At some point, almost as if coming out of a trance, Megan decided that being cold and wet and soaked right through to the skin didn't have a lot to commend it and, shivering, she got up and resigned herself to heading home. So much for her grand plan to while away the rest of the afternoon just sitting. Breaking up her sandwich, she threw the remainder to the little grey squirrels that had been keeping her company while she ate. She looped her damp ebony hair behind her ears and strode as purposefully as her limp would allow off towards the park exit and home.
As she turned into the Bayswater Road her eyes scanned the array of art displayed against the railings, a ritual that had taken place every Sunday for as long as she remembered, with artists of every ilk, nationality and diversity displaying their wares to the interested public. As she stopped to stare at an oddly appealing seascape that somehow tugged at her heart, a strong resurgence of need and longing rose up inside her.
Ten years ago Megan had secured a place at one of London's top art colleges. Her whole future had lain before her: an unknown, exciting, soon-to-be experienced realm of limitless possibilities ... But that had been before she'd run into Nick. Confident, good-looking, and a charmer to boot, he had had no hesitation in applying some of his ruthless ambition in pursuit of the shy art student who'd never been the object of such persistence until Nick Brand clapped eyes on her. Eventually she'd been worn down by his relentless tactics. He'd charmed Megan into his bed, then marriage, and finally - his pie`ce de resistance - into surrendering her precious place at college.
"Time you got into the real world, my love," he'd said confidently, secure in the knowledge that his malleable little wife knew better than to argue.
It hadn't been easy, relinquishing her dream, but in those days she had operated on the belief that loving someone ultimately meant making sacrifices. Compromising your own needs to keep your partner happy. Funny, though, how it had been her that had done all the compromising. Nick hadn't sacrificed anything that you could honestly notice. He'd still acted as though he was a free agent even after they'd married. What a twenty-four-carat fool Megan had been.
Her breath escaped in a little cloud of steam as she hovered in front of a seascape, her presence alerting the young woman with the silver star-shaped nose-stud who was running the display. The girl turned away from adjusting the tarpaulin she'd been trying to fix in place to protect her work and placed her hand confidingly on Megan's arm.
"I did that down in Cornwall last winter," she explained, gesturing towards the scene. "A place called Rock. Smashing surf, if you like surfing."
Megan felt the heat rise in her cheeks, immediately ill at ease with the unexpected attention. She felt like the proverbial drowned rat, painfully aware that her hair must look like rats' tails while her inadequate skirt and jacket were plastered to her body as if she'd just crawled out of a river.
"How much is it?"
She'd already decided she wanted to buy the picture. She'd put it in her room at Penny's flat and maybe think about visiting that place at the end of the summer. Rock - it sounded romantic. As far as Megan was concerned, the coast - any coast - was always best visited out of season. There was a kind of magic about it then, when all the tourists had finally gone and the beaches were more or less bare.
The girl named a figure that was about what she had expected to pay. She slipped her bag off her shoulder and reached in for her chequebook.
"A present for someone, is it?" the girl asked cheerfully.
"For me." Megan smiled briefly back and refused to feel guilty that for once in her life she was spending her money on herself.
Penny Hallet stirred the pasta again, gesturing towards the postcard she'd left on the kitchen worktop with the long wooden spoon she'd been using to stir. "I really think you should give him a ring. It could be just what you need."
Picking up the plain white postcard to examine it, Megan cautiously turned it over to read the advertisement printed on the back.
"Where did you get this?"
Penny's blue eyes were mutinous. "I "borrowed" it from Mrs Kureshi's noticeboard at the newsagents. I didn't have a pen, so what's a girl supposed to do?"
Glancing up, Megan pinned her friend with a slightly disapproving gaze. "You mean you stole it. How is the person who put it there supposed to get any business if you come along and steal his postcard?"
Penny's face was a picture. "Oh, for God's sake, Megan! Don't you ever break the rules?" Rolling her eyes heaven-wards, she shook her head and shrugged. "Never mind. Don't answer that question. I already know what the answer is."
"Hmm, no name." Megan's attention was back on the postcard. "Just initials. "KH". Could be a woman."
"Could be." Penny sucked in her cheeks and blew them out again. "But my money's on a man. Anyway, male or female, what does it matter as long as they know their stuff?"
"But going back to painting - it's been so long ... And this - "Let painting open the way to healing and inner peace - what do you think it means?"
"Why don't you just give the number a ring and find out some more? What harm could it do? If you want things to change you've got to start helping yourself. This could be a good thing for you, Meg, I'm sure of it. You need some pleasure in your life again and I know you'd love to get back into some painting. Besides ..." Penny caught the doubt flitting across Megan's face and decided to push her advantage home. "You hate that tedious job at the bank, working for Misery Guts, and all you do after dinner each night is go to bed with a book. I know sixty-year-olds who have more fun! Right now you're twenty-eight going on ninety!"
"I'm handling things in my own way Pen." Megan's softly mobile mouth thinned with anxiety.
"Cobblers!" Penny thwacked the wooden spoon on the side of the stainless steel pan that contained the pasta, emotion straining her temper. "I know you. I don't want to hear excuses. I've been hearing excuses for the last six months as to why you can't do something! Hard as it is for you to hear, sweetheart, your ex-husband's quite happy with What's-her-face, damn him, while you're still walking around like an extra on Return of the Living Dead! I'm not trying to be mean to you, Meg, but you've got to realise what you're doing to yourself. Don't write off everything as useless or pointless. Just give things a chance."
Megan glanced down at the postcard in her hand, staring at the large bold print through eyes that were suddenly stinging with tears. How the hell was she supposed to make such a momentous decision when it was all she could do to decide what to have for breakfast each morning? Pain of one kind or another had dogged her for so long it was hard to see her way clearly. Even harder was finding the energy to take action. She'd racked her brains to find something, some way she could help the healing process, but instead felt as if she was running into brick walls ten feet high.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A Passionate Protector by Maggie Cox Copyright © 2004 by Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.. Excerpted by permission.
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