The Perfect Solution

by Catherine George

  Joanna rose to her feet, dismayed to find that she quite badly wanted him to stay for a while. 'But there were things you needed to discuss.'

  'I think we've covered everything.' He pulled on his jacket then paused in the hall. 'Give my love to Polly. May I come to see her when I get back? I don't know quite when it'll be.'

  'Of course.' Joanna hesitated. 'Please believe that where access to Polly is concerned...' She halted, losing the thread of what she was saying as she met the look in his eyes. 'I—I mean you're welcome to come here as often as you want.'

  'Am I?' He smiled sardonically. 'I know that's true where Polly's concerned. How about the lady of the house? Will I get a welcome from her, too?'

  Joanna tore her eyes away from the hypnotic black gaze. 'Of course. Not quite as demonstrative, perhaps.'

  'Why, Joanna?' Marc moved closer. 'Are you afraid of demonstrations of affection? Are you too much a coward to want to touch, to follow your natural, human instincts?'

  Joanna backed away. 'No, of course not. I find it very easy to kiss and cuddle Polly.'

  He followed her, backing her up against the newel post of the stairs, cutting off her retreat. 'For once I'm not concerned with Polly,' he said softly, his voice so caressing that her knees began to knock together. 'Won't you wish me bon voyage and speed me on my way with a goodbye kiss, Joanna? Something I can remember when I'm far away?'

  She swallowed. 'What happened just now was an accident; you just meant to comfort me ‑'

  'Right. Now I want a little comfort from you, Joanna.'

  'Oh, very well,' she said impatiently, and held up her face. Marc laughed softly against her mouth as his arms closed around her. Joanna, aghast at her body's response to his nearness, clutched at his jacket and he picked her up by the elbows and stood her on the bottom stair so that her face was level with his. The fire in his dark, explicit eyes took her breath away, her lips parting in a gasp his mouth stifled with a hard, demanding kiss which had little to do with comfort. For a long, dizzying interval Joanna gave herself up to an embrace so intimate that she was left in no doubt that the man holding her so close badly wanted a great deal more from her than mere kisses. She burned with the knowledge that given the least encouragement he would have carried her up to bed and abandoned all idea of driving to London that night.

  'You're kissing Jo!' said an accusing little voice.

  Joanna pushed Marc away, heart pounding as she smiled shakily at the small, pyjama-clad figure at the head of the stairs. 'He was saying goodbye, darling.'

  'Not he,' said Polly impatiently. 'Marco!'

  Marc bounded up the stairs to scoop his niece up into his arms. 'What are you doing out of bed, tesoro? When I came to see you just now you were fast asleep.'

  'Want a drink,' said Polly, rubbing her eyes.

  'Right,' said Joanna. She went ahead to the room which had once been hers, pulling herself together, giving herself a silent, stinging reproof for such abysmal behaviour. She handed Polly a drink, then watched as Marc tucked his niece up tenderly.

  'See you when I get back, cara,' he said, kissing Polly's cheek. 'Be a good girl for Joanna.'

  'Yes, Marco,' murmured Polly drowsily.

  'Ciao, cara.'

  Joanna bent to kiss the little girl, then followed Marc downstairs.

  'Goodbye, then. Safe trip,' she said brightly, doing her level best to behave like any normal hostess seeing off a guest.

  He smiled indulgently, then leaned down to kiss the tip of her nose. 'I hate goodbyes, Joanna Swan.' He strode to the door and opened it, then turned, lifting a hand in salute.

  'My friends call me Jo,' she said on impulse.

  Marc Anstey shook his black, curly head. 'Doesn't suit you—too masculine. You're all woman, whether you admit it or not. Besides, I'm not one of these friends of yours—my feelings for you have nothing to do with Plato! Arrivederci, Joanna.'

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The period following Marc Anstey's departure for America proved one of the most harrowing, exhausting periods of Joanna's entire experience. Polly, coming to terms with a life from which the last familiar face had departed, relapsed into grief when she realised it would be some time before she saw her beloved Marco again. She threw tantrums, refused to eat, lost weight and generally worried Joanna to death.

  'School started last week. Get them to take her this term instead of after Christmas,' advised Mary Lavenham one morning, while Polly was upstairs with Doris. 'I know she's a bit young, but it could be the answer, Jo.'

  'She needs something,' said Joanna, sighing. 'She cries most nights for her mother, and in the day she pines for her uncle. As a mother substitute I'm a washout. I'm beginning to think I'm entirely the wrong person to have care of her.'

  Mary pooh-poohed the idea. 'Nonsense. The poor little mite doesn't know how lucky she is, Jo.' She waved a hand about her expansively. 'A house like this, with that garden out there—think of the times we had here when we were children.'

  Joanna sighed. 'I know. I just hope she settles down soon.'

  'Get her to school,' repeated Mary, with the conviction of experience. 'I can't tell you what bliss it's been since Jack and Charlie started there last week.'

  Joanna grinned. The Lavenham twins' recent brief visit to Swan House to play with Polly had been lively in the extreme. She could well believe Mary was delighted to have her sons safely occupied in school for a few hours each day. 'How a saint like George ever fathered a pair of devils like your twins I can't imagine!'

  'He's not a saint all the time,' Mary said demurely. 'Must go. But take my advice, Jo. Send Polly to school right away. Has this uncle of hers been in touch?'

  'Yes, of course. He talks to Polly each time, then she's back to square one again afterwards, worse than ever.'

  'Then don't let him talk to her.' Mary pulled on an ancient quilted jerkin, eyeing Joanna closely. 'How are you coping, Jo? About Paul, I mean.'

  Joanna shrugged. 'To be perfectly honest I don't have much time for brooding over Paul, owing to Polly.'

  'Good,' said Mary, briskly, and patted Jo's cheek. 'Bring Polly to lunch on Saturday. George will be out marrying someone—and I'll bully the twins into submission, promise.'

  Joanna took herself in hand when Mary was gone. Her friend's bracing comments had brought it home to her that she was too anxious to please where Polly was concerned. The child needed sympathy, it was true, but she also needed discipline and common sense if she was to make a complete recovery from the trauma of losing her mother.

  While the child was still occupied Joanna rang the village school, had a chat with the deputy head teacher and arranged to take Polly there that very afternoon for a look round. It might, thought Joanna, have been better to consult Marc first. But Marc Anstey was caught up in the hectic whirl of life in Washington, not here on the spot, coping with Polly's tantrums, so she wouldn't bother.

  Joanna was secretly very disappointed by his phone calls. To demonstrate how little their parting had affected her she'd been so crisp and cold when he'd first rung that he'd taken swift, easily discernible offence. Since then he'd kept rigidly to a single enquiry about Joanna's health before asking to speak to Polly, his hostile formality leaving Joanna thoroughly depressed. She'd been a fool to expect anything different, she assured herself. It was no big deal. She'd let Marc Anstey kiss her purely because she was in a particularly vulnerable state at the time. When he came to see Polly at Christmas she would make a point of clearing the air, letting him know that the incident was a one-off, never to be repeated.

  Polly, to Joanna's relief, was not unwilling to visit the school. When she was ushered into a classroom full of busy, lively children painting in groups at small tables, she drank in the scene wide-eyed. The jolly, vivacious girl in charge seemed on excellent terms with her pupils, the Lavenham twins among them. Polly acknowledged their cheeky grins with a gracious nod, then walked home with Joanna afterwards, lost in thought.

  'Would I paint too?'

&nb
sp; 'Of course, darling.'

  'When can I go there?' demanded Polly.

  'You can start on Monday, if you like.'

  'When's Monday?'

  'In four days' time.'

  'Want to go tomorrow.'

  'No, Polly. Mrs Phillips, the head teacher, said Monday.' Joanna waited, expecting a storm of protest, but Polly accepted it meekly enough. 'Let's go to the village shop and buy a drawing book and crayons, shall we?'

  Marc rang that evening, not long after Polly was in bed, but this time Joanna went into the kitchen with the mobile phone and shut the door in case the child might hear.

  'Would you mind if you didn't speak to Polly this time?' she asked, when the polite preliminaries were over.

  'Why?' he demanded swiftly. 'Something wrong?'

  'No. That's the point. There's nothing wrong at the moment, but if you talk to Polly there will be.' Joanna explained about the storms of weeping after his previous telephone conversations, and Marc swore softly, obviously very much taken aback.

  'Hell, I'm sorry, Joanna. I didn't mean to complicate things. I thought it would reassure her to hear my voice.'

  'So did I. Instead it makes her miss you all the more.' Joanna hesitated. 'Frankly, she seems to miss you even more than her mother—probably because she's accepted the fact that her mother's gone to heaven, whereas you're still available to her.'

  'Does that mean you don't want me to visit her when I get back?' he demanded sharply.

  'No. Of course not. But I don't think the telephone's a good idea. It unsettles her too much.' Joanna took a deep breath, then explained about the school, and how eager Polly was to start there.

  'If she's been so difficult I imagine you're eager for her to start there too,' he said drily. 'She must be holding up your work.'

  'I don't care about that!' said Joanna, stung. 'It's just that she's been grieving so much I thought she needed something to divert her, to occupy her mind. I've been frantic with worry about her.'

  'I can see that.' He paused for a moment. 'May I make a suggestion?'

  'Of course.'

  'How about getting her a puppy? Didn't your ideal world include dogs before Paul Clifford put a stop to it?'

  'I don't know why I haven't thought about that before,' she said, struck by the idea. 'Is Polly used to dogs?'

  'No. But I'm sure she'll quickly get used to one if you feel up to coping with yet another call on your time.'

  'Are you being sarcastic, Mr Anstey?'

  'As it happens, no, Mrs Clifford. I'm not insensitive. I realise all this can't be easy for you. As far as I'm concerned you've got the go-ahead to do anything you want to make life easier, for both Polly and yourself.' He paused. 'Joanna?'

  'Yes?'

  'Since we seem to be communicating again, please don't hang up if I say I probably did myself a whole lot of no good where you're concerned before I left.'

  Joanna stood very still, her knuckles white on the receiver. 'It was my fault for crying all over you.'

  'I'm glad you did. Otherwise I'd have had no excuse for taking you in my arms. Which,' he added huskily, 'was where I wanted you from the moment I first set eyes on you, Paul Clifford's widow or not.'

  Joanna almost dropped the telephone. She cleared her throat. 'I don't think you should be saying things like that to me.'

  'I tried my best not to. Surely you've noticed how formal and correct I've been?' He chuckled, then the sound was drowned suddenly by a sudden high-pitched whine on the line, and after a few fruitless 'hellos' into the receiver Joanna replaced it on the handset. She sat down on a kitchen chair, staring into space for a long time before she went up to check on Polly, who, to her infinite relief, was asleep. Afterwards Joanna made herself some strong black coffee and focused her attention sternly on Marc Anstey's suggestion about a puppy for Polly, not sure if this was entirely a good idea. Puppies were small and lovable, but grew into big, unmanageable dogs if they weren't trained properly. Trying to get a little girl to see that she couldn't take a puppy to bed with her might be difficult. The answer was a fully grown dog in need of a home. Joanna rang Mary, her never-failing source on local information, who told her to get in touch with the local Labrador Rescue Group. Soon afterwards Joanna was able to explain her requirements to a sympathetic but brisk lady who asked to call round the following day to inspect the premises.

  'You see, Mrs Clifford,' she explained, 'I must make it clear that we are looking for a home for a dog rather than finding a pet for you.'

  Mrs Blake duly arrived the following day, took down particulars of Joanna's situation, noted Polly's age, and promised to match the splendidly suitable environs of Swan House with a dog in need of a home.

  'Would you like a dog, Polly?' asked Joanna, when Mrs Blake had gone.

  Polly was drawing on the kitchen table, as she usually was of late. She looked up, surprised. 'A dog?'

  'Yes. We could take him for walks and play ball with him. He'd be great company.'

  'That's a good idea, Polly,' said Doris. 'You'll like that.'

  Doris's approval was more than enough to convince Polly a dog was a good idea on the whole. 'A big dog?' she asked doubtfully.

  Joanna put out her hand at Labrador level. 'About so high. I used to have a dog,' she added casually.

  'When you were a little girl like me?'

  'Yes.'

  'What was his name?'

  'I had more than one, darling. When I was small we had one called Bunter, and then there was Pandora, and after that Mabel.'

  Polly giggled. 'Funny names.' She went back to her drawing while Joanna made herself some coffee.

  After a while she looked up. 'Jo, did you have a horse too, like Snowbird?'

  'Yes,' said Joanna sadly. 'I did.' She brightened, astonished, as Polly pushed her sketch-book across the table. The child had made a very creditable attempt at a drawing of Snowbird, copied from one of Joanna's illustrations.

  'But that's very good, Polly,' she said in wonder. 'What a clever girl you are. By the way, we're invited to the Rectory tomorrow, for lunch with Jack and Charlie.'

  The child beamed. 'I'll wear my new trousers— and wellies.'

  'Good choice, knowing the twins.'

  That night, for the first time, Polly slept through without waking to cry for her mother. Joanna leapt out of bed early next morning in alarm, -sure something was wrong, but she found Polly still fast asleep. Joanna stood very still in the doorway, just gazing at the child, realising just how deeply she'd been worried now those worries were allayed. Polly, she suddenly felt sure, was over the worst.

  Lunch at the Rectory was a great success. So much so that George Lavenham returned from officiating at a wedding to find Joanna still chatting comfortably with his wife at the kitchen table, and Polly out in the garden with the twins, running about and shrieking happily at the top of her voice as they played some complicated form of tag.

  George Lavenham was that paragon of the male species, a powerfully attractive man who was naturally virtuous, unshakeable in his faith, and, to Joanna's everlasting wonder, the possessor of a sense of humour.

  He swept into the kitchen, looking like Joanna's idea of the Angel Gabriel with his fair hair gleaming like a beacon above his vestments. 'Joanna! You look better.'

  'I feel better.' Joanna waved a hand towards the garden, where Polly was playing happily with George's sons. 'I think Polly's beginning to settle down at last.'

  'She starts school on Monday,' said Mary, looking smug. 'I told Jo it was what she needed. I was right.'

  'You're never wrong,' said her husband, kissing her. 'And even if you were it would take a braver man than me to point it out.'

  Joanna watched them together, stabbed by a pang of envy. The Lavenhams gave out an aura of oneness her own marriage had never even approached. She got up quickly. 'I must go.'

  'Must you, Joanna?' asked George, in tune, as always, with someone else's pain. 'Why not stay for supper? I'm sure Mary can peel another potato or whate
ver. I can run you home afterwards.'

  'Super idea,' said Mary warmly. 'Do stay, Jo.'

  Dangerously tempted, Joanna nevertheless found the strength from somewhere to refuse. 'Thanks a lot. But we must go home.' She smiled. 'Best to leave while Polly's enjoying herself. She gets fractious when she's tired.'

  'Don't we all?' sighed George, accepting a cup of coffee. He gave Joanna an affectionate smile. 'Next time, then.'

  Marc rang again that night. Before he had time to say a word Joanna embarked on a bright, impersonal account of the pleasant day at the Rectory, told him about Polly's drawing and gave him her views on the advisability of a fully grown dog instead of a puppy.

  Marc listened patiently until she finished, then chuckled. 'All right, Joanna. I get the message. I'll leave more personal exchanges until we meet again. Face to face,' he added significantly. 'But where Polly's concerned do whatever you like to make life easier. I know you'll do what's best for her. If I hadn't believed that I'd never have left her with you, no matter what Rosa said.'

  'Perhaps a fully trained nanny might have done better with her than I have,' said Joanna, sighing.

  'Rot! She needs love, not efficiency.' He paused. 'I believe you possess a great deal of love to give, Joanna.'

  Something in the way his voice roughened on the last words took Joanna's breath away.

  'Polly's easy to love,' she said unevenly.

  'So am I!'

  'It's not you we're discussing!' Joanna hesitated. 'By the way, Polly keeps asking when you're coming home again.'

  'I'm working on it. Just tell her soon, will you? As soon as I possibly can. I miss you. Both of you.'

  Joanna caught sight of her face in the hall mirror as she replaced the phone; eyes like stars and a flush which deepened as she realised that Polly wasn't alone in wanting to know when Marc was coming home. It was useless to tell herself that Paul had been dead only a short time, that a respectable widow shouldn't be thinking of another man at all at this stage. The truth of the matter was simple. It was such a long, long time since she'd felt like a wife that it was impossible to think of herself as a widow. Nor, she told herself firmly, was it a crime to find herself strongly drawn to Marc Anstey. He was an attractive, intelligent man who made it clear he found her desirable, an attitude which poured balm on the wounds made by Paul's infidelity.