A Diamond In The Snow. Kate Hardy

deal with anything like this on your own again. You call me. It doesn’t matter what time of day or night. You and Dad come first.’

      She blinked away tears. ‘Oh, Sammy. I know you’ve got a busy life in London. I didn’t want to bother you.’

      ‘It bothers me a lot more that you didn’t tell me,’ he said grimly. ‘Promise me.’

      ‘I promise,’ she said.

      ‘Good. Put the wine in the rack, and I’ll think of something else to give Dad. Where is he?’

      ‘In the living room. He’s, um, not in the best of moods.’

      Sam could imagine. ‘I’ll get him smiling, Mum.’

      Alan Weatherby was sitting in an armchair with a rug over his knees and a scowl on his face.

      ‘Hey, Dad.’ Sam patted his father’s shoulder. ‘On a scale of one to ten of boredom, you’re at eleven, right?’

      ‘Your mother fusses and won’t let me do anything. She says I have to rest.’

      But his father wasn’t known for sitting still. Resting would be incredibly frustrating for him. ‘Maybe we could go to the golf club and shoot a couple of holes,’ Sam suggested.

      Alan rolled his eyes. ‘It’s play, not shoot. Which just shows you’re a complete rookie and you’ll hack divots out of the green and embarrass me.’

      Sam didn’t take offence. He knew how he’d feel in his father’s shoes: cooped up, miserable and at odds with the world. ‘A walk, then,’ he suggested. ‘I could take you both to the university botanical gardens.’ A place he knew his mother loved. ‘And we could have a cup of tea in the café.’ Though without the scones and clotted cream he knew his father would like. ‘A change of scenery might help.’

      ‘Hmm,’ Alan said.

      ‘In your shoes, I’d be bored and grumpy, too,’ Sam said. ‘But your health’s important, Dad. You need to look after yourself, especially as you’re—’

      ‘I’m not old, before you say it,’ Alan cut in. ‘Sixty-three isn’t old. There’s plenty of life in me yet.’

      ‘And I want it to stay that way,’ Sam said. ‘The medics told you to take things easier, eat well, take a bit of exercise and reduce your stress.’

      ‘Your mother’s trying to make me eat lentils. Lentils.’ Alan looked disgusted.

      Sam couldn’t hide a grin. ‘They’re not as bad as you think.’

      ‘Don’t you start. I thought you’d bring me contraband.’

      He had. But only because he hadn’t known the situation. ‘No chance. I want you about for a lot longer.’

      ‘Is that why you’re dragging your feet about settling down and having children?’

      If only his father knew. But Sam hadn’t told any of his family why he’d broken his engagement to Olivia, two years before. Or why he’d got engaged to her in the first place. Even now it left a nasty taste in his mouth. Nowadays he made sure his girlfriends knew that he was looking for fun and not for for ever. Olivia had broken his ability to trust, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to take another risk with his heart.

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘Dad, there’s an easy solution to all this.’

      Alan frowned. ‘What?’

      ‘Let me take over Weatherby’s from you,’ Sam said. ‘You’ve more than earned some time off to play golf and have weekends away with Mum. And I’ve spent the last six years in the City, learning the ropes. You’ll be leaving the business in safe hands.’

      Alan shook his head. ‘The fund you manage is high risk. It’s extreme. Half of our clients would look at your record, panic, and find themselves another stockbroker.’

      ‘Apart from the fact that any strategy I recommended to a client would depend on the client’s attitude towards risk,’ Sam said dryly, ‘I’m good at my job, Dad. That’s why they promoted me.’

      ‘You take risks,’ Alan repeated.

      ‘Calculated ones.’

      ‘You’re still young and reckless.’

      ‘I’m twenty-seven,’ Sam said, ‘and I’m not reckless.’

      ‘Prove it.’

      Sam frowned. ‘How?’

      ‘Take an ordinary job for three months.’

      ‘How’s that going to prove anything?’ Sam asked, mystified.

      ‘It’ll show me that you can connect to people in the real word. That you can see that actions have consequences.’

      ‘Dad, I already do connect to people in the real world, and of course I know that actions have consequences,’ Sam said, frowning.

      ‘Take an ordinary job,’ Alan repeated. ‘Show me that you can take directions and listen to other people.’

      Which had absolutely nothing to do with running a firm of stockbrokers, Sam thought.

      Either he’d accidentally spoken aloud, or his doubts showed on his face, because Alan said softly, ‘It’s got everything to do with running the firm. It’s about listening and relating to people—staff as well as clients. In London, you live in a bubble. You’re insulated from your investors and everyone you mix with is like you—young, well-off and living in the fast lane.’

      Most people would consider that Samuel Weatherby had made a success of his career. He’d got a job on his own merits after university rather than expecting to be a shoo-in at his father’s business, he’d shown an aptitude for fund management and he’d been promoted quickly. But it sounded as if his father thought his job was worthless, and that hurt.

      ‘Not all,’ he said. ‘There’s Jude.’ His best friend was an actor with a growing reputation on the stage, and people were talking about him in terms of being the Olivier of his generation.

      ‘Right now,’ Alan said, ‘I don’t think you’re settled enough to work at Weatherby’s. If I let you take over from me now, it’d be more stressful than running it myself.’

      Sam reminded himself that his father had had a rough week—a mini-stroke that had brought him face to face with the idea of getting old or even dying, the prospect of having to change all the things he liked most about his lifestyle and feeling stuck at home when he wanted to be doing what he always did. Right now, Alan was simply lashing out at the nearest target—his son.

      ‘Take an ordinary job for three months, and if you can do that then I’ll be happy that I’m leaving the family business in safe hands,’ Alan said.

      Sam could tell his father to forget it and stomp off back to London in a huff. But the fear he’d seen in his mother’s eyes stopped him. Alan was at risk of another mini-stroke or even a full-blown one. Sam couldn’t stand by and watch his father drive himself into an early grave. ‘So what sort of job do you have in mind, Dad?’ he asked.

      ‘Actually, now you mention it, there is one,’ Alan said. ‘Working for one of my clients. Nice chap. He owns a stately home. A building problem’s cropped up in the last week or so and they need to raise some money. He was talking to me about cashing in some investments, but as the market’s just dipped I think now’s not a good time.’

      Raising money. Sam was very, very good at turning small funds into big ones. But he had a feeling that this particular client wouldn’t be comfortable with the high-risk strategy he’d need to adopt to do that.

      ‘The job would be voluntary,’ Alan continued, ‘because they can’t afford to pay anyone. You’d be helping to organise the fundraising events.’

      Sam couldn’t help smiling.