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  YESTERDAY’S SUN

  A Novel

  Amanda Brooke

  DEDICATION

  To Jessica and Nathan for making me what I am: a Mother

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  One hand of the clock swept across the other, marking that brief and unstoppable moment when one day ends and another begins. Holly lay in bed rubbing the swell of her stomach and soothing her unborn child against the cold tremor of fear that had swept across her body, as unstoppable as the hands of the clock.

  It took Holly a considerable amount of effort to roll from her back onto her side. She had to maneuver her bump carefully while at the same time suppressing inevitable grunts and groans for fear of waking Tom, who was facing away from her, gently snoring. Holly nuzzled closer to him until her nose felt the familiar tickle of his untamed locks. She breathed in deeply, savoring his warm, sweet smell.

  “I love you,” she whispered. The sound of her voice was barely audible, but then Holly had become an expert at keeping quiet. She had spent so many restless nights lying next to him, fighting the urge to break her silence and to tell him that the day she would leave him was drawing ever nearer.

  “Today’s the day,” she told him. “You’re going to become a father, and what an amazing daddy you’re going to be. But it’s not going to be easy. You’ll think you won’t be able to cope, but you will. You’ll be angry with me for leaving you both, but eventually you’ll understand. One day, you’ll look at our daughter and you’ll know what I know. You’ll know that she was worth the sacrifice.”

  Tom shifted in his sleep and Holly held her breath. She didn’t want to wake him, not yet. But she had to give voice to her apology, even if she didn’t want him to hear it. It was one of the last things on her to-do list—that and give birth, of course.

  Holly had spent the last few months preparing for the arrival of her daughter and, just as importantly, preparing for her departure from their lives. Tom loved Holly for her obsession with plans, something that bordered on neurosis, but even he would be shocked to discover how well she had prepared for this day. How else could she die peacefully?

  “I love you,” Holly repeated. A single tear rolled down her cheek and she felt the burden of knowledge pulling her down far more heavily than the baby she was carrying. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell you. However terrifying this is for me, it would have been unbearable for you. I’ve had to make some tough decisions and I’ve learned the hard way that the best decisions are never the obvious ones. And I’ve learned something else, too. I’ve learned that love endures, sometimes in the most amazing ways. I promise you, I’ll be there at your side in your darkest hours.”

  A sob escaped and this time it was loud enough to stir Tom. He turned sleepily toward her. “Are you Ok?” he mumbled, and then startled himself awake. “Is it time?”

  “Time? Not quite yet,” Holly assured him with a rueful smile despite herself. Time had been her enemy from the moment they had moved into the gatehouse, the house they now called home. That had been only eighteen months ago and her thoughts returned to that pivotal moment when time began to run out for her.

  1

  Holly closed the front door and leaned heavily against it, breathing out a huge sigh of relief. The movers had been miracle workers, transforming the empty shell they had arrived at that morning into something that Holly could call home. The house had once been an imposing gatehouse, sitting at the entrance to the majestic Hardmonton Hall. But the Hall was now a burned-out ruin and the gatehouse, set just outside the tiny village of Fincross, had been all but forgotten. Despite its gray stone walls and peeling paint, Holly had fallen in love with the house. It had stood the test of time far better than the Hall itself and seemed the ideal place to build a home and settle down, perhaps forever.

  Still leaning against the door, Holly took a furtive look at her reflection in the full-length mirror that had been left propped against the entry wall, waiting to be hung. The house—correction, her home—may have improved its looks during the day, but Holly was definitely looking worse for wear. Her long blond hair—usually her crowning glory to compensate for her otherwise average looks—was pulled back in a bedraggled ponytail. The little makeup she had put on at the start of the day was no more than a memory, having retreated into the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her blue, almond-shaped eyes.

  She hoped she looked more tired than old. After all, she was only twenty-nine and she felt as if her life was just beginning. Married for only two years, this was the first place she and Tom had actually owned and the first chance they had had to put down proper roots.

  Ignoring her reflection, Holly took in her new surroundings. The hall ran down the center of the house, with a door on the left leading to a small reception room that would become Tom’s study. The door to the right led to a larger reception room, which would be their living room, and the half-open door gave teasing glimpses of familiar pieces of furniture in their new surroundings. The city-living furniture was a harsh contrast to the chintz-inspired wallpaper and hardwood floors, but Holly had rather eccentric tastes and liked the conflict in styles.

  “I’ve checked the list and I think it’s complete,” Tom said, appearing in the doorway at the farthest end of the hall, which led from the kitchen.

  Tom looked even more disheveled than Holly in his well-worn jeans and T-shirt. The look did nothing to flatter his tall, wiry stature or show off the toned body that Holly knew lay beneath. The difference between the two of them was that this worn-out look was normal for Tom. He was far too interested in the world around him to pay any attention to himself. That was probably why he made such a good journalist. He was warm and approachable—never smarmy, never intimidating—and people opened up easily to him.

  Holly had resisted the urge to smarten him up, not least because it was his contrast to her own style that appealed to her. Holly was an artist and, when she wasn’t knee-deep in plaster of Paris and paint, she liked to dress up in carefully contrasting combinations of vintage and contemporary clothes, a style that was also reflected in her artwork. The other reason Holly accepted Tom’s unkempt style was purely selfish. He spent a lot of time working away from home and she didn’t want him impressing the ladies too much.

  “What list?” Holly asked suspiciously. “There’s still tons of work to do. It’s going to take weeks before we’re properly unpacked and that’s before we even start thinking about redecorating.”

  “Not the moving-house list,” Tom corrected her. “The list.” He was stepping slowly toward her with his left hand out in front of him, inspecting an imaginary piece of paper on his upturned palm. He stopped two feet in front of her.

  “You do realize that you’re looking at an empty hand?”

  Tom ignored her. “Find boyfriend. Check! Find gallery to exhibit your artwork. Check! Get married. Check! Establish select clientele to buy said works of art. Check! Earn enough to give up your day job. Check!” Each time he said, “Check!” Tom was using the index finger on his other hand as an imaginary pen to mark off each accomplishment.

  “And finally?” asked Holly, already knowing the answer.

&nbs
p; Tom moved a step closer. “Move to the country and live happily ever after.”

  “Check,” whispered Holly just before Tom kissed her.

  After an indecent amount of time, Tom took a breath. “And I do believe, Mrs. Corrigan, that you’ve completed your list a whole six months ahead of schedule.”

  “I do believe you’re right, Mr. Corrigan,” Holly answered smugly.

  Perhaps “smug” was the wrong word. “Eternally grateful” might be better. Holly had worked hard at her five-year life plan but, in truth, her success at finding the perfect husband and a blossoming career had been more by luck than design. In fact, she owed it all to a drunken accountant.

  When Holly was twenty-five, having left art school with an armful of accolades but no real idea how she was going to make a living out of her talent, she had found herself juggling countless part-time jobs to make ends meet. The jobs had accumulated as she worked her way through college and, when she left, she carried on with them until they began to consume so much of her day that art became a luxury she couldn’t afford, let alone find the time or energy to work on.

  Her epiphany arrived one night in the shape of a middle-aged city worker who staggered drunkenly into the backstreet bar where she worked. Her hero, after several attempts, claimed a seat at the bar and immediately took Holly hostage with a lengthy monologue about his wonderful life and recent promotion in a leading accountancy firm. It wasn’t until the drunk told her about how his promotion was all part of his five-year plan that Holly, a neurotic list-maker, started to pay attention. Suddenly realizing how aimless her own life was, she asked herself why, if this good-for-nothing drunk could succeed, couldn’t she? She went home that night and couldn’t sleep until she had set out on paper the goals she wanted to achieve in the next five years.

  Within a year, Holly had a new direction. She traded in her collection of part-time jobs for one full-time job in a television studio, working behind the scenes on production and finally putting her talents to good use. It also meant that she had enough spare time to develop her artwork and earn occasional commissions through contacts with a local art gallery.

  Next on her list was her love life. That wasn’t supposed to happen until year three, but Tom arrived ahead of schedule. He had been visiting the TV studio for a job interview and left a few hours later not only with a new job but with a new girlfriend, too.

  Holly had spotted him wandering around the props section, obviously lost. He had emerged from the interview on a high, having being offered a job as a special correspondent on environmental issues, but what started out as a snooping expedition around the studio quickly turned into an endless journey through a maze.

  Tom Corrigan wasn’t exactly what Holly had in mind for husband material. On the face of it, they couldn’t have been more different. There was the obvious contrast in their looks. Her pale, mousy complexion was even more pronounced in comparison to Tom’s tall, dark, and handsome looks. There were other fundamental differences, too. She was organized; he was not. She prepared for and expected failure; Tom saw every setback as an opportunity. She admitted when she needed help; Tom, the man who had just been given the opportunity to travel the country reporting, wasn’t about to admit that he couldn’t even find his way out of the studio. After bumping into Holly on that fateful tour of the place, he neglected to mention that he was lost and offered to hang around and help her until she was finished for the day, at which point he would escort her off the premises and take her to dinner.

  “I can see the cogs turning,” Tom warned her, drawing her out of her reverie. “Starting the next five-year plan already?”

  “I’m quite happy working my way through my current lists, thank you,” replied Holly. “The unpacking, the redecorating, my new studio, not to mention the new commission for Mrs. Bronson.”

  “Quite happy?” Tom asked her with mock surprise.

  Holly smiled. “Very happy. Quite possibly very, very happy.”

  “Quite possibly?” he said, raising a mischievous eyebrow.

  “Give it up already,” Holly scolded. “Are we going to stand here all day in the hall arguing about the scale of my happiness, or are we going to make use of some of the other rooms?”

  “What a good idea. How about I get the champagne and meet you in the bedroom in precisely two minutes?”

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” answered Holly, but Tom was already heading back to the kitchen.

  The next morning, Tom and Holly were as reluctant to leave their bed as they had been eager to jump into it the night before. Tom was on leave from work for two weeks, so there was no alarm clock demanding their attention, no fixed routine to comply with, nothing to do but finish their unpacking and explore their new surroundings. They just had to get out of bed first.

  The bed faced a large picture window, which looked out on a rambling garden bordered by a rambling orchard and, beyond that, the rambling English countryside. It was a bright spring morning and the sun was doing its best to rouse the new inhabitants of the gatehouse out of their deep sleep. The insistent sunshine played patterns across the white linen curtains, fluttered down the pale blue walls, skipped across the polished wooden floor, and crept stealthily across Holly’s sleeping face, tickling her into wakefulness.

  Her first thoughts quickly formed into a list of all the things that needed to be done, urgent actions vying for attention. Holly silenced those thoughts, mentally folding over the pages of her newly formed list. They could wait. She wanted to savor at least one day with her husband in their new home with no one else’s needs to satisfy except their own. Time at home with Tom was going to be at a premium in the coming months.

  No sooner had they closed the deal on the gatehouse, which they had chosen specifically because it was within commuting distance of London, than Tom was offered a new job. It was an offer he couldn’t refuse, not least because the studio was going through a painful reorganization and he was one of the lucky ones. But he would now be expected to do more work in front of the camera, covering politics as well as environmental issues, and he could also expect to be sent farther afield. The farther-afield clause in his contract arrived sooner than expected and his first assignment was a six-week stint in Belgium, making his commute a little longer than either of them had anticipated.

  “Are you awake?” Tom asked.

  “Hmm,” answered Holly, turning toward him so that they were nose to nose.

  “Whoa, morning breath!” teased Tom.

  “You can talk; you smell like a man.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I hadn’t finished,” Holly corrected him. “You smell like a man who’s spent the night licking the carpet of one of those really old pubs where your shoes stick to the floor. In fact, I can see you’ve still got half the carpet coated on your tongue.”

  “So you don’t want a kiss then?”

  “Are you sure you can cope with my morning breath?” challenged Holly. She deliberately breathed out each word.

  “I’m willing to take the chance if you don’t mind risking a mouthful of old pub carpet.” Tom poked his tongue out and licked the tip of Holly’s nose.

  “I’ve had worse things in my mouth.”

  “Now there’s a challenge,” grinned Tom.

  “Not only do you have a tongue that smells like the gutter; you’ve got a mind that’s already there.”

  Tom glided his body over toward Holly, sliding his hand across her torso and then slipping his legs between hers. It was a well-rehearsed and familiar maneuver that placed him over her and left Holly breathless.

  “I can talk dirty, if you want me to,” Tom offered.

  Holly wrapped her arms around his neck before letting her fingers trail down his spine. Hidden beneath the shadow of Tom’s body, Holly could only sense the dappling of morning light as it played across his back.

  “How dirty?”

  “Well …” Tom said. He drew out the word with a teasing hiss. Then he smiled, or was it a smirk? �
��I’m not talking five-year plans here.”

  “I should hope not,” replied Holly. She was watching the curves of his mouth intently, the dampness of his lips, the glimpse of his tongue. She pushed her body toward him, encouraging him on.

  “Oh, no,” Tom said, ignoring her blatant desire. “I’m not even talking seven years.” He kissed her nose. “Not even ten.”

  Holly tangled her fingers in the luxurious waves of his hair. She reached up to kiss him but he moved his head away. He hadn’t finished teasing her yet.

  “I might be talking twenty years here. Hell, no, I’m perverted enough to even count on forty.”

  “You have a sick mind, Tom Corrigan,” agreed Holly. Her body was tingling with anticipation and she writhed beneath him. She could tease, too.

  “I want a plan that takes us right up to our dotage, in this house, surrounded by our family, our children, our children’s children, and maybe even our children’s children’s children.”

  For a fraction of a second, Holly’s body froze. Then she blinked hard in an attempt to push away the fear that had fluttered across her eyes. She forced a smile, hoping that Tom hadn’t noticed her reaction, hoping that she could resurrect the moment, but the air in her ballooning passion had well and truly gone out.

  “What?” Tom asked with a quizzical look that pierced Holly’s heart. “Does the thought of children terrify you so much?”

  “No,” lied Holly.

  “Yes, it does,” insisted Tom. He leaned his body over to her right side, resting his arms. The moment for passion had most definitely been lost.

  “I want children,” insisted Holly. “It’s just the being a mother part that I struggle with.”

  “You want to give me children. That’s different from wanting them yourself,” corrected Tom, his tone a mixture of concern and frustration. “And you can and will be a good mum. It’s not hereditary, you know.”

  Tom was, of course, referring to her childhood. Holly was the product of a broken home, broken long before the bitter divorce that followed. Her mother had left home when Holly was only eight years old, but rather than feel abandoned, she had actually felt relief. Her mother had had a perverse attitude toward motherhood and replaced love with cruelty, nurturing with scorn. After the divorce, Holly saw little of her, and by the time she was a teenager her mother had drunk herself into an early grave. Her father, by contrast, was distant and completely uninterested in his daughter, but in some ways that made him every bit as cruel. He left Holly to bring herself up, so when she moved into student digs at the age of eighteen she never returned home again, not even for his funeral.