Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair Read Online Free Page B

end in front of a house.
    By mistake, we had gone up a wide, winding driveway, believing it to be a side road which would lead us back, we hoped, to Route 41. Startled, Andrew brought the car to a standstill. Intrigued by the house, we stared at it and then at each other, exchanging knowing looks. And in unison we exclaimed about its charm, which was evident despite the sorry signs of neglect and disuse which surrounded it.
    Made of white clapboard, it had graceful, fluid lines and was rather picturesque, rambling along the way it did on top of the hill, set in front of a copse of dark green pines and very old, gnarled maples with great spreading branches. It was one of those classic colonial houses for which Connecticut is renowned, and it had a feeling of such mellowness about it that it truly captured our attention.
    â€œWhat a shame nobody cares enough about this lovely old place to look after it properly, to give it a fresh coat of paint,” Andrew murmured, and opening the door, he got out of the car. Instructing Jenny, our English au pair, to stay inside with the children, I quickly followed my husband.
    In a way I cannot explain, certainly not in any rational sense, the house seemed to beckon us, pull us toward it,and we found ourselves hurrying over to the front door, noticing the peeling paint and tarnished brass knocker as we did. Andrew banged the latter, whilst I peeked in through one of the grimy windows.
    Murky though the light was inside, I managed to make out pieces of furniture draped in dust cloths and walls covered with faded, rose-patterned wallpaper. There were no signs of life, and naturally no one answered Andrew’s insistent knocking. “It looks totally deserted, Mal, as if it hasn’t been lived in for years,” he said, and after a moment, he wondered out loud, “Could it be for sale, do you think?”
    As he put his arm around my shoulders and walked me back to the car, I found myself saying, “I hope it is,” and I still remember the way my heart had missed a beat at the thought that it may very well be on the market.
    A few seconds later, driving away down the winding road, I suddenly spotted the broken wooden sign, old and weather-worn and fallen over in the long grass. When I pointed it out to Andrew, he brought the car to a standstill instantly. I opened the door, leaped out, and sprinted across to the grass verge to look at it.
    Even before I reached the dilapidated sign, I knew, deep within myself, that it would say that the house was for sale. And I was right.
    During the next few hours we managed to find our way back to Sharon, hunted out the real estate broker’s office, talked to her at length, then followed her out of town to return to the old white house on the hill, almost too excited to speak to each other, hardly daring to hope that the house would be right for us.
    â€œIt doesn’t have a name,” Kathy Sands, the real estate broker, remarked as she fitted the key into the lock and opened the front door. “It’s always been known as the Vane place. Well, for about seventy years, anyway.”
    We all trooped inside.
    Jamie and Lissa were carefully shepherded by Jenny; I carried Trixy, our little Bichon Frise, listening to Kathy’s commentary as we followed her along the gallerylike entrance, which, Andrew pointed out, was somewhat Elizabethan in style. “Reminds me of Tudor interior architecture,” he explained, glancing around admiringly. “In fact, it’s rather like the gallery at Parham,” he added, shooting a look at me. “You remember Parham, don’t you, Mal? That lovely old Tudor house in Sussex?”
    I nodded in response, smiling at the remembrance of the wonderful two-week holiday we had had in England the year before. It had been like a second honeymoon for us. After a week with Diana in Yorkshire we had left the twins with her and gone off alone together for a few days.
    Kathy Sands was