Love in Another Town. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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.