Miracle Woman by Marita Conlon-Mckenna Page B

white shirt, tucking it into his fine silk black trousers. At forty-two he reckoned himself to be still in good shape, playing golf whenever he got a chance and using the company gym at least thrice a week to keep fit. The Institute had a firm belief that those who maintained a healthy body had a higher energy and concentration level during the long working day and testing had proved it boosted intelligence and performance.
    He had finished work an hour early and had driven home, giving himself time to shower and relax before he and Martha had to dress for dinner at Bob and Gina Forrester’s. To be invited to a sit-down dinner at the home of the Institute’s president was a major step up the career ladder as far as he was concerned. Until now, Martha and he had attended the crowded cocktail party thrown every summer by his boss in a marquee erected on the lawn of the large colonial-stylehome to cater for the Institute’s large number of staff. Tonight was different.
    Bob had told him they were having a few close friends over and that Daniel Kendrick from Powerhouse, the giant technology company in San Jose, would also be attending. Mike, adjusting the fastener on his bow tie, could scarcely believe that in an hour or so he would actually be sitting across the table from what the
Wall Street Journal
had called one of America’s most intelligent and richest men.
    Martha had gone to the beauty shop and had her hair and nails done. Her light brown hair was highlighted and worn simple and straight as she was wearing a classic pale blue dress which Mike could tell had cost a fortune; the colour accentuated her pale skin and blue-green eyes.
    â€˜You look great, honey!’ he declared, pulling her into his arms.
    â€˜You don’t look too bad yourself,’ she teased, admiring him as he pulled on the black dinner jacket. ‘James Bond, eat your heart out!’
    Martha touched his face gently. Mike responded by bending down and touching his lips to hers, her mouth opening to his, her arms pulling him closer. They were still like a pair of horny kids, Mike thought, as he gently disentangled himself from his wife’s embrace. Bob Forrester was a stickler for punctuality at their weekly progress meetings and he certainly had no intention of arriving late to their dinner party.
    The kids had all been fed earlier and had promised to be on their best behaviour. Martha dabbed perfume on her wrists and neck before grabbing her midnight-blue wrap off the bed. Mike checked he had his cell phone and wallet. Patrick whistled his approval as they stood at the bottom of the stairs. The girls told Martha how beautiful she looked.
    â€˜Mom, you look neat. That dress is just perfect,’ complimented Mary Rose.
    â€˜And you smell like the garden at night time,’ added Alice.
    â€˜That is such a sweet thing to say, Alice. Thank you.’
    â€˜Dad, you are real handsome too,’ laughed their youngest daughter.
    Mike glanced outside, seeing the cab that he had ordered draw up in front of the house. ‘Come on, Martha! Time to go. You lot be good and don’t stay up too late.’
    Martha picked up the gift-wrapped, small embroidered cushion that Evie had helped her to select as a token for the hostess who probably had everything. The intricate rose had been picked out in the palest shades of damask and pearly pink by a seamstress in the last century.
    Mike was nervous during the drive to the Forresters’ home off Maple Street. The landmark house stood on about ten acres and was ringed by high shrubs and trees, which managed to hide all but a glimpse of the white gabledwindows that overlooked the garden and tennis court. When Martha squeezed his hand he could sense his wife’s reassurance that it would be a fine night, spent in good company. The driveway was lit up and Mike let out a whoop of disbelief at the brand new English Rolls-Royce parked out front.
    â€˜That must be