Miracle Woman Read Online Free PDF Page B

away the crazy thoughts that plagued her, Martha relaxed and concentrated on Mike and their lovemaking.

Chapter Four
    LARA CHADWICK SCROLLED down through the article she had written on the opening of Boston’s newest art gallery overlooking the Charles river, all steel and glass and urban chic. She had double-checked the names of the artists exhibiting and also the patrons, Boston’s finest, the socialites whose names and faces constantly graced their newspaper’s columns. Some of them had made a point of getting to know her and one had actually approached her the minute she stepped into a room, expecting her to produce her notepad and take down some copy about the latest happening in their crowded lives.
    Last week she had gone to see her nephew in his college play and had been waylaid by that same stupid socialite who assumed she was writing it up for the paper, almost as if she was not entitled to a night out on her own.
    She had sat fuming for the first few minutes of the show but then had gotten over it and relaxedand laughed at the college humour which thankfully never changed as she watched her nephew Ben, looking most unappealing in a parody of transvestism in her sister Nell’s turquoise satin suit which she hadn’t seen for years. She had to wipe the tears from her eyes as she hooted and hollered with Nell and the rest of the audience. Ben was one of those tall athletic types who would not in a million years pass as a female no matter how much slap was layered onto his chiselled features. He was in his final year of chemical engineering and by all acounts was an honours student.
    He had a bright and brilliant career ahead of him, judging by her sister and brother-in-law’s genuine pride and pleasure in their only son.
    Lara herself had studied English and politics, taking a Master’s in English literature about three years after she qualified. Then the world had seemed full of hope and opportunity and she had dreamt of a job in publishing or of writing herself.
    Her publishing job had entailed posting on multiple fan letters to one of the queen bitches of American literature and booking hotel rooms for her and her partner on endless book tours. Her own simple manuscript never seemed to get beyond the great total of thirty pages. In the end she had binned it, reckoning that if she the author couldn’t entice herself to write it the likelihood of a reader enjoying it was zero. A friend of a friendhad called someone who had eventually offered her the job as a junior with Boston’s top newspaper, and filled with high hopes she had joined the fledgeling ranks of journalism.
    Any hope of working on the political pages had been quickly dashed and she had been assigned to the wedding and funeral section for a start-off. Checking the daily obituaries was hardly the stuff the Pulitzer was made of, but she had swallowed her pride and done her best to prevent howlers making it into the paper. Dealing with top names in Boston society meant she had got picked to help out on the social column, which appeared once a week. In between, she had taken to hanging out around the news desk midweek hoping that with any luck she would be thrown a story or two to check out or follow up.
    She did a final word count on her article before she sent it up and left a message for the photographer to have the photos ready for that evening’s editorial. She was just slipping on her linen jacket when her boss, Ritchie Allen, called her over.
    â€˜You going home, Lara?’
    â€˜Yeah, just for a short while. My cat got neutered two days ago and I want to check she’s OK. I should be back in an hour or so.’
    â€˜You live out Easton direction, don’t you?’
    â€˜Yeah, why?’
    â€˜Picked up a call about some kid getting badly injured at the local grocery store. Witness wastalking something about a Good Samaritan coming to help. Listen, would you check it out before you come back. It