Free Secrets From the Past by Barbara Taylor Bradford Page A

cat among the pigeons; I’ll be there before you can say Jack Robinson; Waste not, want not. That last saying I often threw back at Cara, because she was no more thrifty than Jessica and I were.
    It struck me that perhaps I had failed Cara, in a certain sense. I hadn’t been around enough for her after Dad died; she and Jessica had suffered as I had, had been grief-stricken as well, and I’d been nursing my wounds and my guilt in New York when I should have been with them.
    Cara, in particular, was vulnerable these days because of her fiancé’s death two years ago. Jules Nollet, her French childhood sweetheart, had been killed in a skiing accident when they were on vacation in the French Alps. And that was the reason I believed Cara was frequently depressed. Jessica agreed with me. All Cara did these days was work in her orchid business. I worried about her …
    I must have fallen asleep. Suddenly, I awakened with a start.
    Zac was calling, ‘Serena, Serena!’
    I struggled up, threw the bedclothes back and jumped out of bed, rushing over to him. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
    ‘I’m cold.
Freezing
,’ he muttered.
    Turning on the bedside lamp, I looked down at him. His face was chalk white, his eyes red-rimmed, and he was shaking uncontrollably, huddled under the duvet.
    Immediately, I pulled the duvet off my bed and laid it on top of him, then ran and closed the window. I pulled open a drawer in the chest, found two hot-water bottles, as I knew I would, and a pair of thick wool bed socks. Our mother believed in them, made all of us wear them when we were growing up, and there was a drawer-full here, bought by her years ago.
    After untucking the sheets at the bottom of Zac’s bed, I managed somehow to pull the socks onto his feet, which were icy. Picking up the hot-water bottles I went to the kitchen, put on a kettle of water to boil, ran back to the bedroom. ‘Are you feeling warmer?’ I asked, bending over him in concern.
    ‘No,’ he mumbled, and I noticed that he was still shaking.
    I was alarmed and a little frightened. Was he coming down with an illness? Or was this a manifestation of his exhaustion and lack of food? He was also stressed out and filled with anxiety, not in good shape at all. I hovered over him, uncertain about what to do to help him, other than get his body temperature back to normal.
    The whistling kettle pulled me into the kitchen, and after filling the hot-water bottles I returned to the bedroom. I placed one close to his chest, the other against his back. ‘These’ll help; you’ll soon be warmer,’ I murmured.
    He grunted something unintelligible.
    I remained at the bedside, wondering what else would help him. Then I remembered there was nothing like another person’s body heat to warm someone who was freezing cold. I went to the other side of the bed, got in, lay close to his back, and put my arms around him. With a little manoeuvring, I managed to put my body partially on top of his, hoping my body heat would do the trick.
    He continued to shiver for a while, but then very gradually the shivering became less and less. I remained on top of him, my arms holding him until he finally dozed off.
    Not much time elapsed before he was breathing deeply and evenly. Finally I got out of his bed, went and turned off the lamp, praying that he would sleep through the night.
    To my relief he did. When I woke up just before seven the next morning, Zac was still sleeping soundly. Slipping into my robe, I let myself out of the bedroom quietly, and went to the kitchen, where I made a pot of coffee, scrambled eggs and toast.
    Carrying the tray back to the living room, I took it over to the table at the far end of the room, and began to eat.
    My mind was focused on Zac and his life. I realized that he had met Harry and my father in 1999 … there was that year again. They had all been in Kosovo in September and naturally he knew who they were; was in awe of them, he told me later. Harry and