Power of a Woman. Barbara Taylor Bradford

      “There’s Gladys.”

      “Gladys comes in only a few times a week to clean. No, no, that would be out of the question, if I agreed to this plan of yours.”

      “I could live with Gideon. He’d love it.”

      “Nonsense. He’d hate it. A single man of twenty-seven who has legions of women friends, according to you, wouldn’t want his baby sister for a roommate. It would cramp his style no end.”

      “Nigel would have me. He’s married, and Tamara likes me a lot.”

      “Yes, I know she does. But once again, it wouldn’t be suitable. They’re practically newly-weds; they wouldn’t want you around.”

      “Oh, Mom, they have two kids!”

      Stevie bit back a smile, amused by Chloe’s logic, then she said, “Even so, a young couple like Nigel and Tamara don’t need the responsibility of looking after you. They have their hands full as it is.”

      “I wouldn’t want to live at Old Bruce’s house in Wilton Crescent, if that’s what you’re thinking. That place is so gloomy, it would be like being in prison. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, Mom?”

      “I haven’t agreed that you can go, Chloe.”

      “Grandma would let me live with her and Derek, and you know they love me…a lot,” Chloe volunteered.

      “Yes, they do. But you’re putting the cart before the horse. I have to think about this matter, and at great length. I’m certainly not going to make any hasty decisions.”

      “When will you decide?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “But, Mommy—”

      “No buts, darling,” Stevie interrupted. “You’ve told me what you’d prefer to do, and now I must give it some thought. I want you to think about it as well, Chloe. Think about what you’d be missing by not going to university. Think about those three years at Oxford and all that they would mean. Not just the education you’d get, but the fun you’d have, and the people you’d meet. Friends you make at university are your friends for the rest of your life. And I must admit, Chloe, I’m a bit baffled; you were always so keen about studying at Oxford. What happened?”

      “I’ve changed my mind, Mom.”

      “Promise me you’ll think about this.”

      “Oh, all right,” Chloe muttered, looking suddenly put out.

      Stevie glanced at her quickly and said in a sharp tone of voice, “Don’t sound so grudging about it, Chloe. It doesn’t become you one little bit.”

      Chloe flushed at this chastisement, mild as it was, and bit her lip. Then, pushing the tray table away, she jumped up and sat next to Stevie on the sofa.

      Taking hold of her mother’s hand, she squeezed it, then reached up and kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t be angry with me, Mommy.”

      Observing her daughter’s worried expression and detecting the concern in her eyes, Stevie murmured softly, “I’m not angry, Chloe, but I do want to do what’s best for you, and you must try to understand that. After all, you’ve obviously been thinking about this for some time, whilst I’ve just heard about it…so please, give me a few days to get used to the idea. And let me talk to Gideon. And my mother and Derek.”

      Chloe nodded and her face brightened considerably as she exclaimed, “So you’re definitely not saying no?”

      “No, of course not…” A faint smile surfaced on Stevie’s face. “I’m saying…maybe.”

      Stevie had learned long before that when she couldn’t sleep it was far better to get up and keep busy, especially if she had a problem on her mind. To her way of thinking, it was much easier to worry when she was upright and moving around than when she was lying down.

      She and Chloe had both gone upstairs to bed at eleven. Stevie had fallen asleep at once, lulled into a deep slumber by the two glasses of red wine she had drunk at dinner.

      Then she had awakened suddenly several hours later, at three in the morning. Sleep had proved elusive thereafter; at four o’clock she had slipped out of bed, taken a shower, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a sweater, and gone downstairs.

      After making a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, Stevie had walked around the house, collecting her many orchid plants. These she had taken to the plant room next to the laundry; carefully, methodically, she had watered them individually in the big sink, letting the water run through each one, then slowly drain away.

      Everyone knew she loved orchids, and so she frequently received them as gifts. In consequence, her collection was quite large; two or three dozen were scattered throughout this house, and there were more in her New York apartment.

      Mostly they were various species of the Phalaenopsis, with white or yellow blooms, plus pale, blush-pink cymbidiums. She also collected the miniature slipper orchid with pale green or dark brown blooms, and the dark brownish-wine-colored Sharry Baby with its tiny flowers and delicious chocolate scent.

      But of them all her real favorites were the white and yellow Phalaenopsis, and she did very well with them, making them last for months. The house was an ideal spot for them to grow, cool, and full of soft, muted light most of the time.

      Now Stevie lifted a pot containing a yellow-blooming Phalaenopsis and carried it through into the sun room, where she returned it to its place.

      Stepping back, her head to one side, she admired it for a moment, thinking how beautiful it looked, so elegant against the white walls and standing on the dark wood surface of the antique chest. This was positioned in a corner between two windows, and the orchid had the most perfect light there.

      Stevie moved around the house for almost another hour, carrying the plants back to their given spots in different rooms, and then she poured herself a mug of coffee and went back to the solarium.

      She stood in front of the French windows, warming her hands on the hot mug, sipping the coffee occasionally. Her eyes scanned the sky. It was cold and leaden, and she could tell already that it would be a gray day, bleak, overcast, sunless. Even the landscape had a bleak look to it, the trees bereft of leaves, the lawn covered with a sprinkling of white frost. Thanksgiving Day 1996 had not dawned very brightly.

      Stevie turned away from the window. Seating herself on one of the large overstuffed sofas, she put the mug on the table in front of her and leaned back, resting her head against the soft cushion covered in a faded antique chintz.

      What to do? What to do about Chloe? She was not sure. In fact, she was very uncertain, really. Her daughter had surprised and disappointed her when she had abruptly announced she did not want to go to university, most especially since she had been so gung-ho about attending Oxford. Stevie had always wanted Chloe to have a good education, to graduate with a college degree. The last thing she had expected was to hear her daughter express the desire to work at Jardine’s. There had never been any real indication on Chloe’s part that she was keen on the jewelry business, other than a passing interest in the New York store.

      Admit it, she’s hurt you badly, wanting to work in London, a small voice at the back of her head whispered. And yes, that was the truth. Chloe’s words had been like a slap in the face.

      Stevie knew that Chloe could learn everything in New York. There was no need for her to go to London. Jardine’s was the one store left on Fifth Avenue that had its own workshop on the second floor, and it was excellent. Marc Sylvester, her top lapidary, was brilliant, and Chloe could learn as much from him as she could from her brother Gideon, or Gilbert Drexel, the chief lapidary at the London shop.

      Am I being selfish, wanting to keep her with me? Stevie asked herself. Possessive? Over-protective? If she was honest with herself, she had to admit it was a little bit of all three.