Sarah stared round her in dismay. She’d left Harold—the plan was that she’d make the house ready and then return to the hospital in the morning and bring him back with her. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. She had the rest of the day to make this place . . . home. Only it had never been home. She stared around and thought this must be a place for Harold to sleep, and nothing else. Unlike the big house. Max Ramsey would be there now, she thought bitterly, swanning round with his family and friends in a house that rightly belonged to Harold. And yet . . . it couldn’t have been Max’s fault that Harold had had to sell. Much as she’d hated the contempt she’d seen in the guy’s eyes, she couldn’t lay that on him. She knew very well what had happened. Harold had tried to put a good slant on it—“Lorissa’s got to have her share, the girls are expensive—and there’s a beaut’ little house I can subdivide off and live in . . . ” Beaut’ little house? She stood in the bleak kitchen and looked around with loathing.
