peaceful and scenic surrounds. Tossing back the covers, Meg walked to the bedroom window and slid the glass open further, breathing in the scent of fresh spring air perfumed by the saltiness of the harbour water below and the well-cultivated roses of the vast garden. She smiled, feeling glad to be alive.
She dressed quickly in blue jeans and a powder blue V-necked jumper, running a brush through her tangle of pale hair before jogging upstairs to start breakfast.
Bryce had told her that Phillipa was allowed to sleep in until eight o’clock on weekends, but when Meg passed through the living room the little girl was already curled up on the black leather couch, clutching the remote control as she flicked from cartoon to cartoon on the wide-screen television.
Meg halted on her way to the kitchen. ‘You’re up early.’
Not turning to acknowledge her, Phillipa merely lifted her tiny shoulder in negligent reply and Meg had to swallow the unladylike cuss that threatened to burst forth. If only the girl would at least engage in polite conversation of some sort. But every time she walked into a room Meg could still feel how palpably Phillipa resented her presence.
Was she jealous of having another female in her father’s life? It was an understandable, though unnecessary, response. It was clear to anyone within two miles that, despite the long hours he worked that took him away from her, Bryce Carlton loved his daughter. And Meg wasn’t in Bryce’s life, she was merely a peripheral character.
‘Would you like some breakfast?’ Meg injected a brightness she suddenly didn’t feel into her voice.
‘I don’t want French toast again.’
‘Me neither.’ Meg refused to let that sting show. She’d thought her French toast was pretty good. ‘I’ll rustle up something for myself and you let me know when you’ve decided what you want.’
Moments later she came back into the living room with an open box of Fruit Rings, the name giving a false impression of the product’s ingredients, which did not include any fruit. The multicoloured loops were full to the outer rims with processed sugar, and were one of Meg’s favourite indulgences.
Taking a seat on the couch, she said nothing as she dove into the open box and withdrew a handful of cereal, popping the loops into her mouth one by one and crunching loudly.
She was on her second handful when she noticed Phillipa’s attention was no longer on the cartoons. ‘Where did you get those?’
‘The cupboard.’
‘Mrs Dunkirk doesn’t buy Fruit Rings.’
‘I noticed. I had to buy these myself.’ She withdrew another handful from the box, turning to Phillipa as though the idea had just occurred to her. ‘Do you want some?’
Despite being in a state of near salivation, Phillipa replied. ‘I’m not supposed to eat that sort of stuff.’
‘Me neither. But I eat what I want on Saturdays. Don’t you have that rule here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Phillipa said blankly. ‘I never asked.’
Meg could see the possibilities swirling around in Phillipa’s big brown eyes and had to fight not to smile. The notion of a no-holds-barred eat-what-you-like Saturday had obviously intrigued the girl, as it probably would any eight-year-old.
One point for you, Meg.
She held out the box to the little girl. ‘I’m sure a little wouldn’t hurt.’
Before long — having jointly decided Fruit Rings went better with milk — the two of them sat cross-legged on the floor, eating their bowls of cereal at the antique hardwood coffee table while Phillipa filled Meg in on who was who in the world of the cartoon she was watching .
And that was how Bryce found them.
‘Phillipa, what on earth are you eating?’
They both turned at the sound of his voice, Meg’s glance catching on the sight of him dressed in blue running shorts and a white T-shirt. It was the first time she had seen him wearing anything other than a business suit, the first time she had seen his hair out of its
She dressed quickly in blue jeans and a powder blue V-necked jumper, running a brush through her tangle of pale hair before jogging upstairs to start breakfast.
Bryce had told her that Phillipa was allowed to sleep in until eight o’clock on weekends, but when Meg passed through the living room the little girl was already curled up on the black leather couch, clutching the remote control as she flicked from cartoon to cartoon on the wide-screen television.
Meg halted on her way to the kitchen. ‘You’re up early.’
Not turning to acknowledge her, Phillipa merely lifted her tiny shoulder in negligent reply and Meg had to swallow the unladylike cuss that threatened to burst forth. If only the girl would at least engage in polite conversation of some sort. But every time she walked into a room Meg could still feel how palpably Phillipa resented her presence.
Was she jealous of having another female in her father’s life? It was an understandable, though unnecessary, response. It was clear to anyone within two miles that, despite the long hours he worked that took him away from her, Bryce Carlton loved his daughter. And Meg wasn’t in Bryce’s life, she was merely a peripheral character.
‘Would you like some breakfast?’ Meg injected a brightness she suddenly didn’t feel into her voice.
‘I don’t want French toast again.’
‘Me neither.’ Meg refused to let that sting show. She’d thought her French toast was pretty good. ‘I’ll rustle up something for myself and you let me know when you’ve decided what you want.’
Moments later she came back into the living room with an open box of Fruit Rings, the name giving a false impression of the product’s ingredients, which did not include any fruit. The multicoloured loops were full to the outer rims with processed sugar, and were one of Meg’s favourite indulgences.
Taking a seat on the couch, she said nothing as she dove into the open box and withdrew a handful of cereal, popping the loops into her mouth one by one and crunching loudly.
She was on her second handful when she noticed Phillipa’s attention was no longer on the cartoons. ‘Where did you get those?’
‘The cupboard.’
‘Mrs Dunkirk doesn’t buy Fruit Rings.’
‘I noticed. I had to buy these myself.’ She withdrew another handful from the box, turning to Phillipa as though the idea had just occurred to her. ‘Do you want some?’
Despite being in a state of near salivation, Phillipa replied. ‘I’m not supposed to eat that sort of stuff.’
‘Me neither. But I eat what I want on Saturdays. Don’t you have that rule here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Phillipa said blankly. ‘I never asked.’
Meg could see the possibilities swirling around in Phillipa’s big brown eyes and had to fight not to smile. The notion of a no-holds-barred eat-what-you-like Saturday had obviously intrigued the girl, as it probably would any eight-year-old.
One point for you, Meg.
She held out the box to the little girl. ‘I’m sure a little wouldn’t hurt.’
Before long — having jointly decided Fruit Rings went better with milk — the two of them sat cross-legged on the floor, eating their bowls of cereal at the antique hardwood coffee table while Phillipa filled Meg in on who was who in the world of the cartoon she was watching .
And that was how Bryce found them.
‘Phillipa, what on earth are you eating?’
They both turned at the sound of his voice, Meg’s glance catching on the sight of him dressed in blue running shorts and a white T-shirt. It was the first time she had seen him wearing anything other than a business suit, the first time she had seen his hair out of its
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