“I think I can wait six months,” he said, but he shifted his body slightly, so it wasn’t pressing against her, all the same. The curve of her back was intriguing to him; better to avoid temptation. “It seems like I’ve been waiting many years. Since the day Georgie died.”

“You’ll have to tell her family.”

“I’m sure they’ll be delighted.” Indeed, it was ironic that Hugh had drifted out of touch with them because of their tiresome good wishes and urgings that he find somebody else. There could never have been anybody else.

Except there was. Thank God.

“What are you laughing at?” Sophie asked him. “You’re always grinning.”

“I’m not; I’m just happy,” he said simply.

It was true. If he paused to consider how he was feeling, the joy was always there. It wasn’t big and splashy, not the sort of thing to make him want to jump up and down. But it was still omnipresent—quiet but deep, a lake, not a waterfall.

“So then we get married. And maybe have some children?”

“It’s a little late for that. Unfortunately.”

“You think so? Anything can happen. You’re not too old to have children.”

“It’s very unlikely,” Sophie said, and this time the cloud hovered a little longer. Hugh was perturbed.

“Good God, you can’t think I’d blame you if it didn’t happen, darling. It would just be a lovely extra bonus. A lifetime with you would be more than enough for me. Frankly,” and he heard his own voice roughen a little, despite himself, “I thought I should never be happy again.”

Sophie turned round to stare at him.

“You were depressed?”

“Nothing like that. Not depressed—and not happy, either. I had moments of excitement, of professional triumph; the best you could call it was a certain satisfaction.” He thought that put it very well, and, indeed, he had worked plenty of eighteen-hour days at Mayberry just to get that satisfaction.

Hugh reached out and took her hand. “And that’s changed, now.”

Sophie hesitated, as if she weren’t quite sure if she should say something.

“Go on.” Hugh read her mind. “Look, darling, now is the time to thrash things out. Once we’re married you can’t run away. That’s what Catholics believe, right?”

“No divorce.” She smiled broadly. “Which is fine by me. You’re the one who should worry.”

They kissed again, gently.

“It wasn’t that,” Sophie said, after a long moment. “It was the business. You know . . . what we might do after the wedding. Don’t you ever get angry—thinking of Peter Stockton? Because when I think of Judy Dean, and him . . .” And Katherine, she stopped short of saying, “I find myself getting furious. They tricked my son. And I know that Stockton will ruin the company.”