Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair by Barbara Taylor Bradford Page A

carried red-and-white checked cloths and a big basket of flatware out here, and now I began to set the tables. I had almost finished the largest table, where the adults would sit, when I heard someone calling, “Coo-ee!”
    I recognized Sarah’s voice at once and looked up. I waved; she waved back.
    She was wearing a white terrycloth robe and dark glasses. Her jet-black hair was piled up on top of her head, and there was a mug in her hand. As she drew closer, I could see that her face was woebegone.
    â€œGod, I feel awful,” she moaned, lowering herself gingerly onto the bench in front of the smaller table.
    â€œI’m not surprised,” I said, “and good morning to you, Miss Parfait.” This was one of my affectionate nicknames for her.
    â€œGood morning, Little Mother,” she answered, using one of her pet names for me.
    I grinned and tipped the remainder of the knives and forks out onto the table.
    â€œOh, please, Mal,” she groaned, “have a heart. Hold the noise down. My head’s splitting, I feel positively ill.”
    â€œIt’s your own fault, you know, you really did tie one on last night.”
    â€œThanks a lot, friend, for all your sympathy.”
    Realizing that she wasn’t overdramatizing for once, I went and put my hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, I shouldn’t tease you. Do you want me to get something for you? Headache pills? Alka-Seltzer?”
    â€œNo, I’ve already taken enough aspirin to sink a battleship. I’ll be okay. Just move around me very, very carefully, please, tiptoe on the grass, don’t clatter the tableware, and talk in a whisper.”
    I shook my head. “Oh, Sarah darling, you do punish yourself, don’t you? Thomas Preston the third isn’t worth it.”
    Sarah paid no attention to my last comment, saying, “I guess it must be the Jewish half of me, the Charles Finkelstein half . . . that’s what I inherited from good old Dad, a penchant for punishing myself, a tendency to treat everything like an ethnic drama, lots of Jewish guilt, and dark looks.”
    â€œDark good looks,” I said. “And have you heard from Charlie Boy lately?”
    She smiled and made a moue. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t. He’s got a new wife, yet another WASPy blondelike my mother, so I’m the last thing on his mind. I’ll call him next week to see how he is, and “I’ll make a date with him and Miranda. I don’t want to lose touch with him again.”
    â€œNo, you mustn’t. Not after he’s finally forgiven you for taking your stepfather’s name. And a WASPy name, at that.”
    â€œForgiven my mother, you mean!” she cried, her voice rising slightly. “She was the one who changed my name to Thomas, not I, when I was seven and not old enough to understand or protest.”
    â€œI know she did,” I murmured, walking to the far side of the smaller table, which I now began to set for the children.
    Sarah took a long swallow of her coffee, then put the mug down. After taking off her sunglasses, she placed her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands. Her dark brown velvety eyes followed me as I moved about.
    â€œHow many are we going to be for lunch, Mal?” she asked.
    â€œAbout eighteen. I think. Let’s see, there’s my mother and Diana, you and the twins and Jenny, plus me and Andrew, which makes eight. I’ve invited Nora, Eric, and Anna, bringing us up to eleven. Then there’re three couples, the Lowdens, the Martins, and the Callens, making seventeen, and two more kids. Vanessa, the Callens’ little girl, and Dick and Olivia Martin are bringing their young son, Luke. So I guess that makes nineteen altogether.”
    â€œAll I can say is, thank God we don’t have to do the cooking.”
    I laughed at the expression on her face. “I know what you mean. Luckily, Andrew has everything under