brutal way in which she had lost the man who had been so much more than husband and business partner for more than half her life. Grief was still raw, anger at the cruelty of fate and even a little anger at Van himself for leaving her so unceremoniously had just begun to manifest itself. Etched clearly in her memory was the way she had felt that morning, the morning that, though she had not known it at the time, was about to change her life.
She had been crying, she remembered, the sort of terrible tearing sobs that racked her body and turned her beautiful face haggard, and between the sobs she had railed at Van. Why hadnât he gone to see his doctor about those chest pains? Why had he been so ready to dismiss them as the result of an overindulgence of rich food and fine wine? And why, most of all, had he decided to fly his plane that day? There had been no need for him to. He could easily have taken the company Lear jet to the meeting he was to attend and asked the professional pilot he employed to fly it. But Van loved his Cessna. He flew it whenever he could, so that at times the Lear jet and the professional pilot seemed like unnecessarily expensive additions to the Vandina budget.
He shouldnât have done it! Dinah had wept. Any normal man would have realised his health was cracking up and allowed someone else to take some of the stresses and strains for him. But Van had not been any normal man. He was exceptional, his determination to remain in the driving seat as solid as the image his barrel-chested bulk portrayed. Van had made a success of himself and of her because of that determination; in the end he had died because of it.
At last Dinahâs spasm of grief had passed and she had gone downstairs, still pale beneath the foundation she had applied, her eyes still a little red and puffy from weeping. The mail had arrived and she had taken it with her into the drawing room where she had steeled herself to begin to wade through it.
As always there were many letters of condolence, each one a fresh knife-wound in Dinahâs heart. It was good of people to write, of course, and one day she felt sure the words of praise that they heaped on Van would be of some consolation to her. But at present reading them was painful, a terrible reminder of what she had lost.
One letter bore an Aberdeen postmark. She did not recognise the handwriting, but then plenty of the letters had come from people she had never even heard of, business acquaintances of Vanâs, old school friends, even complete strangers who had simply read of the tragedy in the newspapers and felt moved to write to his widow. Mostly they were kind letters â the few spiteful ones she had quickly consigned to the wastepaper basket.
For some reason Dinah had hesitated over the letter with the Aberdeen postmark. Intuition, perhaps? No, that was putting it too strongly. But there had been some kind of knowledge hovering on the very edges of her consciousness before the cloak of grief had descended once more, dulling her senses. Then she had torn the envelope open and extracted the sheet of paper inside. Fairly cheap paper, written on with a ballpoint pen. She glanced at the address. Epsilon Rig, Forties Field. An oil rig? Who had Van known who worked on an oil rig?
She had begun to read the letter and suddenly she was shaking, the use gone out of her hands so that the paper almost fluttered and fell.
The letter was from a young man who said he was her son. He had always known he was adopted, he wrote, and a year earlier he had applied for his original birth certificate and discovered that she was his mother. At the time he had done nothing about it. He had been too afraid she would not want anything to do with him. But now he had read in the newspapers that Van had died and he wondered if there was anything he could do to help. Perhaps he was being presumptuous but he did so much want to meet her. Was there any possibility that she might feel the
She had been crying, she remembered, the sort of terrible tearing sobs that racked her body and turned her beautiful face haggard, and between the sobs she had railed at Van. Why hadnât he gone to see his doctor about those chest pains? Why had he been so ready to dismiss them as the result of an overindulgence of rich food and fine wine? And why, most of all, had he decided to fly his plane that day? There had been no need for him to. He could easily have taken the company Lear jet to the meeting he was to attend and asked the professional pilot he employed to fly it. But Van loved his Cessna. He flew it whenever he could, so that at times the Lear jet and the professional pilot seemed like unnecessarily expensive additions to the Vandina budget.
He shouldnât have done it! Dinah had wept. Any normal man would have realised his health was cracking up and allowed someone else to take some of the stresses and strains for him. But Van had not been any normal man. He was exceptional, his determination to remain in the driving seat as solid as the image his barrel-chested bulk portrayed. Van had made a success of himself and of her because of that determination; in the end he had died because of it.
At last Dinahâs spasm of grief had passed and she had gone downstairs, still pale beneath the foundation she had applied, her eyes still a little red and puffy from weeping. The mail had arrived and she had taken it with her into the drawing room where she had steeled herself to begin to wade through it.
As always there were many letters of condolence, each one a fresh knife-wound in Dinahâs heart. It was good of people to write, of course, and one day she felt sure the words of praise that they heaped on Van would be of some consolation to her. But at present reading them was painful, a terrible reminder of what she had lost.
One letter bore an Aberdeen postmark. She did not recognise the handwriting, but then plenty of the letters had come from people she had never even heard of, business acquaintances of Vanâs, old school friends, even complete strangers who had simply read of the tragedy in the newspapers and felt moved to write to his widow. Mostly they were kind letters â the few spiteful ones she had quickly consigned to the wastepaper basket.
For some reason Dinah had hesitated over the letter with the Aberdeen postmark. Intuition, perhaps? No, that was putting it too strongly. But there had been some kind of knowledge hovering on the very edges of her consciousness before the cloak of grief had descended once more, dulling her senses. Then she had torn the envelope open and extracted the sheet of paper inside. Fairly cheap paper, written on with a ballpoint pen. She glanced at the address. Epsilon Rig, Forties Field. An oil rig? Who had Van known who worked on an oil rig?
She had begun to read the letter and suddenly she was shaking, the use gone out of her hands so that the paper almost fluttered and fell.
The letter was from a young man who said he was her son. He had always known he was adopted, he wrote, and a year earlier he had applied for his original birth certificate and discovered that she was his mother. At the time he had done nothing about it. He had been too afraid she would not want anything to do with him. But now he had read in the newspapers that Van had died and he wondered if there was anything he could do to help. Perhaps he was being presumptuous but he did so much want to meet her. Was there any possibility that she might feel the
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