Free Sara's Child by Susan Elle Page A

want it to. He’s the best thing to ever happen to me.
    Catherine frowns for a moment. “But we’ve known each other for such a short time; isn’t it a little early to be thinking like that?”
    “Humph,” Henry gruffs loudly. “Knew how I felt about Ellie the first time I saw her; but you youngsters – always analysing and pulling everything to pieces before you even half way trust it. Go with your gut,” he states uncompromisingly, “that’s what I say.”
    “It’s a fine idea,” she hesitates, “I’m just not sure that my gut is as trustworthy as yours appears to be.” Or as deserving.
    Henry studies Catherine for a long minute. “You’re the first he’s ever brought home; that’s all I’ll say.” Then Henry stands up and waves Catherine over to the back wall of the library. “A little inside information,” he winks as he indicates the many photos displayed there.
    Still digesting that titbit of information that has caused her stomach to do a back flip, Catherine follows him. “Are all these of Logan?” she asks, amazed to see him holding up trophy’s of one type or another in each of the photos.
    “Not all. I’ve got some of Ellie up there,” Henry, points to the right hand corner of the display, “she won more than one trophy or rosette for her baking; and proud of them she was, too.”
    Going from one to the other, Catherine is fascinated by the photos of Logan between the ages of about five to in his teens, or early twenties. It is difficult to tell, as he has evidently always been tall.
    “He was good at just about any sport; athletics, rugby, football and swimming were his favourites, though,” Henry continues, then points to a photo of Logan in swimming trunks; all arms and legs and gangly looking. ”That’s when he won the swimming gold cup – ordinarily it is silver, but they gave him a gold one for winning it three years in a row.” Catherine glances up to see a proud gleam in Henry’s eyes. Then he points over to a glass cabinet. “We saved all his trophies, and Ellie’s, too.” Turning back to the wall of photos, he reaches up to draw a gentle finger over the face of an elegant looking woman. “My Ellie,” he whispers, and Catherine is sure he has, momentarily, forgotten her presence. “We were so proud of our boy, weren’t we?”
    To be loved like that. How many people are that lucky?
    Catherine shifts, intending to leave Henry with his memories of Ellie, but he turns and she sees that his eyes are glistening. “Logan and I were devastated when Ellie passed away. I can only thank the Lord that he took her quickly. Cancer can be a terrible death, but we found out why she had been so tired and listless one month and she died the next. Her ashes are sprinkled on the island at the centre of the lake, just as she asked.” He turns then to see Logan enter the room, knowing he has heard his sad lament. “And of course, I’d be content to join my Ellie on her island if this one would stop making it his life’s work to stay a bachelor.”
    Logan laughs, comfortable with his father’s teasing. It isn’t the first time after all. “Aida sent me to tell you both that lunch is ready and she’s served it up on the front terrace as it’s such a lovely day.” He walks over to Catherine as his father strides out of the library. Holding his arm out to her, like the gentlemen of old, he asks, “May I escort a lady to lunch?” You idiot.
    “You could if there were any ladies in the room,” she giggles, but puts her arm through his anyway, grateful that they are no longer at odds.
    “I think I should take umbrage at that,” he says with mock severity, “as I seem to remember picking that particularly lovely dress out myself.”
    Not used to compliments or dresses, Catherine blushes deeply. “You picked them all out,” she reminds him, hiding her face against his arm. “I’m well aware that I don’t have any taste or style, or whatever the bloody hell every other