Tomorrow...Come Soon Read online

  about, while her white-haired father went back and forth to answer every summons at the door.

  Composing herself as best she could, knowing that her impairment could not possibly be seen while she remained where she was—and she had no intention of moving—her eyes went past her father, who for once was absentminded about her, and on to the tall man who filled the doorway just behind him.

  It struck her then that their visitor had to be someone important. Why else would her father invite in someone who, in the flick of a glance he threw her way, gave her the feeling he had in that dark glance computerised her pale almost translucent skin, her wavy gossamer soft blonde hair, and the rest of her? Why, if he wasn't important, had her father brought the thirty-five or thirty-six-year-old

  man into the best room when he knew that she, she with her aversion to meeting strangers, would be there?

  As the man followed her father into the room, so her father frowned and seemed to come to, to realise she was there and that his manners were at fault.

  `This—is Mr Harrington,' he introduced the unsmiling man, confirming for her that their visitor was someone very important if he was Grant Harrington. `My daughter Devon,', he was completing, as her mind went on to decide that since Harrington senior had died some years before, then this man had to be the boss of the multi—million pound empire for whom her father worked.

  Knowing Mr Harrington would have to take a few strides to reach her, and that it could only look rude that she wasn't getting to her feet to meet him halfway, Devon did what she could in the way of politeness by offering him the best she could in the way of a smile, and extended her hand, her voice husky from sudden nerves if he should take offence, as she said:

  `How do you do.'

  To be ignored, to have her hand ignored when she had expected it to be taken in the brief formality of a handshake, jolted her. And she was further jolted to discover that Mr Harrington after that first computerised glance, needed no other, it seemed, to sum her up and file her away as beneath his notice. Very often she had been aware of people staring at her—through the way she walked-but never had she met anyone who had looked straight through her!

  Her hand fell back to the settee, tension taking a grip on her. To her mind, tension was filling the air, although the tall man seemed unaware of it. She glanced quickly to her father and saw that she wasn't alone in feeling tense. He was looking quite dreadful, she thought, and had to know then how much he cared for her, as she guessed he was

  cursing his forgetfulness in bringing a stranger in—his terribly worried look, all on account of how on edge he knew she would be feeling.

  `Can I—get you a drink, Grant?' he asked jerkily, corroborating what her senses had already fixed in her mind. This dark-haired, dark-eyed man just had to be boss.

  The offer of a drink was ignored. Which was just as well, she thought, since he didn't look the sherry type, and sherry was all they had in. Though she felt a niggle of something akin to anger, foreign in her, that he should brush her father's civil attempt to play host aside, and question:

  `I noticed suitcases in the hall—which one of you is going away?' Perhaps he was trying to be civil after all, she thought. But neither she nor her father had answered him, when he asked crisply, 'Or are both of you taking a trip?'

  The question perhaps was not such an odd one. Her father knew all there was to know about high finance and could be missed if he was taking a holiday at an inconvenient time. -But she guessed when he seemed struck dumb that, too honest to lie to his employer, he was protecting her by not answering. She saw then that it was up to her to make the reply, and from her indolent position she spoke up in place of her father, her voice husky still as she reasoned that Grant Harrington would never glean why it was she was going away.

  `It's me, actually,' she said, forcing another smile. 'I'm going to Stockholm tomorrow.'

  She had thought he considered her beneath his notice, but she had drawn stern dark eyes to her, and she wished she had stayed quiet. She saw he was looking angry suddenly, or maybe he always looked that way.

  `From the size of your luggage, you appear ready for an extended holiday,' he remarked curtly.

  Devon hardly thought that 'holiday' would cover what she had let herself in for. But at being reminded that tomorrow was the start of something that could mean so much, she forgot that she must be giving Grant Harrington the impression that she loved the easy life, and could not help that excitement should start to stir in her again. Or that that excitement should show in the sparkle that came to her eyes as she looked at him, as her mouth curved, and knowing her father wouldn't breathe a word of why she was going, she smiled and said, a breathlessness in her voice:

  `I'll see how I like it first—but I may stay a couple of months.'

  Her father clearing his throat brought her back to realise that perhaps she was going a little over the top. Though she hadn't exactly lied to his employer either. If the operation was unsuccessful, and she just wasn't going to dwell on that, then she could be back home much sooner than the two months it would otherwise take.

  The small coughing noise her father made drew Grant Harrington's attention away from her. She had gathered anyway that he had formed an opinion that, by the sound of it, she liked a good time and that too had been filed away, and unless she spoke again she wouldn't get spoken to.

  Though she did think he could have dressed up a bit the blunt, 'I'd like a private word with you, Charles,' with which he addressed her father—effectively cutting her out as he added, obviously by now not expecting her to shift herself, 'Is there another room we could use?'

  Devon saw her father was looking tense still, and she wanted to tell him that she didn't mind. 'Use the dining room, Dad,' she said, and smiled; for one of those rare occasions she was the one—to try to be reassuring. 'I think I'll go up to bed,' she added, her smile broadening at the

  secret they shared, a secret Grant Harrington was not privy too. 'Tomorrow is a big day,' she beamed.

  She knew her father would be translating the message she had sent to mean that she would be making tracks to her room as soon as she had heard the dining room door close. And she knew he had got the translation right when, apparently not noticing that Grant Harrington had no word of 'goodnight' for her, her father left the sitting room door open as he and his visitor went out.

  She was up in her room, having gone up the stairs as quickly as the pain in her hip would allow, just in case it was only a brief private word with her father that the head of Harrington's was after, but her mind was full of the two men downstairs.

  Grant Harrington had never called at the house before, she mused as she got into bed, so perhaps something important was happening at Harringtons. How little she knew of the work her father did, she realised then. He had a top job, she knew that, but he wasn't a director or anything like that.

  Perhaps Grant Harrington, knowing how extremely good her father was with figures, was contemplating a merger or a take-over or something and had only just heard that he wouldn't be in the office tomorrow? Takeovers didn't wait—he would have to see him tonight. Her father wouldn't have told anyone why he wanted the day off, or where he was going, she could be sure of that. Sure that none of his colleagues would know that he was taking her to the airport tomorrow.

  Her pride in her father and his ability swelled as she saw the reason for Grant Harrington, after having seen her cases, curtly questioning which once of them was going away. He wouldn't want her father going on holiday if there was a take-over in the air. He would need him. Devon could understand him wanting their discussions to

  be in private too—from what she had read, those sort of things had to be very hush-hush. Something to do with a sudden rise in share prices, she rather thought.

  Pride for her father took another upsurge that his position in the firm must be such that he should-know all about the take-over. Grant Harrington thought a lot of him, that much was obvious.

  As
it was equally obvious, she thought, that Grant Harrington had no regard at all for her. She nibbled at her bottom lip as she reflected that she hadn't liked someone coming in and taking such an instant dislike to her. Oh, why hadn't he called in two months' time when she would be able to spring to her feet to shake hands with him, instead of being draped there like some wet lettuce looking as though she considered it too much of an effort to take a step off the settee to greet her father's employer.

  She hadn't missed the arrogant look down his nose at her either at her admission, in this day and age when most people were eager to have a job, that she might be away for two months if she fancied it. She had earned herself another black mark by giving him the impression that she preferred to be one of life's pleasure-seekers—her father left, to foot the bill whenever she felt like flitting off. No wonder he hadn't bothered about whether it was polite to come into her home and then promptly shut her out by asking to have a private word with her father.

  She drifted into a light troubled sleep. But the sound of the front door closing had her coming wide awake. She felt easier knowing that Grant Harrington was out of her home. And when later she heard her father coming to bed, he flicked on her table lamp and called to him

  at the mill?' she enquired when he popped his

  head round the door.

  `Nothing for you to worry your pretty head about,' he replied. 'It’s time you were asleep.'

  `Yes, Father,' she teased. Then urgently, the thought pushing itself to the front of her mind, 'You didn't tell Grant Harrington about my—my hip, did you?'

  He came further into the room, ever aware of her self-consciousness where her hip was concerned. 'You know me better than that, child,' he said gently.

  `Sorry, Dad,' she apologised, and was once more on an even keel.

  Though before she settled down to sleep again, she was to remember the affectionate way her father had told her not to worry her pretty head. Was she pretty? Did—did Grant Harrington think she was pretty?

  She saw him again in her mind's eye, tall and large with a physique that wouldn't tolerate an ounce of fat, and she couldn't help but think that a woman would have to be more than pretty to gain his notice. Only beautiful women would get a second look from the virile-looking Grant Harrington, she felt sure.

  She was tempted to get out of bed and take stock of her fine boned face. Then she remembered tomorrow, and wondered why she should have a sudden yen to be beautiful.

  Rats to Grant Harrington, she thought. It would be more than enough if she could just walk straight—Oh, tomorrow, please come soon!

  CHAPTER TWO

  THERE was an inner elation about the girl who stood with her cases outside Marchworth railway station waiting for a taxi that Thursday. She was nearly at her journey's end, and had been hard put to it throughout that journey to keep that elation down. Hard put to it not to break out into a grin that would be misconstrued by the donors of every admiring glance that had come her way. And there had been a good few glances of admiration, she recalled.

  But she was not interested in flirting, of responding to come-hither looks. Perhaps later she might enter into some light-hearted flirtation. She admitted that her education had been sadly lacking in that department. But for the moment all she wanted to do was to get home. To get home to her father. Elation bubbled again as she thought of her father and of showing him how well the money from that endowment had been spent.

  Perhaps she had been just a wee bit selfish to spend what little money there was over on the smart, up-to-the-minute suit she had on, not to mention the, to her, absolutely adorable, for all they were quite plain, black three-inch-high-heeled shoes. At the moment the shoes were in her flight bag, but the instant she was in the taxi, she intended that they should change places with the flat ones she had on.

  Happiness bubbled up as a taxi swung into-the station forecourt, and a smile she could do nothing to hold back beamed from her as the taxi driver enquired, 'Where to, love?' Devon gave him her address, and giggled for the

  first time in what seemed years to hear his reply of, 'With a smile like that, I'll take you there for free!'

  He didn't mean it, of course, but his remark did nothing to take from her the heady feeling that dominated her being. Perhaps being drunk was like this, she thought, as she unzipped her flight bag and took out the shoes that meant so much to her. Her first high heels!

  Though she discounted that being drunk could feel like this. Her mind wasn't befuddled. She had clear remembrance of everything that had led up to this feeling of utter sublime, elation.

  There had been pain after the operation—and fear. Fear had grown into terror that to feel so much pain must mean that the surgery to her hip had not been successful.

  Disbelief had followed when, after only three days, firm-armed, kind-hearted nursing staff had come to lift her out of bed. After that she had spent two days in just sitting out of bed and getting used to the idea that her days of being bed-bound were over.

  And then had come the hard work of the physiotherapist. The hard work of the rest of the staff. Devon had worked hard too in learning to walk again, in learning to climb stairs. But oh, the rewards for that hard work, to find with breath-holding unbelievability, and utter, utter joy, that she was walking! That she was actually walking without that terribly ugly sideways lurch!

  She had cried, Devon remembered. And she had laughed. Laughter and tears had mixed, so that Ingrid, her special nurse, unforgivably she told her afterwards, had shed a tear too.

  Dr Henekssen had monitored her progress throughout. It was he who had given her the all-clear to leave his clinic. `I can go next week!' she had exclaimed, when he had pronounced with a twinkle in his clever grey eyes, that

  TOMORROW-COME SOON

  reluctantly they would have to let her go after only seven weeks.

  `Had you a home here in Sweden, I would have discharged you earlier when you could have attended my outpatients clinic," he told her in his perfect English. `But as it is, I wish to do the final check on you myself. Next week I think will be the right time.'

  After that, next week had seemed a long time in coming. She had heard regularly from her father. But it was because in his last letter he had mentioned something about an air traffic controllers' strike at the airports, that she did not contact him to tell him she would be arriving home a week early. His disappointment, she knew, would be as great as hers if she couldn't get home when expected. And remembering her own seemingly endless wait, she didn't want to occupy one of Dr Henekssen's beds a minute longer when the day came and he said she could go. To this end she was busy making contingency plans to stay in a modest hotel if she had to stay on in Sweden for any length of time after leaving the clinic.

  The day of her final check-up at last arrived. But she had known a few anxious moments when Dr Henekssen had told her that she must report to her consultant in England some six weeks hence.

  `Something has gone wrong!' she had gasped; appalled. `Something .. .

  `No, no,' he had said quickly to soothe her fears. `But you said this was to be my final check . .

  `Your final check here, I should have said. It is a perfectly normal arrangement. Had you been resident in Stockholm I would have seen you myself in six weeks' time.' And he had smiled, and teased, 'You walk without a limp, do you not?'

  `Yes,' she had agreed. And her gratitude to him was boundless as she had then apologised for her fears, and he

  '

  had gone on to tell her that she had not one single thing to fear provided she was sensible.

  `Sensible?' she had queried. And she had vowed to be sensible for the little while longer he had requested of her. In a while, he had said, she would be able to do anything she had ever wanted to do. But first she must watch not to overtire or overstrain that hip. Though she should exercise, she should not put too much stress on that part of her that was knitting well together. If she took heed of his advice, if she took care to rest frequent
ly as well as to exercise, then her visit to Mr McAllen in six weeks' time would be a mere formality, no more. Dr Henekssen's final advice, that maybe she should leave it until after she had seen Mr McAllen before she tackled a ten-mile hike, had made her laugh.

  And she had been laughing inside ever since. The strike over, she'd had little trouble in booking her flight home. And though she could have telephoned her father to meet her at the airport as they had agreed he would do, by then the delicious idea of walking in unannounced, of walking in, not limping in, to show him the good-as-new Devon Johnston, had taken a hold of her.

  She had spent two nights in a hotel, and had time to purchase her suit and shoes, and she thought, as the taxi drew up outside her home, there could not be a happier girl in the whole of England.

  So happy was she, she was oblivious to the fact that the taxi driver had to pull up some distance ahead of her gate. A long sleek car was in the way.

  `Here you are, love,' he said as he put down her cases on the 'pavement. 'It seems a shame to take your money.'

  She laughed with him, and handed him a large tip. Soon she would get a job, and anyway, the way she felt, what did money matter? Her tip had him offering to take her cases up to the door for her, and remembering the

  doctor's advice on her being sensible, Devon almost let him. But in having lost her limp, there was a new-found independence surging in her. It was more than high time she learned to do things for herself, was her considered opinion. She refused his offer, still not yet over the fantastic feeling of being able to get to her feet and moving off without first having to wait until she had her balance.

  Her father had not heard her arrive, that was for sure, she thought, as on the front door step she contemplated ringing the door bell and giving him a surprise that way. But it was dark now, and she wanted to have full view of the delight on his face when he saw her.