Miracle Woman by Marita Conlon-Mckenna Page A

interesting.
    An older boy had answered the Lucas door. Defensively he’d told her that both his parents were at the hospital as his brother was having a big operation.
    Minutes later she turned into Mill Street and parked outside the McGills’ home. Sitting for a few minutes, she tried to construct a reasonable introduction to this stranger she was so interested in meeting. It was swelteringly hot and already she could feel her cotton T-shirt sticking to her underarms. She wished that she had put her ice stick of cologne in her purse.
    Steeling herself and armed with her notepad and mini recorder she walked up the driveway, unsure of the welcome she’d receive. Huge overblown roses tumbled from a lattice fence and creepers twisted and turned through the thorny stems, the scent of jasmine fragrant in the humid air. A pair of child’s sneakers lay abandoned on the front step, and she stepped over a half-dressed Barbie doll which looked rather dishevelled and in need of a bath. She ran her fingers through her short dark hair as she rang the doorbell and waited.
    â€˜Mom! Mom! There’s somebody at the door for you. She wants to talk to you,’ announced Alice, who had scarpered to answer it before Martha even got a chance.
    How many times had she warned the kids not to answer the front door unless they knew who it was? Alice especially. Maybe their youngest would listen to Mike, and follow some of his guidelines. She’d get him to have a little chat with their eight-year-old when he came home from work. Looking through the glass panel, Martha immediately realized that she didn’t recognize the beautiful dark-haired young woman with her flashing eyes and wide smile. She noticed the sporty red car outside. Single girl with a bit of money, she surmised, no mother of three would fit into that piece of machinery with her brood. Curious, she pulled the door open.
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Hello, Mrs McGill, my name is Lara Chadwick, I’m a reporter on the
Boston Herald
.’
    Martha didn’t know what to say.
    â€˜I’m writing a piece for the paper on the accident you witnessed down at the market on Saturday.’
    â€˜Oh yes. Is Timmy OK?’ she asked, suddenly alarmed.
    â€˜As far as I know he is. I spoke to his mother the other day and I believe he’s undergoing surgery today.’
    â€˜Oh thank God! He’s such a nice kid, I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him.’
    â€˜Would it be OK if I stepped inside?’
    â€˜Sorry, what am I thinking of? It’s far too hot to be standing in the sun, come on in and cool down.’
    Martha – wearing a pair of pale denim shorts, a sea blue T-shirt and her old strappy brown leather sandals, her hair frizzing and piled up with a hairgrip of her daughter’s – led the immaculately groomed visitor inside.
    The living room with its cream walls was pleasantly cool, large and filled with wide comfy navy couches. A state of the art sound system and TV and video sat on the low shelves along one wall. A huge glass jug with an array of tall delphiniums had been placed on the fire hearth. They reminded Lara of her parents’ garden. Side tables and shelves were cluttered with an array of family photos in a mixture of frames, Waterford glass, polished silver and dark pine. The journalist’s gaze briefly scanned the photos of the woman’s husband and children.
    â€˜Sit down, Miss . . .’
    â€˜Chadwick. Lara Chadwick.’
    â€˜How can I help you?’ Martha was very unsure about talking to a journalist and worried about what sort of questions she might be asked. ‘Is it about the driver?’ Martha was reluctant to discuss Sarah and the accident.
    â€˜No, not particularly,’ Lara admitted. ‘But please, could you just tell me in your own words about the accident?’
    Martha sat for a minute trying to recollect the details. It had all happened so fast and she had