Painted the Other Woman

Ian’s voice interrupted Athan’s reverie.

‘This is a moment I have longed for. Will you take my hand?’

Still with an edge of tension inside her, Marisa placed her free hand in Ian’s and he closed his fingers tightly over hers. The three of them walked forward to the figure standing by the ornate fireplace on the far side of the drawing room in Ian’s family house. Though her vision was focussed on the figure standing there Marisa was conscious of Eva, sitting in the armchair beside the fire, smiling encouragingly at her.

For a moment as Marisa approached she thought she saw a tension in the features of the figure’s face that equalled her own. She could understand its cause only too well. Then once more Ian was speaking. Not this time to Marisa, but to the older woman.

‘This is Marisa,’ he said. His voice was level, his gaze steady. ‘My sister.’

For a moment time seemed to hang still. Then, with a little sound in her throat, Sheila Randall broke the tension. She held out her hands to Marisa.

‘My dear,’ she said. Her voice was rich with emotion.

As Marisa took the outstretched hands, dropping her hold on both Athan and her brother, she felt an answering emotion well up in her. In Sheila Randall’s face was nothing but kindness—and the haunting of past sorrows.

Her hands pressed Marisa’s. Her eyes looked deep into hers. ‘I sincerely believe,’ she said, ‘that your poor mother suffered as greatly as I did, and for that reason I know I can never blame her or accuse her.’ There was a choke in her voice now. ‘I can only be glad that Ian found you. So glad that you are part of our family,’ she said. Her gaze went to Athan. ‘I can think of no happier ending,’ she said.

Marisa’s hands slipped from hers, took Athan’s waiting hands instead, and felt their warmth and strength flow through her.

‘Nor I,’ she agreed.

And love, like a swelling tide, swept through her.

With eyes only for her, his beloved, Athan lifted Marisa’s hands to his mouth, kissing them one after another, holding them close against his heart.

‘Nor I,’ he said.

For an endless, timeless moment their eyes poured into each other’s. Then a soft pop drew their attention back to their surroundings.

‘Time for champagne,’ said Ian.

Eva was there in an instant, holding out glasses to be filled with the gently fizzing liquid. When all the glasses were charged, Ian lifted his first, to give the toast.

‘To Athan and Marisa,’ he said. ‘And the triumph of true love.’

It was a toast that no one there objected to.

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.