Never Too Late by Jay Howard Read Free Book Online Page A

for more time cuddled into each other and now she occasionally caught herself wishing for single beds.
    Does he, too, feel we are drifting apart? Is that partially the reason he stays away from home so much? What am I doing wrong? Am I just too boring compared with all the glamorous, powerful people he came into contact with through his work?
    She passed through the hallway to double check the deadlocks on the front door. Unconsciously her feet moved in time with the comforting, sonorous ticking of the grandfather clock. All the doors had been locked for many hours but still she made her nightly inspection tour of doors, windows and alarm settings, feeling slightly silly, paranoid even, but knowing that she would never be able to sleep unless she had made her customary last checks.
    Their house was large and very comfortable. She loved the way light flooded the dozens of huge windows (thank goodness she no longer had to clean them herself!), especially the play of colours spilling through the stained glass windows at first landing level. The twelve acres of land it was set in gave her great pleasure in the day, especially once James’ childhood enthusiasm for gardening had fired her own. At night, though, she felt rather vulnerable, so far from neighbours and the road, screened from view with so many trees.
    Iain had been determined to have his business up and running before the birth of what he was certain was his son and heir. It had been a gamble borrowing that much money to buy the land and build this house but he had been proved right. It had been the showpiece he had needed for his design and building skills. It was magnificently framed by a curving brick wall and wrought iron gates, leading to a sweeping drive round the huge front lawn he had paid his workmen so much to get absolutely perfect.
    It led to the first contract being safely signed and sealed within a month of them moving in. That had been for a house just a mile down the road, but word of mouth and a few select magazine articles had seen to his skills now being in great demand throughout the country. These days it was he who vetted the clients rather than the reverse.
    Iain’s great skill was the knack of grasping the essence of a client’s personality, creating a house that reflected their taste and lifestyle, encapsulating their aspirations in stone, bricks and mortar. He offered the full service, from finding the land, through the design and build of the house, to interior design and landscaping.
    All the client had to do, if that was what they wanted, was to sign the cheque, but Iain always tried to get them involved, passionate in his belief that your home profoundly affected your whole life. It should nurture and protect, stimulate and welcome, soothe and calm away the stresses of life in this crazy world. Hence the need to get to know the client so well, he had told Maggie in the early days. What was one man’s stimulation was another man’s insanity. We are each of us unique and our homes should be too.
    His clients tended to be women whose wealthy businessmen husbands were prepared to give them carte blanche to satisfy their whims, so long as it didn’t involve any time or effort on their part. Occasionally, especially when it came to exclusive London apartments, Maggie got the feeling that the woman she had just met or heard of was not the wife of said businessman, but she had learned early on not to enquire too closely into the details of Iain’s work. He sometimes wanted a charming and elegant hostess but he made it plain that he did not appreciate, and indeed would not tolerate, what he saw as interference.
    The clients were drawn first to the dream of having something for themselves from this very sought after designer, wanting to claim for themselves some of the kudos his work attracted. To have a house by Iain McTavish was to proclaim loud and clear that you belonged amongst the elite.
    Then they were drawn by his professional