Free A Second Chance by Shayne Parkinson Page B

Amy.
‘You’ve only brought three dresses,’ she said, speaking slowly and
deliberately.
    ‘I know,’ Amy said, feeling that she had
unwittingly committed an offence against decency. ‘But I haven’t
really got any others—not ones that were good enough to bring,
anyway.’
    ‘I see. Yes, I suppose I should have thought
of that before. Well, I’d better see this blue silk dress, then. If
nothing else, it’s not mourning.’
    Amy lifted the dress out of the wardrobe,
handling it with the care she felt the fine fabric deserved. ‘It’s
quite old,’ she said, trying to excuse the dress in advance. ‘But
it’s not worn out or anything.’ She held it up against herself,
flattening the bodice over her chest with one hand while with the
other she spread the skirt wide.
    Sarah stared at the dress. ‘Goodness, this
must be almost as old as I am.’ She took her chin in her hand,
tilted her head to one side and smiled, clearly amused.
    Something in Sarah’s eyes, the odd mixture
of affection and amusement, gave Amy a jolt. She found herself
unexpectedly and painfully reminded of Jimmy; the way he had gazed
in admiration when she had appeared before him in this dress for
the first time. His admiration had been unfeigned, certainly; but
when she called to mind his face it was the hint of amusement she
remembered most clearly. Had she ever been more to him than a
pleasant diversion in an otherwise boring summer?
    But Sarah’s amusement was too thoroughly
suffused with kindness for her resemblance to her father to give
Amy more than a moment’s discomfort. ‘It’s a little bit older than
you,’ Amy said, and saw Sarah’s eyebrows lift in surprise. ‘I got
it before you were born.’ She stroked the dress reverently. ‘It was
my first silk dress—it’s the only dressmaker dress I’ve ever
had.’
    ‘It’s… ahh… well, yes,’ Sarah said
uncertainly. ‘Yes, I’m sure it was very nice in its day.’ Her
attention shifted to the top shelf of the wardrobe. ‘And what do
you have in there?’ she asked, pointing to the hat box.
    Amy replaced the dress in the wardrobe and
lifted down the box she had borrowed from Maudie. She would not
have dared bring the hat at all without the protection the box gave
it. ‘This is my special hat.’ She held her breath as she opened the
box and lifted the hat out, relieved to see that it had survived
the journey unscathed. She held it out for Sarah’s inspection, the
blue feather bobbing jauntily at the movement. ‘Isn’t it
lovely?’
    Sarah gazed at the hat in silence. Her
shoulders gave a small, jerking movement, and Amy realised that she
was trying hard not to laugh. ‘It’s…’ Sarah stopped, gave a little
cough to hide the awkwardness, then let herself smile. ‘Yes, I
suppose it is lovely, in its way. I’m sure it was the talk of
Ruatane once. It’s surely contemporary with the dress?’
    Amy stroked her precious hat. ‘It’s the same
age you are. Just the same age.’
    Sarah looked at her quizzically. ‘Now, why
does that sound so momentous?’ she murmured, more to herself than
to Amy. ‘May I?’ she asked, reaching out for the hat.
    She handled it with almost as much care as
Amy had, turning it round in her hands and studying it. ‘You’ve a
story in you, haven’t you?’ she said, addressing the hat. She
turned her attention back to Amy. ‘But it’s you who’ll have to tell
it to me, Amy.’
    Could it really have been twenty-one years
ago? Amy remembered it so clearly: the dragging weakness and the
dull ache of loss that had made her dissolve into tears at the
sight of another woman’s baby in the park; the wonderful treasure
trove of a store that her father had taken her into, the beautiful
hat that seemed made for a fairy-tale princess, and her father’s
insistence on buying it for her.
    ‘Amy?’ Sarah’s voice broke into her reverie.
‘Are you all right, dear? Don’t talk about it if you don’t want
to.’
    ‘No, I don’t mind. I