what I need!’ She took the trap, gave a dainty shiver. ‘I’m such a coward when it comes to mice. A lion, now...if I saw one of those in the bathroom, I’d just grab a back scrubber and attack with gusto!’

      The girl giggled. ‘Oh, yeah, sure...’

      ‘Would you like to come in...have a cup of coffee?’

      ‘I don’t drink coffee.’

      ‘Iced tea, then, or a pop?’

      ‘No, thanks.’ Her gaze trailed wistfully over Sara’s sweater. ‘That’s a Sally Cole original, isn’t it? They’re way cool...my friend Chrissie’s mom has one; she bought it years ago but she says you can’t get them any more.’ She sighed. ‘Well, I’d better get back...’

      ‘Ah, yes, the packing.’

      ‘We’re going to sell. The house and the cottage. Everything. My dad’s putting the property up for sale.’

      ‘I guess you’re in a hurry to go back and help him, then. Many hands make light work, don’t they say?’

      ‘Well, he’s upstairs and I’m not actually helping him this morning. He’s clearing out Mom’s things—I thought he’d want to do that on his own.’

      A chill prickled Sara’s nape as she heard the catch in the young voice, saw the quickly blinked-back tears in the luminous brown eyes. She wanted to reach out to the child, but without warning the slight figure whirled away and ran off, taking a short cut over an overgrown rosebed. To Sara’s horror, she tripped on a tangled root, and fell forward, to land in a crumpled heap on the ground.

      Sara rushed to help her get up, but as the girl put her weight on her right foot she winced and grabbed onto Sara for support.

      ‘I’ve done something to my ankle,’ she said with a half-sob. ‘It really hurts.’

      ‘Come inside and—’

      ‘Thanks...but I’d rather go home. Will you help me walk back? I don’t think I can do it on my own.’

      ‘Of course. Here, put your arm around my neck.’ Sara grimaced. ‘I haven’t even asked you your name,’ she said as she braced herself to support the slender figure.

      ‘It’s Andrea. Andrea Beth Hunter.’

      ‘Andrea. That’s pretty. I’m Sara Wynter.’

      ‘Miss Wynter, I—’

      ‘It’s Mrs Wynter, actually, but please call me Sara.’

      They started up towards the house, with Andrea hopping erratically on her left leg, and leaning heavily on Sara.

      ‘Mrs Wynter, I...um...saw you with Zach Grant.’

      Sara hid a smile as she heard the wistful note in Andrea’s voice. So... a fan. ‘Yes, he brought me here. I wish he could’ve stayed longer, but he’s—’

      ‘He’s filming in Vancouver. I know. My friend Chrissie and I—we’re members of his fan club. Will he...be coming back?’

      ‘He’ll be coming to pick me up in a couple of weeks. Then shortly after he’ll be returning to Los Angeles. He lives there...but of course—’ Sara smiled ‘—you’ll already know that.’

      She was heading for the front door, but Andrea said, ‘Let’s use the side door. I don’t want Dad to hear me come in...if he sees me hopping like this...well, he’s a regular old fusspot!’

      ‘But you’ll have to tell him about your ankle—’

      ‘Oh, I will. But first I’ll put an ice pack on it. There’s a bag of green peas in the freezer; I’ll use that.’

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