‘On all of us,’ Harry said roughly, ‘and as if how you disgraced us wasn’t enough, your mother and I now have to worry about our only grandson being where he is. You’ve got to get him back, Howard.’

‘Try offering Christina money,’ Shirley suggested.

‘Coming from you, that idea doesn’t surprise me!’ Howard snapped. ‘Would you have taken cash in exchange for Laura?’

‘Probably not,’ Laura chimed in, ‘though there must’ve been times when she’d have paid it to get rid of me. If my wedding wasn’t looming up, Howard, I’d offer to go with you to Munich—’

‘Thanks, but all I need with me is a hothead like you. I guess that cuts my father out, too—’

‘Well, I couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t end up with fisticuffs,’ said Harry. ‘You should have someone with you, though.’

Nathan exchanged a glance with Marianne.

‘All right, Uncle Nat,’ she said. ‘I agree that it had better be me.’

Chapter Four

On the plane to Munich, Marianne surveyed her nephew’s set profile. How old would Howard be, now? Thirty-five, she reckoned. A year older than Martin, to whom he bore no physical resemblance though they were first cousins.

Marianne’s son was the image of his father and now Ralph was gone, Martin’s smile, the way it crinkled his face, and his lively hazel eyes, brought back for her Ralph at Martin’s age and how happy they were together.

Later all had not gone smoothly. Her own success and Ralph’s failure had not been the recipe for a perfect relationship. Marianne’s belief in herself as a writer had never flagged and eventually she had made it. Ralph, on the other hand… Though his paintings were good they had, to the end, lacked that certain something that could make an artist’s name.

Though Marianne had long known it, she had kept her doubts to herself, and worked steadily at her typewriter as her own career escalated. Ralph, coming home each evening from the ad agency where commercial art served to provide him with a living, had resumed work on one of the canvases this gallery owner or that would try to sell.

When a sale was made Marianne was happy for him. His spirits would briefly soar. But afterwards depression would set in. Then the day came when he told her he would never paint another picture. That it was time he stopped fooling himself and had decided to set up his own ad agency, in partnership with a man he knew.

Marianne had afterwards watched her husband’s new affluence, his allowing himself to go with the tide of a commercialism he privately despised, change him into a different man from the one she had married.