A Banquet of Consequences by Elizabeth George Page A

sitting room, dining room, office, kitchen, playroom for children no longer there, and staircase leading to three bedrooms above. It offered a low ceiling, comfortable furniture, prints on the walls, lace curtains at the windows, and flowers from Sharon’s garden, although God only knew when the woman had time to grow them, so busy was she as she darted round Dorset making certain that MacKerron Baked Goods maintained its reputation for quality.
    They met twice a month to discuss the affairs of the bakery, and today had been one of their meetings. During it, Alastair had mentioned that Caroline was off with Clare Abbott on business relating to Clare’s new book, and Sharon responded with, “Is she? Then why not come to dinner tonight? I’ve put a nice pork shoulder into the slow cooker this morning. I’ll share it with you.”
    He’d said, “You’ll be wanting it for leftovers, won’t you?”
    “But not
needing
it for that,” she said. “Come along, Alastair. I’m used to eating alone but you’re not. How long is she gone?”
    “Caro?” He wasn’t entirely sure. More and more since Will’s death, they’d been going their own ways. They’d both taken his suicide like a brick to the head, but he’d been recovering from the grief more quickly. As would be the case, he told himself. He cared for Caro’s boys—always had done—but they were not his and he would never feel as a proper dad would feel, with a chain broken irreparably. Caroline didn’t understand this. She’d seen his recovery as a failure of his love for Will, and he’d not been able to persuade her otherwise. At the end of the day, it was becoming easier for them to avoid each other rather than look each other in the eye and weigh the value of what the other was feeling. He said, “I expect a night or two. They’re in London, but Clare’s got a home there as well.”
    “Lucky Clare,” Sharon said, and she meant it truly, as he could tell. She didn’t have a bone of jealousy in her, nor did she possess the need to cling to a past in which she’d lost someone she loved. She wasn’t,he thought, a bit like Caro. But even to think such a thing was deeply disloyal and if he was to dine with Sharon, he needed to keep Caro in his thoughts in a most positive way.
    Sharon admitted him into the house, where the entry was scented with a large vase bursting with the roses she grew. Pink, they were, and so were her cheeks. She’d either used a bit of makeup in honour of having a guest for a meal or she was blushing.
    She’d dressed a bit for dinner as well, and Alastair felt roughly hewn in her presence. She wore a sundress against the warmth of the summer, showing nicely browned shoulders with a handful of freckles speckling her chest and dipping into a modest shadow of cleavage. She had sandals on her feet, a thin gold chain round her left ankle—he’d never seen such a thing—and her legs were slimmer than he expected and a lovely toast colour with smooth firm skin. In contrast, he himself had merely risen from his usual afternoon nap and stepped into his regular bakery clothing of jeans so exposed to flour that their seams were permanently white and a shirt buttoned right to the throat as usual, although he’d rolled up the sleeves in a bow to the heat.
    It occurred to him that he should have brought something along with him: flowers, wine, a cake. He hadn’t thought to do so. He said as much, and she shook her head. “Rubbish. We’re old friends—me and you—so we’re not about to stand on any ceremonies right from the start, eh?”
    “Right from the start” should have made him question what he was doing in Thornford. But he took it as a mere chance of words meaning as little as he wished them to mean.
    She offered him a drink. Summertime and she herself was having a Pimm’s, she told him. But she had a good lager if he preferred, cider as well, and there was gin. They’d have wine with dinner so he should know that. “I