Contract For Marriage

Published. April 1982 First printing March 1982 ISBN 0-373-70.017-2 Copyright (c) 1982 by Megan Alexander. All rights reserved. Philippine copyright 1982. Australian copyright 1982. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9. All the characters in this book have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the Incidents are pure invention. The Superromance trademark, consisting of the word SUPEFttOMANCE, and the Worldwide trademark, consisting of a globe and the word Worldwide in which the letter "o " is represented by a depiction of a globe, are trademarks of Worldwide Library. CHAPTER ONE

A CHILLY BREEZE pushed at Christy's back and ruffled her coppery hair as she gazed up at the Douglas Building. The monolith of glass and steel gleamed in the white December sunlight. Christy checked her watch. Eleven o'clock. A half hour remained before her appointment with Mark Brandon, who worked somewhere up there on the tenth floor of that prestigious Los Angeles office complex. Panic began to creep into her limbs. Perhaps a cup of coffee would steady her nerves. A cool head was needed for this encounter. She went into the ground-floor cafe, found a table and placed an order. The waitress served her promptly, and Christy hugged the cup with both hands as much to steady them as to absorb the warmth. On the table an arrangement of artificial holly anticipated the season, and piped-in carols settled discordant chimes all around her. The place bustled with patrons. Suddenly their faces ballooned out of proportion - bored, irritable, discerning, leering at her as if they knew exactly what she was up to - then receded into anonymous humps and outlines to take on the quality of a smudged charcoal drawing. I can't do it, she thought. I don't have the courage. The words for such a proposition aren't even in my vocabulary. Nevertheless, all week long she'd convinced herself she was quite capable of confronting a man she'd met barely a week ago with a deeply intimate and personal request. She had not yet allowed herself to contemplate Mark's reaction but suspected that such a scheme coming from Aunt Martha's properly brought-up niece would pack a fair amount of shock, even to the urbane Mr. Brandon. But now apprehension spewed a counterpoint to all her brave intentions. It wasn't that Mark's qualifications weren't impeccable. He had intelligence, wit and charm to spare as she had soon learned when she met him at Aunt Martha's dinner party last Saturday night. Moreover, his auburn hair became a significant asset if genes could be relied upon. Truthfully it had been the sight of firelight playing on his rusty head that triggered her grand plan. Then when she learned that his transfer to the Texas office was in the offing, she made the decision to approach him. A man who promised to take himself out of sight and out of mind made an irresistible candidate. Once again she thought with wonder how one moment could turn her life in a totally new direction. If she could only get through this morning, perhaps her

long nightmare would end. Christy finished a second cup of coffee and looked at the cosmopolitan crowd around her. Here moved the real world, she admitted. For the past week she had wallowed in fantasy. A warning flashed in her mind as tangible as a flare in the room: Don't go through with this harebrained idea. Find a telephone. Cancel the appointment. Snatches of a boys' choir singing "Joy to the World" momentarily leaped through the babble and spiraled exuberant harmonies all around her, then subsided, replaced by memories of agonized weeping. The sound seemed to surge up to fill the far reaches of the room, and she knew with an awful clarity what she must do. She left change on the table, paid her bill, then walked out of the cafe and over to the elevators. MARK ROSE as the secretary ushered her into his office. "Why, Christy, what an unexpected pleasure!" A welcoming grin lit his face, and he pulled out a chair for her. His manner helped to ease her anxiety. As she already had learned, he never acted the hearty ex-travert but exuded a steady warmth that reached out and enveloped her. She needed that climate. The substantial assets of the Douglas Corporation were reflected in the spacious office: thick wall-to-wall carpet; walnut-paneled walls hung with several good oils; and from the expanse of glass a breathtaking view of the city. The secretary retired, closed the door, and Christy sank uneasily into the chair Mark provided. Her heart pounded, and she could not control the tremor in her voice. "Mark..." she began and felt her purse slip off her lap. Her face flushed at the awkwardness. "The girl with the vintage Cabernet blush," he said and raised his eyebrows knowingly. Of course, he referred to that disconcerting episode at Aunt Martha's party! She thrust up her chin and met his eyes squarely. "My apparent daze that evening was not due to the wine." "No? Well, considering all you've been through, I suspect you deserve to tie on more than a few glasses of wine." Christy shook her head. "It wasn't the wine at all. I was trying to deal with an inspiration that had just come to me, and I guess I got so caught up in it I seemed absentminded." His face grew sober. "Oh, yes?" He folded his arms on the desk as if to achieve a steadier focus. "Actually that's why I'm here. I hadn't the courage to bring it up before. I knew I would embarrass us both, and oh, Mark, whatever you think, please try to understand." His appraising glance glistened with something that could have been suspicion. "Shoot," he said. She breathed a prayer and made the plunge. "I assume you are familiar with the events surrounding the accident that killed my nephew?" He nodded. "Your aunt filled me in." "Not entirely, I expect. You see, I'm responsible for little Davy's death." He stared in disbelief. "Good Lord! Would you explain that please?" Once again Christy went over the bitter details that haunted every breath she took. He looked grave as she finished. "But that could have happened to anyone," he said. "No," she said firmly. "I have relived the experience endlessly, and nothing alters the fact that I had no right to challenge my sister's authority over her child. If I had not persisted, her little boy would be alive today, and she would not be mentally and physically devastated. The additional tragedy is that she can have no more children, and she'd have to wait years for adoption." Christy gripped the arms of the chair and continued, a tremor in her voice now. "I want to have a child for her, Mark, a red headed baby, as much like

Davy as possible, and - " She hesitated, unable to meet his probing gaze any longer. He leaned forward, his body suddenly tense. "And?" he demanded. Her hands clenched the chair so tightly her arms ached to her shoulders. "What I'm trying to say is - the family resemblance - your auburn hair - " A wave of astonishment crossed his face. "Well, I'll be damned," he said quietly. "And you want me to be the father?" Six MONTHS AGO such an action would have been unthinkable, but life had been different then. At twenty-three, she'd just graduated with honors from Juilliard, and the rave review from her Master's recital lay tucked in a recently signed contract as piano instructor at City College. Then a few weeks after graduation she was able at long last to put a down payment on an almost new Steinway grand, and on the very day it was delivered came the invitation that crowned her summer. She recalled the day perfectly. The entire afternoon had been spent looking out the window, watching for the truck that would bring her piano. The movers finally arrived and, plainly contemptuous of the cramped quarters offered the ebony thoroughbred, settled it in Christy's tiny New York apartment and left. She seated herself and ran a cadenza up and down the stretch of the keyboard to savor the tone of the first fine instrument she'd ever owned. Precipitously descending octaves came solid and clean from her slender fingers, and the knowledge that the piano remained her most exacting and genuine companion sang through her blood like a melody. Moments later she stopped at insistent rings from the telephone. "Beth!" she cried, recognizing at once her sister's voice, and felt guilty that in the excitement of acquiring her piano, she'd not written or called for almost two weeks. Beth, her husband, Richard, and their two-year-old son had planned to fly from their San Fernando Valley home in California for her graduation last month when Beth's sudden operation intervened. "How are you feeling?" "Fine, all things considered." "All things considered, Beth?" "It turned out to be a bit more complicated, a malignancy." Malignancy - such a terrible, echoing word! "My God, Beth, why didn't you tell me?" "Not to worry. It was discovered early, and it hasn't spread, so the doctor says. But - " There was a long pause. "But, Christy, there'll be no more children." Christy heard the heartbreak and resignation. Beth adored children. After her son's birth two years ago, she couldn't wait to have another baby. "Oh, Beth, darling, but thank God for Davy." "I do, every minute. But that's not why I called. We're finally getting around to sending you a graduation present, a flight ticket to come for a visit." "Beth! How marvelous!" Christy hadn't seen her sister since the birth of young Davy. Her scholarship, supplemented by fees from private pupils and a small inheritance, allowed no such luxury as travel. Except for Aunt Martha, Beth, who was a year younger than Christy, remained her only relative. The girls' parents had been killed in a small-plane crash on one of their frequent cross-country forays for antiques when the sisters were very young. The subsequent years spent in a girls' boarding school were still fresh in Christy's memory: the austere little gray rooms; the odors of fly spray in the cafeteria and chalk dust in the classrooms; stew every Friday as predictable as the tides; and always the scarred tinny pianos stabled in the practice rooms. Christy and Beth showed little resemblance except for their wavy auburn hair. "Beth is such a pretty little thing," people always said. In reality, Beth was taller than Christy and inclined toward plumpness, but she seemed possessed of a wide-eyed naivete that led those around her to act protective.

Christy often heard herself described as self-sufficient and persevering. "Her chin is a little too firm, don't you think? But she has very good bones, a girl with class." Whatever that meant, Christy thought and sometimes strung such comments together like a puppet to visualize the composite they made. Actually she considered her appearance quite ordinary with the underaverage height and slender build that would never stand out in a crowd. True, strangers sometimes smiled at her, and she often wondered about that. And when she was in college, a boy once told her that she had the serene romantic beauty of a Renoir. She dismissed the speech as extravagant flattery but hoarded the compliment deep inside and drew on its warm resources for a long time. AFTER THE MONTHS of hard work and dedication involved in preparing for her Master's recital, the days that followed with Richard and Beth seemed heavenly, relaxing around the backyard pool of their spacious home. There were visits to the nearby college campus, where Richard taught biology, and excursions to the smart Beverly Hills shops with Aunt Martha, whose exuberance was a tonic Christy would have liked to bottle and take home with her. One flaw marred the perfection of the visit: Beth showed a disturbing tendency to overprotect her son. Christy rationalized that her sister was reacting to the hysterectomy. Surely she would get over it. Still, if Beth continued, eventually the burden would be too great for a little boy to handle. One evening they all planned to go to a play at the college, but at the last minute Beth rejected the girl Richard called to stay with Davy. There had been some tense moments as Beth insisted she would not leave Davy with anyone but Mrs. Martin, their usual sitter. Richard pointed out to no avail that the neighbor girl was well known to them and experienced with young children. Later, when Beth left the room to put Davy to bed, Richard discussed the problem with Christy. "I understand why she's concerned, but I'm afraid it's getting out of hand," he said. The bleak look in his eyes showed his worry. In the days that followed, Beth twice kept Davy home from his summer nursery-school session. "Chicken pox is going around," she explained. "You mean some of Davy's classmates are down with it?" "Well, of course a nursery school would be a perfect place to pick up something like that," Beth said, avoiding a direct answer. "I agree that you shouldn't expose him, but don't expect to shield him forever from childhood diseases. Try not to build a fence around your son, darling." "Don't fuss, Chris. You'll be here such a short time. I want you to have plenty of time to get acquainted with your nephew." And truly some of Christy's happiest hours were those she spent with young Davy. Tousled red curls, a Steele trait, topped a freckled face that wore a perpetual smile. "A perfect model for a Hummel," Christy said as she romped with him. "Yes, isn't he!" Beth cried. Her eyes gleamed with a skim of moisture as words hung between them unspoken. No more babies, Christy. No more babies. THE FABRIC OF THEIR DAYS stretched without a ripple until almost the end of her visit. Beth and Richard were due at a late-afternoon reception for a colleague at U.C.L.A. Aunt Martha, who lived in nearby Westwood, planned a family dinner afterward, and Christy and Davy would drive over in time to join them. The day dawned cloudy in spite of southern California's confident habit of uninterrupted August sunshine, and as Beth and Richard prepared to leave, rain began to fall. Beth took off her coat. "I'll stay with Davy," she announced. "He shouldn't go out in this rain. He's not used to it. I'll call Aunt Martha and explain." Christy looked at her sister in surprise, and Richard protested quietly that

it looked like a brief summer shower. Their conversation held a threadbare quality as though it had been repeated once too often. "My goodness, Beth, this is nothing. I'll dress Davy warmly, and he'll be fine," Christy said. "We ought not to disappoint Aunt Martha on our last night together. You know what a big thing she makes over family dinners." Real concern edged Beth's voice. "I'm afraid he'll catch cold. Children's illnesses flare quickly, you know." "Don't let yourself grow paranoid, darling. You don't want to become one of those obnoxious over-protective mothers, do you?" Christy argued. Beth glanced at her son, then back to Christy as if she were a trapped animal. "I suppose you're right. But you shouldn't blame me for being cautious. After all, he's the only child I'll ever have. I really prefer to stay home with him." Christy felt torn as she looked at Beth's forlorn expression. Perhaps she ought not to insist after all. Aunt Martha would probably understand. All too well, she thought sadly. Davy hopped impatiently at her side, anxious to begin the promised excursion. Christy looked down at his eager little, face and made up her mind. "Don't be a worrywart, Beth. Go on with Richard to the reception," she said firmly and persuaded Beth back into her coat. "This storm is a fraud and will probably end in five minutes. Anyway, you can depend on me. I'll take good care of our Davy." Richard flashed Christy a grateful smile and hurried to bring the car around. Christy uneasily realized she and Beth still fell into their girlhood pattern where Christy often made final decisions. Beth's shoulders drooped so pathetically as she gave Davy a farewell hug that Christy wondered again if she hadn't acted too high-handedly. Still, she defended herself, foundations ought to be laid, or Beth would smother her child. Later she bundled Davy into his rain gear, lifted the laughing child into her arms and bolted through the shower to the car. They drove through tree-lined suburbs and soon reached the main thoroughfare. Davy happily waggled his head to ape the windshield wipers and clapped his hands like a cherubic metronome. She smiled at his capers and felt encouraged about the wisdom of their small excursion. The storm increased, and the wipers barely maintained visibility. She slowed to a crawl as she passed several stalled cars. She must drive carefully. It seemed southern California streets could not accommodate such a heavy downpour. She tested the brakes when she halted for a traffic signal. So far, all right. The light changed to green, and she crept into the intersection. Suddenly an air horn blared savagely. It was followed by the earsplitting shriek of brakes. A huge truck skidded, twisted and slithered toward her like an enraged sidewinder. In an avalanche of terror she wrenched the wheel with all her strength. A split second later came the horrendous crunch of steel on steel, and she felt the car upend in a cartwheel of fireworks, shattering glass and jagged light. Then everything turned to darkness. CHAPTER TWO

ON A WARM SEPTEMBER DAY almost a month later Richard and Beth had driven Christy home from the hospital. The effects of concussion were over, but her fractured ankle would have to remain in a cast for at least another month. The gray apprehension that filled her contrasted cruelly with the golden autumn haze that washed the quiet street where they lived. Strange that everything looked the same. Richard and Beth had visited her often in the hospital, and although grief showed plainly, Christy detected no reproach. In a way, that made the pain deeper. Aunt Martha, dear soul, tried hard to lift her spirits. She arrived

almost daily, sweeping into the antiseptic little room as though accompanied by a fanfare, filling it instantly with elegant scent and cheerful prattle. But in the weeks that followed, it seemed as if they put on masks and moved in a grim pavane danced by strangers. The death phenomenon had gutted their existence. Christy felt powerless to do anything about it. She grew tense, and her shoulders ached all the time. She watched Richard seek solace in work. He added a series of night-school lectures to his teaching schedule and then filled weekends with so many field trips that he spent little time at home. Beth had changed in some nebulous way. Gone was the sensitive appealing girl of their youth. She seemed to have passed over an invisible barrier into some distant region known only to herself. But for Christy there seemed no way to escape the guilt and sorrow that filled her days and allowed only fitful sleep in tangled sheets at night. No matter how she rationalized, one clear truth remained. Had it not been for her stubborn insistence, Davy would be alive. She relived the tragedy endlessly from the events on that rainy day to the moment she woke up in the hospital. A form had seemed to float out of the wall to stand over her. "Feeling better?" the form said and gradually materialized into a woman in white. Christy tried to turn and winced in pain. "I don't know," she said. "Where am I? A hospital?" Her tongue felt inflexible and thick. The woman smoothed the sheet with adept movements and reached for Christy's pulse. "Yes," she said crisply and frowned away further interruption. Christy waited until she finished. "How long have I been here?" "Five days, I believe." Five days! Five days in her life, void. She strove to recall. "Five days," she said in wonder. "What's wrong with me?" The woman in white wrote something down on a chart. "Concussion mainly and a fractured ankle. Your doctor will be here shortly." Her voice sounded antiseptic, without color or inflection, a fitting accessory to the room. Christy felt relieved to see her recede into the haze. Concussion. Strange to suffer with concussion. Concussion! Panic shot through her body, seared it to the melting point, and she heard again the horrendous tear of metal and the shatter of glass. "Davy!" she screamed in terror as the dark curtain split to free her memory. Where was Davy? Her little nephew had been strapped securely in his seat beside her in the car. Where was he now? She tried to thrust a leg over the side of the bed, but her body felt leaden and stiff. "Davy!" The shrill hysteria of her cry triggered running feet. A nurse grasped her shoulders and eased her back into bed. A tall man loomed suddenly at her side. "I'm Dr. Hill, Miss Steele," he said calmly while the nurse arranged her coverlet. "You have survived a serious accident. You are coming along well, but it is essential that you remain quiet for a while." Accident! The word honed the memory fragment into a terrible truth. The pale green room came into focus, and the little radio on the bedside table concluded Beethoven's Sixth, the Pastorale. "Davy's dead," she said numbly. "I'm sorry, a tragedy," he said. "Your car was totaled. It's a miracle that you survived." "Miracle! My God! I've killed my sister's child!" Christy cried. Convulsive sobs rose to wrack her body. Oh, no. Please, God, don't let it be Davy. Not the only child her sister could ever have! Not a toddler whose life had barely begun! Dark waves of nausea washed over her, and she felt as if she were drowning. "You are in no way to blame, Miss Steele," Dr. Hill said with firm mechanical politeness. "A truck with failing brakes skidded through an intersection against the signal." "No, no, you don't understand. It was my fault. I killed him!" Christy moaned, unheeding.

The doctor reached for a syringe. Swiftly the light drained out of the room, and the music grew faint. Christy lay among gray shadows feeling trapped, rigid, cold and crammed with silent anguish. THE WEEKS DRAGGED SLOWLY, and now that the cast was removed, she devoted hours every day to tedious exercises. Each limping step reminded her of the accident and kept open the raw wounds of her grief. She'd resigned her job, given up the lease on her apartment while her piano languished in storage. New York, her job, the little studio apartment - they all seemed unreal and remote, all except her piano. She missed it terribly. She felt removed, locked away, like a piece of music stuffed into a cabinet and forgotten. Worst of all was the guilt. She didn't know how she could live with it. Guilt was an insidious thing. Like radioactive fallout, it affected every cell in her body. It numbed her thinking, flung her into long periods of depression and left her no peace of mind at all. It seemed someone continually accused her: "You are to blame, Christy Steele, to blame...to blame---" And she knew it was true. But she had to get well. She must become a viable individual again so she could help her sister. "Oh, God," she prayed again and again. "Help me to find some way to make up for what I've done to Beth and Richard." Then one morning as she stepped out on the porch to take her prescribed daily walk, she left her crutches behind. The sky seemed washed with pure topaz, and chrysanthemums splashed bronze and gold against fences. She felt contrite. How long had it been since she took in the beauty around her? It's time that you controlled your grief and stopped letting it control you, she told herself. Probably the pain would remain with her always, but that was something she would have to accept. Christy had been thinking about adoption for several weeks. Surely if Beth held a baby in her arms once more, healing would begin. Did she grasp at straws, she wondered. Well, God knew she had to start somewhere. So secretly she started the rounds of adoption centers. "You will probably have to wait almost three years for a child," the first matron told her. Three years! Beth needed a baby now. "So many people waiting?" Christy asked. The woman gave a sympathetic smile, quoted statistics and told her nowadays fewer unwed mothers gave up their babies for adoption. Then she courteously invited Christy to bring her sister for an interview. Christy's hopes fell as each visit added a carbon copy of failure. Nevertheless, she determined to discuss the possibility with Beth and Richard soon. Somewhere in this world there had to be a child for them, and she would persist until she found one. When at last Christy admitted she'd been haunting adoption agencies instead of looking for a job, Beth acted almost resentful. "Forget it, Christy," she said, and her face became a closed door with dead-bolt locks. "But why? You planned on more children." "I can't afford to build up hope when there's practically no chance, at least for me. Don't you think Richard has already looked into it?" Christy leaned forward and compelled Beth to meet her eyes. "Don't give up so quickly. We'll locate a baby for you. I'm not going back to my music nor to New York until I find a child. If I don't succeed in California, I'll try other states." Beth shook her head. "I can't let you do that," she said sadly. "Even if you located a baby, aren't you forgetting my medical record? I'd never pass the requirements for an adoptive parent." Christy stared at her sister, appalled. "But you said the malignancy hadn't spread. You are well, aren't you?" Beth shrugged. "Of course. But in all cases such as mine, final clearance isn't given for seven or eight years."

Eight years! Christy tried to absorb the stupefying fact. "Couldn't we work through a physician privately? I've heard of that." Beth stood up in a gesture of dismissal. "I love you for trying, but no, darling." Christy would have felt better if Beth had slapped her or shouted. But the desolate smile, the resigned expression shut her out completely. She didn't know how to handle that kind of retreat. The telephone rang then like a referee signaling an end to their painful discussion. Beth walked to answer, her shoulders held too straight, an actress in an unconvincing role. She chatted a few minutes, then covered the mouthpiece with her palm. "It's Aunt Martha," she said. "She wants us to come to a little dinner party Saturday night. She's very persuasive. What do you think?" Other than their small family get-togethers, Christy hadn't attended a single social function since she'd come home from the hospital. It seemed an eternity. Perhaps if she got in touch with the world again, she could learn to live with herself. Christy nodded. "I think we should go." Aunt Martha remained the closestperson to a parent she had known in her orphaned life. When Christy reached her junior year in high school, Aunt Martha retired from her longtime position as personnel manager for a chain of department stores, took an apartment in Westwood and dedicated her customary verve toward making a home for her two. nieces. She saw Beth through a couple of years at U.C.L.A. introduced her to "that darling Professor Chisholm" and expertly orchestrated their wedding. In the meantime, Christy had won her scholarship to Juilliard and moved to New York. Christy thought about her neglected wardrobe. "Did Aunt Martha say how many guests she'd invited?" "No. She'll probably have her usual potpourri, except she did mention Mark Brandon." "Who is he?" "One of Douglas Enterprises' bright young executives and a special favorite of Aunt Martha's. You probably knew his wife in high school. Darcy Farrell...remember her? They were recently divorced." Darcy Farrell. Of course. The taffy blonde with the enchanting smile, star of the drama department, prom queen, cheerleader, ad infinitum. She must have been a couple of years older than Christy, and she had had the ultimate distinction of belonging to the "in" group, according to that mysterious shuffling by adolescents that segregates peer groups as rigidly as caste systems. At the time Christy fervently envied their curvaceous figures, their casual chic and the worldly sophistication with which they cut a class. Most of all, she longed for a little of their sparkle and self-confidence. As a mousy member of the school honor society, more comfortable with adults than her classmates, she knew quite well she had no opportunity to become a member of Darcy's select circle. Now she regarded her adolescent values with tolerance. Until the tragedy of little Davy splintered her life, she had grown basically comfortable with herself, still bookish perhaps, but she loved books. She ran her life by them. "What happened to Darcy's marriage?" she asked, hauling herself away from her memories. Beth shrugged. "Who knows? Mark was six years her senior. She married at nineteen and had a baby right away. Not ready for domesticity, I expect, or possibly too immature." A picture of the Darcy that Christy recalled, projecting an image of immaturity, struck her as highly incongruous. "Hmm," she said. "Our darling auntie wouldn't want to act the matchmaker again?" A shadow of a smile touched Beth's lips. "Ordinarily, yes, but in Mark's case, I think it hardly likely. Actually this is supposed to be a farewell party for him. I understand he's leaving soon for northern California to take over a new job." That proved comforting information. Christy did not yet feel ready to cope

with any of Aunt Martha's bright young men. She chose for the occasion her long pink wool knit with a matching jacket, hoping the jacket would conceal the weight she'd lost. And maybe her cheeks would reflect its warm color. She stared into the mirror. Amazing how a person could mask pain. Only her unusually thin face showed what she'd been through. She brushed her eyelids with shadow and added mascara to her lashes, but this touch seemed only to emphasize the wan aspect of her complexion, so she washed it off. Suddenly grief overwhelmed her. She sank down on the bed and held her head in her hands. How could she attend a party and act as if nothing had changed? People would smile and engage in civil evasions. "Hello, Christy, how are you?" they would ask, and all the while they would think: Poor thing! Imagine having that on your conscience for the rest of your life. Richard called that he would bring the car around. Get hold of yourself, Christy, she admonished and hurriedly patched up her makeup. It took only minutes to drive over, and they soon made their way up the ornate wrought-iron stairway. Aunt Martha hugged them effusively and drew them inside her newly decorated apartment. Orange carpeting, this time, Christy noted, and enough hanging plants to vie with an arboretum. Beth and Richard joined the other guests, but Christy remained in the bedroom after she shed her coat. She smoothed out a wrinkle in her dress. The dinner gown seemed appropriate enough an hour ago, but now it looked limp and a little dowdy. She fussed with her hair and listened to the fluctuating dynamics of the conversation in the next room. She must join the party before someone missed her. Stop procrastinating, she told herself. It's time you coped with the person you've become. You probably will never again meet others without this sense of strangeness, no matter how time eases the hurt. She walked to the living room and stood for a moment by a giant tropical plant. Just like some animal sniffing out the territory, she thought and wondered what role Aunt Martha had assigned her, as if she didn't know. Aunt Martha usually arranged her guest lists with as much forethought as she devoted to her gourmet dishes, balancing the talkers against the listeners, usually including a harlequin for spice, someone of prominence to create a center of interest and invariably someone new to provide the mystery ingredient. Tonight, with only six, she deviated from the formula. Only Aunt Martha's neighbor Dr. Daniel and the guest of honor were not family. One could trust Aunt Martha to arrange a tactful stepping-stone to pave her nieces' way back into society. Beth sat in a terra-cotta-flowered chair with a glass of champagne in her hand. Richard stood behind her, ever the guardian angel. Beth postured creditably the attentive listener, but her face wore that mask again - pale and forlorn, with a pasted-on smile. Christy winced and turned her gaze to the tall man standing by the fireplace. So this was Mark Brandon, the guest of honor. He remained the only person in the room she didn't know. Beth had said he was thirtyish, but his face was rather deeply lined for someone that age, or maybe it only appeared so in the firelight. Oddly at this distance he looked enough like her own family to claim membership: the spare athletic frame that indicated he might jog six miles every morning before breakfast; the auburn hair cut with modish fullness, the same color as her own, maybe a shade darker; and the same strong chin. All except his height, of course. The Steeles were small people. Christy took in the assured way he gestured as he spoke to Richard. Beth had described him with accuracy, all right. One needn't look twice to identify him as one of Douglas Enterprises' bright young men. But there was something else. One didn't notice it at first, and even now she might imagine it. It had something to do with the pure essence of integrity, as though he knew how to sort out values and reject the inferior choice. She didn't feel reluctant to meet him after all. If she kept company with enough strong-minded people,

perhaps she could edge into the pattern. An irrational hope, of course. She must conjure up purpose for herself, the kind that sang through one's veins like a vital melody, so she could do what must be done. Then Aunt Martha sailed over, her flowing green caftan shot through with sapphire like the plumage of some exotic bird. "Come, darling," she said and drew Christy over to the fireplace. "Christy, Mark Brandon. I've wanted to get you two redheads together for a long time, and of course, you know everyone else." Pleasantries were exchanged, and Dr. Daniel busied himself adding a log to the fire. Aunt Martha drafted Beth to help with the hors d'oeuvres, and Mark poured champagne. He lifted his glass. "Cheers to the lady in pink," he said with a smile. A safe innocuous toast, she thought and knew she had never seen eyes so deeply blue. The family resemblance she noted earlier certainly did not include the eyes. "Thank you," she said. "And I hear congratulations are in order on your new job." His smile twisted. "I'm afraid not. As of this afternoon I found myself out of the picture." She read keen disappointment and felt regret at her unfortunate salute. "I'm sorry," she murmured. He shrugged. "I guess I'll live," he said. "The job projection was only for a year, but it represented a challenge I'd have given anything to accept." Christy sipped her champagne and tried to think of some diplomatic reply. He had an interesting face, this Mark Brandon. A moment ago his eyes had glistened with the excitement of a small boy examining a prize toy. Now he fenced her out, his expression stern, and yet she sensed vulnerability there. "I'm a machinery buff," he continued. "So this job combined the best of two worlds for me. Moreover, an Australian company will monitor the venture and has promised to hire the director at the end of the year to set up a similar franchise chain in their country. That's the part that really hurts." "I can understand, particularly when I hear of your excellent qualifications," she said. He set his glass down with the kind of guarded look that made her wonder if she had said something unpardonable. "Qualifications? All except one," he said dryly. "Apparently the vice-president in charge of franchise operations was unaware of my divorce. You see, Sam Douglas prefers to use husband-and-wife teams in his franchise game." So his divorce made for double bitterness, she thought. Aunt Martha interrupted them to offer a tray of steaming mushrooms. Her sharp ears had caught the conversation. "Oh, that Sam Douglas! Why doesn't someone alert him that this is the twentieth century?" Mark grinned. "Madam, I nominate you as a committee of one." She urged him to take another mushroom. "Well, young man, the mountain could go to Muhammad." He popped another mushroom into his mouth and swallowed it. "My dear Martha, but of course. Will you do me the honor?" Aunt Martha pinched his cheek affectionately. "Impudent young cuss! Ask me again when I'm forty years younger," she said and moved on to serve the others. "So you'll be staying here, after all," Christy said. He frowned slightly. "Oh, no. Never say Douglas Enterprises doesn't take care of its own. I understand that when Mr. Douglas arrives next week, I'm to be offered the management of the Texas office." "That's quite a promotion. Is there anything wrong with that?" "Cattle, Miss Steele, cattle!" he said bitterly. At that moment Aunt Martha announced dinner, and as usual, her table rivaled the illustrations in a gourmet magazine. A silver epergne filled with deep

pink roses and baby's breath formed the centerpiece on the pink damask cloth. Creamy Lennox china and cranberry crystal sparkled in the candlelight. They found their places, and Christy felt surprised to discover she had a real appetite for the exquisitely prepared food. She even basked in the flattery of an attentive listener as she told Mark Brandon about her student years, her music and her beloved Steinway so far away. She knew full well she was being encouraged to talk about herself on Aunt Martha's explicit instructions. Nevertheless, something was getting through to her. The gnawing ache of Davy's death remained close to the surface, but she could still go through the motions of a gracious guest without plaguing others with her private feelings. Little tongues of blue fire licked briefly at their cherries jubilee, and they lingered over coffee served in the lovely opaque cups. Aunt Martha accepted their accolades, then led them to the living room where Mark and Beth pounced on an unfinished crossword puzzle that lay with some books. "Everyone pitch in," Mark ordered. He found a pencil. "We need a child of the streets. Five letters." "Gamin," Richard answered promptly, "Smarty. Now a four-letter word, a child of the sun," Beth said. "Inca!" everyone shouted together. Christy flinched at the unfortunate subject of the puzzle. We need a child, we need a child! She glanced around, but no one else seemed disturbed by the association. "You're all very sharp," Mark said, "but this next one may cool your ego. What son of a great musician composed something called 'Solfegietto'?" The firelight shone pleasantly on the two bent heads, Mark's deep rust and Beth's like burnished copper. Suddenly an impossible notion tore into Christy's consciousness, and she felt all fire and ice. Odd how a set of circumstances could trigger a concept so rational that she found it difficult to mask her elation. "Christy!" someone said. She became aware that her name had been called more than once. Flustered, she looked around as everyone stared. Aunt Martha came to her rescue. "What's the matter, darling? Don't you feel well?" Christy shook her head and asked them to repeat the question. "Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach," she said, still flushed with embarrassment. "Son of Johann Sebastian Bach." "Euterpe to the rescue!" Mark cried. The group plainly felt amused and protective of little Christy, who couldn't hold her wine, and they finished the puzzle without further attention to her. Only Mark continued to look at her quizzically from time to time. She walked over to study a vivid Gauguin-like painting, a picture she knew quite well, lest some sixth sense enlighten him. It seemed an aeon before they said their goodbyes. She couldn't wait for the solitude of her room where she could look at this willful idea with objectivity, where she could decide for sure if she had at last discovered a plan to help Beth and Richard, or whether she had lost her reason. At last she closed her door. For hours she wrestled with the scheme. She was a planner by nature. She couldn't function well unless she was organized, and she liked to see things down on paper, a bare-bones blueprint not embellished with confusing paraphernalia like emotions. The idea spawned by firelight and wine and crosscurrents of words spoken and unspoken rocketed her spirits sky-high, and she knew she had found an answer at last. She, Christy, would bear a child for her sister. If Mark Brandon would consent to act as father, surely Christy would have a curly-haired redheaded baby like little Davy. CHAPTER THREE

CHRISTY STRUGGLED for a sense of proportion as she considered every angle. Could she support herself during such a venture? She had only the small monthly income from her trust fund. But if she found a town where she was not known and found a job, she'd manage. What about the embarrassing prospect of asking Mark? Was she prepared to deal with a tarnished reputation if matters were discovered? Any girl who had a baby out of wedlock faced problems. How would she feel about giving up a child of her own flesh when the time came? Did she have that kind of courage? Could she settle for the role of a distant loving aunt? Would she be able to watch this child grow up and never dare to breathe, "He's mine, he's really mine!"? She wouldn't allow herself to dwell on it. All these concerns dwindled in significance when she considered the promise of placing a child in Beth's arms, and one with her own blood ties at that. If Mark could not be persuaded, there were surely other acceptable red-haired males. Her own life had been singularly sheltered, but she was not naive enough to believe it would be difficult in today's world to find someone interested in a fleeting liaison. Perhaps she should look into artificial insemination. The clinical procedure would solve half the embarrassment. But she was certain the law did not allow such an arrangement for an unmarried woman. First she must decide whether to explain her purpose to Mark and offer to provide him with a written release if he would cooperate, or to pursue their relationship and say nothing. Her mind trod gingerly around seduction. She preferred an honest approach. Her courage fled completely when Mark called her later that day. It seemed he'd unexpectedly come into two tickets for a popular musical and would like the pleasure of her company. Two nights later when he invited her out to dinner, she felt even more reticent. The proposal should be set forth in a businesslike and dispassionate manner without the erosive qualities of candlelight and dinner with an engaging host. If she went to his office as a client and not as the young woman who had been sympathetically filling the interlude before his departure to Texas, perhaps she could articulate the proposition. Christy knew she rationalized her procrastination, but surely Beth had grown more cheerful of late. Perhaps Beth and Richard were easing back into a normal life after all. Then that night Christy wakened to hear anguished sobs coming from their bedroom, and she knew nothing had changed. The next morning she chose her best suit, a rich brown wool with a boxy jacket, and adjusted the white collar of her blouse with care. The mirror projected a rather convincing image of a demure young woman oddly at variance with her intent. After Beth left with a friend for a faculty-wives' meeting, Christy dialed Douglas Enterprises. She kept her voice crisp as she asked for Mr. Brandon's secretary. Mr. Brandon was in conference with Mr. Douglas at the moment but would be available for an eleven-thirty appointment, the secretary advised. Everything moved too fast. THE MAN WHOM SHE'D MET for the first time last Saturday evening sat across from her now and took in her blunt proposition. She clasped her hands together in her lap and sat incredibly still to await his response. His eyes held an undefinable expression. "Why, Christy, do I take this as a marriage proposal?" he asked at last. "Oh, no!" she cried. "I don't want marriage. You've totally misunderstood. It's true that I want you to...to sire the child." She choked over the words. "But you need never see me again. I'll not reveal your name, ever. I'll sign a release or whatever you want. I plan to go out of state during my pregnancy and not tell Beth the truth even when I give her the baby." Mark stared, incredulous. "I can't believe this!" he exclaimed and shot her a look that turned her face on fire. She'd had her say and not said it well.

He rose and paced the room twice, then sat down on the edge of the desk to confront her. "Christy," he said quietly. "You of all people! What featherbrained scheme have you concocted? I couldn't let you chase across the country, God knows where, carrying my offspring. I hope I'm more responsible than that, especially when the girl's motive seems mighty suspect." Christy straightened her shoulders in an effort to combat humiliation. "Never mind the motive. I'll be accountable for my actions. I've studied every angle, and it seems to me that the gift of a child to a woman who is unable to bear one is reason enough." Mark beat a fist on the desk. "But my God! Why not adoption?" "I've checked into that, and so has Richard. There are hardly any children available. It might take years, and even so, Beth's cancer record is against her," Christy explained. His eyes narrowed. "Well, what of the child? Does it play the sacrificial lamb in your little scheme?" Anger exploded within her. "Sacrificial lamb! What child could be more wanted and loved? No infant would suffer in such an environment." Something flared briefly in Mark's face, then disappeared. "Are you certain? I understand Beth tended to be overprotective. Anyway, do you think she would consider another child so soon?" "She's too grief stricken to know what she wants. Knowing how she adores children, I'm positive another child is the answer." A curtain came down over his face, and she felt the barrier come between them. He left his desk and stared out the window a few seconds, then returned. "It's quite a proposition, Miss Christy Steele," he said. "By the way, the name is apt. But are you willing to tamper with so many lives? Yours? Mine? Beth's and Richard's? And primarily, a child's?" "I believe it's worth it!" "Don't play God, Christy!" "You don't understand at all!" Mark leaned forward and forced her to meet his eyes. "I suspect you've manufactured a rather overwhelming guilt complex and are seeking an escape hatch," he said evenly. She rose. Tears stung her eyes. "If I needed a psychiatrist, I wouldn't have come to you!" she snapped. He stiffened. "Then perhaps you've knocked at the wrong door!" Her shattered pride put stumbling blocks around her feet, but she managed to head out of the office. She should have thanked Mark for his time, but she couldn't trust her voice. Remotely she saw him hold out a hand to stay her, but she wanted no more of Mark Brandon. She didn't wait for the elevator but flew down the stairway and out to the sidewalk. Halfway down the block she realized she had passed the lot where she left the car. Across the street a small park thrust a haven of green grass and bare-boned sycamores against the insistence of encroaching buildings. A cool noontime sun threw stringy shadows across the grounds as if to camouflage it against intruders. She found a solitary bench and sank down to watch spray burst from a sculptured lotus fountain. At times such as this it helped to focus on externals. Christy often used the device to regain perspective. The minutes passed, but today no amount of concentration rewarded her efforts. Her head throbbed, and she felt as though an iron weight pressed down on her body. She turned to watch a small flock of gulls swoop down to perform a nervous ballet, raucously begging a handout. "Consider the sea gull," a quiet male voice said at her side. Mark Brandon's voice. "It's just not true that when you've seen one, you've seen 'em all." Christy stared down at his neatly polished brown shoes, but she couldn't bring herself to look up. "May I?" he asked and sat down without awaiting her reply. He opened a small paper sack and pulled out some apples and a chunk of orange cheddar. He cut

them into pieces with a pocketknife and handed her a share. "Lunch?" he asked companionably as if they hadn't been snapping at each other like the ill-tempered gulls only moments ago. "Try this cheese," he continued. "You could name a king for it." "How did you know I came here?" Christy asked and kept her tone chilly. He took his time munching the juicy apple. "I often come here for a breather," he said innocently. "I find the company of the gulls therapeutic. Watch!" He tossed out a slice of the apple. The birds dived in frantic unison, but one large gull squatted ominously, ruffled its feathers into a fearsome hump, then bulldozed its way through the flock, screeching outrageously until it grabbed- the fruit for itself. "Brute force in action," Mark commented. Christy noticed a timid bird edging its way around the flock, making ineffectual movements, and she threw it a tidbit. It snatched the prize but dropped it at the first challenger. "No self-confidence," Mark said. "Give him another season. But, aha! Now see that ballerina, a lady with class." From the center of the flock a single gull rose in a graceful entrechat to secure the treat with an easy skill. Time after time the gull repeated the feat. "Keeps her eye on the ball and refuses to squabble." Christy eyed Mark suspiciously. "I have a feeling more is going on here than a casual lecture on ornithological behavior," she said, not without sarcasm. He grinned. "I'm rarely obscure," he said. "Perhaps that's my problem. I simply find individual differences fascinating. And speaking of birds, I find the little copperheaded stormy Steele quite rare indeed." Christy brushed crumbs from her lap. So far as Mark Brandon was concerned, she soon seemed to have reached a dead end. How could she explain adequately about events that are supposed to strengthen one's character but in her case seemed only to create erosion? She could only say: Look, something has spilled all the notes off my score, and I seem unable to unscramble them. She stole a quick glance. At least he didn't seem angry anymore, even slightly. "I'm sorry about this morning," she said hesitantly. "You must have found my request infinitely gauche. Can you manage to forget the whole thing?" "I can't forget it." He laid stress on each word. "In fact, I've become obsessed with it." "That makes two of us," Christy said bitterly. He reached over and placed his hand lightly on hers. "Stop apologizing for being unique," he said. She nibbled the last bite of cheese. "I'm not sure if I should thank you. Is that supposed to be a compliment?" His laugh held no mirth. "I've rarely been accused of great finesse," he replied. So Mark had been drawn and quartered, too. She drew her jacket closer against the wintry chill and noticed a subtle movement in a scatter of leaves, then heard the angry skirl of the gulls, the final reproof. Well, so much for her daring intentions. "I must go," Christy said and got up from the bench. "Thanks for lunch." He reached for her arm and pulled her back down beside him. "Hold on. I demand equal time in this conference." Christy felt spent. She offered no resistance. "First of all," he said, "I'd no right at all to make a judgment on your sensitive circumstances this morning. I hope you'll forgive that." Christy stole a look at his face, now turned grave and introspective. Her spirits lifted cautiously, like a whipped dog unsure of its environment. "Of course," she murmured. They sat quietly for a few moments and watched the gulls suddenly forsake their bickering and leap simultaneously, as though at some mysterious signal, to disappear beyond the sycamores. Suddenly Mark wadded the empty sack and hurled it forcefully into a nearby trash can. "Damn it, Christy, the very thought of a girl like you romping around the country propositioning a bunch of redheaded males sends chills down

my spine!" How little he knew her. Never again could she go through this experience. Nevertheless, she couldn't resist a barb. "I would need to approach so many?" "Touché!" he said but did not smile. "I mean it! My mind has been taking potshots at this whole situation, and no matter how I look at it, I can come up with only one solution. We'll have to get married." Christy faced him, astounded. "Married! What possible motive could you have for marrying me?" His gaze turned obscure. "Never mind the motive. Let's just say I'll be personally accountable for my actions." His tone told her nothing. "Okay, I deserve that," she acknowledged, "but I'm not ready for marriage." "For someone not ready for marriage, you seem mighty bent on putting the cart before the horse," he said testily. Christy felt eager to clarify her position. "What you must understand is that this is a special circumstance in no way related to true marriage. I consider myself merely a biological vehicle. I don't plan to invest emotion in this act. When it's over, I shall regard it as a closed chapter, a locked room." Mark shook his head. "You're more naive than I imagined if you believe in that kind of detachment." "Not naive. I believe in ruling with the head, objectivity, intellectual discipline or whatever you want to call it." "Hmm," he muttered thoughtfully. "I've had the other extreme, you know, with a formidable lack of success." For a moment his expression turned remote, and he shut her away while he dwelled in private memories. He got up and stepped over to the fountain and seemed to concentrate on its bubbling waters for a while, then straightened. "After my pompous little lecture on morals and motives this morning, I suspect my proposal strikes you as pretty damn hypocritical." "You've lost me," she said. "Why not skip the intellectualizing and just consider the proposal?" Christy stared blankly as a thought seized her. This new tack might not be as oblique as it sounded. "Are you trying to say that a wife could make a difference in your job at this late date?" "You may believe I want that West Coast position more than any opportunity I've ever sought in my entire life, in particular the Australian managership that follows." "And it had been promised to you?" "For the past month I thought it was in the bag." "But for a matter of divorce?" "You have to realize that Sam Douglas is a man who cherishes his fetishes. This particular job involves setting up rental-equipment centers on a franchise basis in the western states. For the most part, the businesses are small and family operated. A model Douglas Rent-All Center is located in San Felipe near San Francisco. Headquarters would be there." Mark's face grew animated. "Invariably the wives come along with their husbands to learn about the setup, and Sam holds the old-fashioned notion that deals can be consummated more effectively over a few drinks and a home-cooked meal than in an office. A husband-and-wife team set up Sam's first successful franchise years ago, and he's sung the same tune ever since in spite of the stunning innovations I've proposed." "But for someone who is able to read a cookbook and dust the furniture, the job is yours?" His eyebrows lifted in amusement. "Sam Douglas is a stubborn man." "The secretary mentioned your conference with him this morning. 1 suppose he was still adamant?" Mark looked at her oddly. "Let's just say that if I told him about a bride in the offing, Sam Douglas would lay on blessings that wouldn't stop." "And the Australians?" she asked. "Do they have this same connubial requirement?"

He shook his head. "No...which adds up to a frustrating situation." Her pulse began to race. A certain arrangement might be possible that could benefit them both. The time factor appeared favorable enough. One year would give her time to get pregnant and allow Mark to take the job he wanted so much. She caught his surveillance, questioning, measuring. "What's perking in that head of yours?" he asked. "I've been mulling over your proposal." She spoke slowly, testing each word lest the tenuous try at communication break again. "I believe such a contract Would work." "Contract!" "Yes," she said and felt as though someone had just thrown her a lifeline. "I would prefer to call it a contract rather than a marriage. It would be more honest. Of course, we can go through a civil ceremony for society's sake. A year's time will allow each of us to achieve our individual goals. Then the contract can be terminated, no strings attached!" "Amazing, if not crassly self-serving!" "Well, aren't most goals achieved through selfish means?" she argued. "Why not call it dedication?" "You baffle me," he said. "Besides, you think off center. I'm afraid I'm no sparring partner in your game of semantics." "You're making something complex out of this situation, and it's really quite simple." "Is it?" he asked, and his eyes gleamed wickedly. "You're a very attractive young woman. Suppose - " "If you're asking whether the contract includes what is euphemistically referred to as 'marital rights,' it does," she interrupted. "Considering the scenario, I hadn't imagined you intended to invoke immaculate conception," he drawled. She blushed furiously. "I'm speaking for the entire period of the contract." Mark seemed to assess her confusion and again grew serious. "Has it occurred to you that such an arrangement might lead to a certain emotional involvement? Yes, yes, I know, 'Emotions can be intellectually disciplined.' " Christy ignored the sarcasm. "Right, and it's essential that we follow through. Perhaps we should write that into the contract and notarize it, or whatever one does with contracts." He threw up his hands in a hopeless gesture. "Dammit, Christy, you're unbelievable! Why lock ourselves into something that might change? I think you should face up to the fact that you've had a pretty heavy trip this past year, and you may come to have second thoughts about this scheme of yours. Speaking for myself, I'd like us to consider a lasting marriage. All the potentials are present." Christy shook her head. "You still don't understand, do you? Our concern in this instance is not for a successful marriage, only a successful contract. A successful marriage would prove a detriment. Think about it. The child is promised to other parents. At the end of the year I intend to go back to my music in New York, and you'll be free for your foreign ventures. We must remain single-minded." He sighed and took his seat beside her on the bench again. "I don't know. This contract thing of yours seems a pretty tall order. I'm not sure I'm up to it." "Think of it as a business partnership," she said, eager to explain away his reservations. He banged his fist on the bench. "With a contract for a security blanket against acting like a human being! Doesn't this theory of yours leave any room for adventure, spontaneity, risk, a little sharing of one's self? I do take it we're allowed to speak to each other," he said dryly. "Let's see if I have this straight: We must not invest any part of ourselves in this partnership, no real intimacy except on a purely physical level." He put his hands on her shoulders and roughly turned her to face him. "Sure you can cope with that?" Christy's face burned, but she nodded emphatically. Focus on the goal, she

reminded herself. Emotions are capricious and have to be ignored in this experience. He stared at her for a moment, then released her. "I must get back to the office; You run along home while I impart our stunning news to Sam Douglas and plan the strategy for our whirlwind courtship." They left the little park in an uneasy silence, and Christy felt like a child who'd just had its hands slapped and been sent off for a nap. They stood selfconsciously while she fumbled for her keys. Suddenly Mark reached for her hand and grasped it so firmly she winced. "It's agreed, then?" he asked, his deep blue eyes as remote as a stranger's. "Agreed," Christy answered. Their pact was sealed. He walked briskly away. Her fingers felt bruised and her feelings, as well. There seemed so much more they both should have said. CHAPTER FOUR

METHODICAL PLANNING came as easily to Christy as slipping on an old pair of shoes. She supposed her compulsion for making lists, records, schedules and the like showed the occupational hazard of a worrier or maybe a perfectionist. Nevertheless, she craved the peace of mind that resulted from orderliness. Even in music, art and literature, it was form and structure that fascinated her. No wonder she had an affinity for Bach. Perhaps such concern showed a longing for the security she'd lacked in her life. Make a plan, and everything will turn out all right. But this time she found herself in a predicament. How could she explain to Beth and Richard that she was going to marry a man she'd barely met? She agonized over explanations, tested them for logic and inevitably threw them out. She needn't have worried. Mark Brandon emerged as a take-charge guy with enough plans for the next couple of weeks to make their decision look plausible. He called while she still stewed over the problem, his mood far removed from that of the remote man from whom she parted only yesterday. "You owe me some getting-acquainted time," he said easily. "I'll pick you up for dinner. There's a new place in West Oaks that serves marvelous chiles rellenos" Amazing, she thought. Not "would you care to go out," but "I'll pick you up." She was finding out about Mr. Brandon, fast. Across an alcoved candlelit table, to the accompaniment of a strolling guitarist, she learned about Mark's background and later weighed its relevancy to their coming year together. He graduated from U.C.L.A. a business major, married Darcy two years later and almost immediately stepped into the Los Angeles office of Douglas Enterprises. He spoke briefly of his divorce, which was final last summer, and the deep disappointment of not winning custody of his little daughter, Carol. "Martha probably told you all about it," he said. Christy looked at his chin. It was firm, but a little too prominent. "No more than you've just mentioned." "It was one of those meaningful little affairs right under my unsuspecting nose. Well, she married the guy - Spencer Freeman, a theatrical agent." "I'm sorry," Christy said. "It's over and done with." Something about the sensitive turn of his mouth made her wonder if that was true. "I've thought a lot about this artistic thing," he continued. "Drama, music and all that. It must be an obsession. For her the stage was above all else. You're a pianist, Christy. Will you take off after a month or two?" She stared at him in surprise. For the first time she saw that some things wounded as deeply as death. Rejection, for example. "Don't worry. I'll not run off with the tuba player. We have a contract, remember?"

He looked as if she'd suddenly dumped a load of bricks on him. "Come on, Seftor Brandon, don't tell me you don't have an obsession or two, besides your passion for Mexican food, of course. I'll bet you smoke a smelly pipe or at least leave your dirty socks under the bed." He grinned. "You'd better believe it, and not only that, I crack the whip any time the tempo lags." "Aha, I'll keep that in mind." He asked her about the years in boarding school then, and she tried to keep the wistfulness from her voice as she described the new piano she'd barely touched and the job she'd had to resign. She had no reticence in discussing this public side of herself but grew wary and evasive when it came to revealing the private person who would forever carry the burden of a little boy's death. It hadn't been her habit to burden others with her problems but to bury them deep inside until she could deal with them. She supposed this sometimes made her appear aloof and preoccupied, but that seemed better than projecting them onto her friends like a slide show. She undoubtedly fell into the pattern early. In the boarding school where privacy survived as the exception, Christy sought strength in solitude. Her pleasures became her piano, her books, her composing. Company was inevitable, but it needn't demand the sharing of one's private self. By the time she reached Juilliard, she felt that she must handle whatever life presented without relying on the involvement of others. Suddenly she wondered if her lack of experience with men would handicap her in this new relationship. Already she saw facets of her character of which she'd scarcely been aware. She'd grown up in a girls' school without a father, and in her entire life she'd had only one serious love affair. It had proved almost painfully pristine and one-sided. A secret passion for her piano teacher, Sandor Nagy, lasted most of her college sophomore year. When he finally recognized her "little problem," as he named it, he dismissed it as a mere schoolgirl crush and lectured her that a serious pianist had no time for such distractions. Soon after that she was devastated to learn of San-dor's affair with a graduate voice student. She changed teachers then and structured her life to avoid any further serious involvement, not that such a course proved difficult. Hours of practice, lengthy rehearsals and the all-consuming energy demanded for frequent public performances left time for nothing more complicated than an occasional date with a fellow musician, usually to some campus concert. But the wounds of Sandor's rejection went deep. Romance, she decided, should be regarded as a surfeit of pleasurable but inessential calories. So now with Mark it seemed that not only must she learn to deal with a complex new individual, but with her own reactions, as well. CHRISTY HAD BARELY FINISHED her breakfast the next morning when Mark called with another invitation. "There's an art show and wine tasting tonight at a local gallery. A friend is showing a sculpture. I promised to look in. Care to join me?" At least he asked her this time, even though it sounded a little like a command. However, the knowing smiles exchanged by Richard and Beth outweighed any sensitivity over his peremptory approach. Mark knew a number of persons at the gallery and seemed amused at her confusion when he first introduced her as his fiancee. She gasped. "But I haven't even told Beth and Richard!" "No? Well, we must get around to that," he drawled as if they had all the time in the world. Then he held her hand as they strolled around the exhibit. She supposed he thought they must show the expected facade, but she felt ill at ease and hoped desperately her hand wouldn't grow clammy. They paused before a huge canvas painted a solid angry red with a dripping line of black slashed across the center. She, scanned the title, Who's Afraid

of Red? "I think I must have been dumped off somewhere in the last century with van Gogh or Cezanne. I don't understand this at all." "Overwhelming," he agreed, "but here's a dandy." A pedestal displayed a rusty tattered adding machine with globs of gray dough baked into the keys. "Now, honestly, can you see an ounce of artistry there?" Christy asked. "Don't look now, but I think I hear a biased critic." "I'm biased in favor of honest creativity." Don't get pompous, Christy. "Oh, I don't know...I think it's rather clever. Maybe the guy is tired of earning his daily bread as a bookkeeper." Mark clearly enjoyed acting the devil's advocate. "Well, I think any form of art should endeavor to communicate and do it with style, a little grace and expert technique. Those pieces seem contrived for effect, to shock or amuse like a practical joke, without any regard for real skill. What kind of integrity is that?" Cool it, Christy. You sound like your seventh-grade art teacher. His eyebrows lifted. "Ah, the Puritan ethic rears its crochety head." "I don't know what you mean." He pulled a long face. "If a thing is playful, it lacks value?" She had no answer for that, and they wandered about looking at the rest of the exhibits. "You're mighty quiet. Hungry? Tired? Lockjaw?" he asked. "I'm afraid I'm not good at. small talk, Mark. You'll have to get used to that." "Oh, I don't know. Seems as though I heard a right smart little lecture a few minutes ago." "I didn't mean to bore you," she said stiffly. "Touchy, touchy." He smiled at her so engagingly she laughed in spite of herself. "I guess two redheads are entitled to make a few sparks." "Amen! Come on, let's toast that significant bit of wisdom." They sat down at one of the tables in the reception area of the gallery, and someone brought them a bottle of Pinot Chardonnay. They sipped the delicate dry white wine and nibbled crackers spread with Camembert. Mark pretended elaborate caution as he refilled her glass. "Just two glasses for you, ma'am. I'm not sure I'm prepared to deal with the results again." She flushed. "I suppose I'll never live that down." "Positively not. I'm filing it for future blackmail. Seriously, we shall be living in wine country, you know, and we'll probably be expected to serve the local vintages." "I don't know the first thing about wine," Christy said, alarmed at this aspect of her future duties. "Relax," he said. "Wine snobs are easy to intimidate. Just toss off a comment on the body or bouquet, or else look 'em straight in the eye and ask what they think of the balance of fruit acids and residual sugars on the palate. Gets them every time." Rather shyly she brought up plans for the wedding. "I'd prefer a civil ceremony at the courthouse. Under the circumstances I think we should keep things as simple as possible." He waved a hand in agreement. "Whatever you say. Just manage so we can arrive in San Felipe at least one day before I report to the new office." They wrapped up their arrangements, and to Christy's relief, the process was as impersonal as preparing a grocery list. "One request," Mark said. "I'd like Sam Douglas included. To make the understatement of the year, he's ecstatic about the wedding." Inwardly Christy winced. "He got his way, didn't he?" "Sam Douglas usually does." "He sounds like a tyrant." "Not really. I'd say more like fifty percent Kentucky corn and fifty percent Texas shrewd. He speaks in wall-to-wall cliches, but he has a heart of gold.

It's downright pathetic the way he longs for the family life he never had." They finished their wine, and Christy found herself laughing now at Mark's teasing instead of experiencing the oversensitive reactions she'd had at first. He laughed a lot, too, and when they got into the car to go home, she knew they could be friends, an asset in the year to come. She settled back in the seat, and they drove in comfortable silence. Whether due to the wine or the essence of the evening, she felt more lighthearted than she had in months. He didn't speak until he turned into her driveway. "My daughter, Carol, may be with us occasionally in San Felipe. I'd like you two to get acquainted. I've promised Carol an outing. Why don't we make a day of it and visit the San Diego Zoo on Sunday?" Christy felt his glance gauge her reaction. Christy Steele, stepmother. The thought jolted her. What kind of child did a handsome couple like Mark and Darcy have? "I'll fix a picnic," she said smoothly. Except for some time spent with a few young piano pupils and the precious weeks with Davy, she had little experience around young children and felt nervous about the encounter. She thought about Mark's little daughter often during the days before the excursion and eluded herself for her apprehension. After all, she'd only see Carol once in a while. She ought to be able to handle that. In the meantime she quietly pursued her wedding preparations and supposed Beth assumed her frequent trips to town as looking for a job. That was fine for the moment. She wasn't ready yet to announce plans for the sudden marriage. She checked requirements for the courthouse ceremony and shopped for some new clothes. She found a dressy suit for her wedding day and began to sort through the few belongings she'd assembled during her stay with Beth and Richard. ON THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY, Mark brought Carol to the house early and held her hand as he introduced her. Could this solemn four-year-old belong to Mark and Darcy? She stood, feet planted firmly, if not belligerently, at least as if prepared to weather a storm. Her brown dress ballooned like a nondescript tent over her spare little body, and tights bagged at the knees in a precarious fit. Her sandy hair was parted so crookedly as if to have almost no part at all; she'd probably done it herself, and blowsy tendrils streamed in all directions. But she had beautiful eyes, deep blue and steady like her father's, a boon to that plain little face. Christy had envisioned a little doll done up in a pink pinafore, with taffy curls or auburn braids. She recalled hearing about a sick kind of vanity affected by certain beautiful women who cultivated their daughters' slovenliness in order to enhance their own attractiveness, then she chided herself for the thought. Christy yearned to brush the untidy hair and pin a perky bow in it, to alter the oversize dress, and most of all, because of Mark's obvious anxiety, to be her friend. But the cool blue eyes warned against such a trespass. Carol promptly fell asleep in the car but grew alert the moment they reached the zoo. She seemed fascinated by each new group of animals and stood motionless in front of them as if involved in some silent two-way communication. Once, Christy reached down to take her hand as they crossed a street, but Carol quickly pulled away. "What animal do you like best?" Christy asked in her best try-harder voice. Carol shrugged without reply. Later they were left together while Mark stood in line for popcorn. "Do you have a pet at home?" Christy smiled encouragingly. The child eyed her as if she were asked the color of her underwear, then frowned fiercely. No answer. Later, after she finished her popcorn, she flashed Christy a wary look and grasped Mark's hand as if her daddy's new lady friend might take it away from her. Christy's ankle, still weak since the accident, had begun to ache.

"I think I'll sit here on a bench and rest a bit. I'll people watch while you two explore." Mark and Carol strolled off together, chatting and laughing as if they had just been set free. Christy felt mortified to see that she'd cast such a pall on the excursion. The role of bite noire had not been in her repertoire, but she didn't know what to do about it. You're letting this child get under your skin, Christy thought. The day seemed endless, and she'd saddled it with her failure to get along with Mark's child. Mark remained cheerfully oblivious to the awkward undercurrent, the freeze out, the get-lost-lady or whatever was going on, but she wondered how much he actually saw. Evidently, as far as Carol was concerned, the lines were drawn, and Christy loomed as the enemy. Well, Christy was not attracted to this difficult child, either, but for Mark's sake she would make a real effort to win her over. Stop fretting, she consoled herself; she and Mark soon would move five hundred miles away. Carol probably wouldn't visit often. She spotted them meandering leisurely toward her, a giggling Carol riding on Mark's shoulders. Apparently they were having a marvelous time. Without Christy. That evening after they delivered Carol back to Darcy, Christy invited Mark in for a late supper. "I'll fix tacos," she said and hoped the gesture might somehow gloss over the way she had handled the day. Beth and Richard were out for the evening, so Mark and Christy had the house to themselves. They talked hardly at all and about nothing weightier than the amount of Triple Sec to add to the margaritas. After the long day the hour seemed blessedly restful. She could tell he felt it, too. Perhaps feeling comfortable in periods of silence might earn the same value in a relationship as easy conversation. "Do you have a California map? I'd like to show you the area where we'll be living," he said after they'd cleared away the dishes. Christy found an atlas in the den. They sat on the sofa and opened the map on the coffee table before them. He pointed out San Felipe, the adjacent wine country to the east, the redwood groves to the west and the seashore a few miles away. "It sounds heavenly. I'm looking forward to living there," Christy said and traced her finger along the course of the Russian River. Mark suddenly covered her hand with his. "So am I. Especially now that you'll be with me." She drew her hand away and looked up sharply, a question in her eyes. Why did he think it necessary to add that? He pushed a curly lock of hair behind her ear. "I mean that, Christy," he said and reached over to kiss her firmly on the lips while one hand slipped across her shoulder and down the curve of her back almost as if he were sculpturing her, then came to rest against her breast. She gasped and pulled back. "What's the matter?" "Nothing. It's just that I'm not very experienced at this sort of thing." He looked at her gravely. "Do you mind?" "Well...no...yes...1 don't know," she stammered. "I hadn't expected you'd be interested. After all, we aren't what you'd call the normal soon-to-be-married couple. We do have a rather special relationship." "True, and I'm for making it even more special. Don't you agree?" "I don't know how to answer that. Considering my original proposition to you, anything I might say would sound pretty ridiculous." "Don't say anything, then." He grinned and gave her shoulders a little tug. "What makes you so tense? Relax. I'm not going to eat you." "I know," she murmured and studied the expression on his face, kind, amused and a little puzzled. Suddenly her eyes glazed with tears. "I'm sorry. I've handled things poorly." He cupped her face in his hands. "Not at all. You're a pretty wonderful

person, you know. I'm not sure why I have been so lucky. And you're very beautiful. I don't think I've ever known a girl so unconscious of her beauty." He can't be serious, she thought. This was the kind of talk one would expect to hear from an experienced man like Mark, but she hadn't believed he would think it necessary to practice his charm on her. She felt tongue-tied and awkward. Auburn-haired Christy Steele, self-assured musician, a young woman who ordinarily felt very much in charge of herself, was already out of her depth. Mark held her at arm's length and seemed to assess her confusion. There was something in his eyes she had only dreamed of but never seen. It made her breathless. His hands moved to span her waist as if to prove it was really that small. Then his fingers loosened the tie on her blouse so that he could feel the furious pounding in the hollow of her throat. He kissed the place and then lingeringly the one between her small firm breasts, then pulled her into his arms, kissing her lips so gently, so sweetly, she found herself responding with an urgency that shocked her. When she drew away this time, he didn't look offended but smiled as if he'd just affirmed some truth he'd already suspected. As he rose to leave, she noticed for the first time the fatigue lines around his eyes. "Mark," she said impulsively, "I know it isn't easy to juggle all this social life with your busy schedule." "Complaining?" "Of course not!" "Perhaps I prefer it this way," he said and tipped up her chin to kiss her once more. "Good night, Christy, and not to worry. This week has been the best I've had in a century." Afterward she lay in bed and tried to focus on the elongated shadows cast through her window by a late-rising moon. The evening had unnerved her. Looking back over her growing-up years, she realized she'd had little physical contact with people. She'd rarely been embraced or kissed, and the romantic episode with Sandor, her piano teacher, had existed entirely in her mind. As for her personal feelings, she'd spent them mostly on her piano during her many hours of practice, rather than sharing them with another person. True intimacy of any nature had not formed a part of her life, but Mark's actions tonight stung her into an awareness of such moments to come. Mark showed in no uncertain manner that he intended the physical relationship to form a real part of their coming arrangement. She must take herself in hand and not react so awkwardly, and remember such times were all a part of the scene, to play them in such a way so as not to embarrass either of them. Would she be able to manage that kind of make-believe, she wondered, The purpose of this marriage, as far as she was concerned, relied solely on the sexual act. In the far corner of her mind she had allotted a portion of their living together to sexual intercourse, much as an accountant figured percentages. But this evening told her she had a long way to go in dealing with such intimacy. For the first time she began to consider the scope of their year together as something more than a tidy outline she might have prepared for a term paper. CHAPTER FIVE

EIGHT, CHRISTY MUSED DROWSILY as she lay half-awake a few mornings later. Numbers floated like dust motes all around her, then lined up on a calendar made of eights, rows of them. But why eight? She opened her eyes and knew. Within the next eight days she and Mark must announce their intentions, pack their belongings, get married and drive five hundred miles to their new home in San Felipe. They had completed their plans several days ago, but still she had told no one. Coward, she chided herself. Why do you think waiting twenty-four hours more will make your plans seem any less impetuous? Oh, Lord, why hadn't they eloped?

Fortunately Mark was a better actor than she. Perhaps his aggressive attentions since they met the few short weeks before would provide a believable framework on which to hang their abrupt decision. But she dared not procrastinate any longer. Mark was due to take over the San Felipe office the first of the year. He wanted to arrive there a week early, so they planned to be married at noon on the twenty-fourth. Christmas loomed just a week away. Christmas without Davy. Davy with stars in his eyes at the sight of the lighted tree. Davy riding his rocking horse with jubilant abandon. Davy---If his loss still tore her apart, how must it be for Richard and Beth? His absence would seem even more poignant now. Christy prayed that the wedding would provide enough diversion to help them all through the day. She and Beth were meeting Aunt Martha for lunch today, and the charming little tearoom Aunt Martha had described should provide the perfect place to tell them. She decided to wear her new robin's-egg-blue suit, one of the two outfits she'd recently purchased. Did two add up to a trousseau, she wondered. She looked at her reflection in the mirror as she adjusted the bow at the neckline and then brushed her auburn hair into place. The feminine lines of the suit flattered her slender figure - "A beguiling softness without ceremony," the ad had insisted. Maybe she could carry off the pretense after all. If I can hold that nervous flush in my cheeks for the next hour, I might present a reasonable facsimile of a dewy-eyed bride, she told herself. The tearoom was one of those quaint places with an abundance of ruffles, too much bric-a-brac and enough flowering plants to stock a greenhouse. The only thing it lacked, Christy decided, was a string ensemble to play sentimental tunes with an overwide vibrato. A hostess in a flounced red gingham gown seated them, and Christy's gaze wandered across a grouping of white plastic choirboys, a print of some Rosa Bonheur stallions and a spoon collection unbelievably wedged onto the wall adjacent to their table. The objects took on a queer distortion as though her anxieties churned inside them and changed their shapes. Get back into focus, she charged. See yourself seated here with the two persons you love most, a normal young woman with a normal secret to share. She found refuge in commenting on the decor until they placed their orders. Then after the waitress left, she clasped her hands tightly in her lap. "I have some news for you," she said, her voice suddenly breathy. "What would you say if I told you Mark and I plan to be married a week from today?" Aunt Martha and Beth cried out their delight and hugged her warmly. Beth's eyes shone. "Oh, Chris, I'm so happy for you!" Aunt Martha's smile bestowed a blessing on all of life's joys and on young love in particular. Her chins began to quiver, and she reeked with strategy. "Darling, how simply marvelous! A Christmas wedding! I take full credit for this romance, for I introduced you. What a beautiful bride you'll make! We'll go to Leon's for your dress, of course, and I'll get Klaus to do the catering." Christy forced a laugh to cover her dismay. "I'm afraid you'll have to settle for a no-frills affair this time, auntie," she said and related her Spartan plan. "Oh, no," Beth wailed. "Not the courthouse. It's so cold." And so appropriate, Christy silently added. "We want to keep things simple," she said firmly. She wondered what they'd think if she told them a marriage of a year's duration merited little more than bare civil pronouncements. Moreover, a prelude of minimum fanfare made for a more graceful finale. Quote: the Christy Steele Manifesto for One-Year Marriages. She didn't want to subject Mark to the usual barrage of feminine folderol. After all, he would give the major gift in this arrangement. Aunt Martha straightened her shoulders, and the small plume on her hat began to sway. "Nonsense. Just wait until you see the magic Beth and I can

accomplish in a week!" "But Beth isn't up to all that pressure, and anyway, there's not even time to send out invitations." Stay calm, Christy. You knew this wouldn't be easy. "My goodness, child, we can still use the telephone." Christy looked at Beth and silently implored her support, but Beth's eyes filled with tears. "This isn't like you at all, Christy. You love tradition, and no one knows better than I how you tend to details. But you're rejecting everything." Christy was startled at Beth's reaction. She stared wordlessly at her sister and saw the whiteness around the nostrils, the starkness of the shadows under her eyes, a face that showed too well the months of sorrow. Christy felt shaken. It had never occurred to her that Beth would care that much. Perhaps if I were truly involved in this marriage, I could understand Beth's attitude, she thought. "Really, dear people, we want to be practical," she said weakly. Aunt Martha sniffed. "Practical! Who wants to be practical at a time like this?" Beth leaned across the table. "Oh, Christy, you'll never know what it means to me to see you married to a fine man like Mark. Please don't spoil it by shutting us out!" So in the end, it was Beth, not Aunt Martha, who altered Christy's determination, and together they made a compromise that satisfied no one. The ceremony was changed to the college chapel for the family and a few close friends, with a reception to follow at Aunt Martha's. At least in the small apartment she would not have to play the radiant bride before more than a dozen guests. But even the prospect of maintaining her poise among the gushing well-wishers at the small family affair filled her with panic. Now she must tell Mark. No matter how she rationalized the new arrangements, she felt guilty. She had assured him she wanted the barest concession to propriety, then proceeded to ensnare him in the full tribal trappings. What would he think? That evening Mark stopped by after a late session with Sam Douglas. He seemed anxious to share with her his enthusiasm about his new job. She poured sherry for the two of them and found herself only half listening as she worried about what she must tell him. The wine curled her tongue as if it were vinegar, and she set the glass down on the coffee table. Then she heard her voice grow tight with embarrassment as she explained the change of plans. "I guess it all boils down to the fact I can't bring myself to say no to Beth," she concluded. "Relax," he said. "Plan number two suits me fine. What's wrong with a little sentiment? Anyway, statistics show marriages performed in church have a greater longevity record than all others." He seemed to invite some kind of challenge, but Christy felt too relieved to examine that statistic. She sipped her wine, happy to find that it tasted like sherry again. Now she dedicated herself to the wedding preparations in the efficient manner that came naturally to her, but all the while she felt a queer ambivalence she dared not explore. She found herself testing her new name-to-be, Christy Brandon. It had a rhythm about it, a kind of pertness and candor her own name, Steele, lacked. Steele: stark, rigid, or did she imagine that? ON HER WEDDING DAY Christy rose to pewter skies and a drizzling rain. She stood at her bedroom window and barely made out the campanile of the chapel two blocks away, a misty symbol that in a few hours would change her life. Below, moisture shone on the dank laurel hedge and turned the street an uncompromising black. She began to feel an inward tremor, a kind of Pav-lovian response that emerged every time it rained since those tragedy-filled hours months ago. Get hold of yourself, she admonished. You've managed to arrange the impossible, so

why all this reticence? She knew the answer, of course. She never should have let Mark talk her into marriage. That was the basic dishonesty. She should have held to her original plan to drop out of sight and have a child alone. Instead, she was going to stand at the altar and falsely swear to love a man "till death do us part," a man she barely knew. Yesterday she'd handed Mark the contract. She had typed it on good-quality paper and added her signature at the end. Mark glanced at it casually, then thrust it into his pocket as if it were an inconsequential memo. "That wasn't necessary, you know," he said quietly. She felt rebuffed, as though she'd committed a faux pas. He looked at her crestfallen face and reached for her hand. "I trust you, Christy." That's what it's all about, she thought with relief. Trust became the real vow in this pact, not the ritualistic facade they would perform today. The morning grew hectic in spite of her careful planning. Something went wrong with the iron as she put finishing touches on her dress, and she had to borrow a neighbor's. The telephone rang repeatedly, students checking with Richard regarding the upcoming field trip. After innumerable interruptions Beth jerked out the connecting jacks. "I'll go through the ceiling if that phone rings once more!" she cried. Christy looked up in surprise and tried to reconcile Beth's assurances of improved health with the edgy reaction. Beth caught the glance. "Don't mind me. I'm just excited. I adore every minute of this, honestly." Her tone warned Christy not to press. Well, let Beth assume this marriage was made in heaven. People weren't grateful to those who shattered their dreams. The ceremony was scheduled to take place at noon. For the rest of the morning Christy packed and unpacked her suitcase half a dozen times, stripped the sheets from her bed and remade it, then dusted the already spotless room. As if to compensate Mark for her excesses, she had chosen a gown of utmost simplicity, a long creamy wool ensemble. It was becoming and practical, but hardly traditional. She cut her own bouquet from the yard, a spray of laurel and a few stems of white stock to hold against her prayer book. The showers had increased to an earnest downpour as the three of them prepared to leave. They put on their raincoats, and Richard drove them to the nearby chapel. To Christy's relief the parking area held no other cars. In the few minutes left she would try to conjure up a little poise and subdue her pounding pulses. A raw wind tore at their umbrellas as they scurried toward the chapel. Richard reached to open the door, but it held firm. He strode off in exasperation to locate the remiss custodian while Christy and Beth huddled against the building. The foul weather threatened them under their inadequate shelter, and Christy tried to shield her gown from the driving rain. It's an omen, she thought. Accept it. Go home. Richard returned soon with a grim-faced man wearing an overlarge black rain cape. "Regular man went home sick. Nobody told me about a wedding," he said peevishly. He thrust the key in the lock and flung open the door with elaborate effort to prove his extraordinary favor to them. "Set the bolt when everyone clears out," he said and flapped off across the campus like a sullen crow. The church felt like ice. Richard found the thermostat and fiddled with the dial. "If I can't get this thing to work, I'll have to give away a cold-storage bride," he said. Christy and Beth forced a laugh and went to look for the dressing room so they could tend to their windblown hair. Then they returned to join Richard in the front pew.

The chapel could hold a hundred worshipers at most, but as they sat there, silent and hunched against the cold, they might have been in some cavernous cathedral. Light filtered reluctantly through the stained-glass windows, and the modest basket of poinsettias on the altar looked more abandoned than decorative. Christy wished she had consented to an organist. Music would have filled the void and lent reality to the affair. But after all, what did it matter? The true reality here was the contract that made possible the precious gift to her sister. Beth turned to Richard with a worried frown. "Where is everyone?" she whispered. "Cheer up," Richard said with undaunted good humor. "Christy won't be the first bride jilted at the altar." "Richard!" Christy felt so unnerved she almost welcomed the thought. As if to verify the ill-omened preliminaries, Black Crow shuffled down the aisle waving a rain-soaked paper. "Your name Steele?" he demanded. Christy nodded woodenly. "Found this message on the desk," he said and shoved it toward her. "Chaplain Bennet in minor traffic accident," she read. "Call wedding party and delay ceremony one hour." A list of names followed. All were checked except theirs. She and Beth looked at each other. "The telephone jack!" they cried simultaneously. Then Beth grasped Richard's arm. "The reception! How will Aunt Martha cope?" Beth and Richard exchanged alarmed glances, and Christy berated herself for the hundredth time for allowing the proceedings to get out of hand. Richard strode over to study the sluggish thermometer, and Beth thumbed absently through a hymnal. The distant whine of a siren and the rustling of the pages painfully embroidered the slow passing minutes. The nightmare would not end until someone, anyone, walked into the church. If a person could be consumed by anxiety, Christy knew she would vanish any minute and found herself praying for that very consequence. Then they all burst in at once: the chaplain adjusting his surplice and explaining something about a tow car; then Aunt Martha, stunning in a long powder-pink dress and a matching jeweled turban. There were two couples who must have been friends of Mark; and of course, the flamboyant-looking gentleman in the western-cut suit and nifty white Vandyke beard had to be Sam Douglas, president of Douglas Enterprises. A moment later, Mark brought Carol over to sit with Aunt Martha. Today he'd entered his other self. The bubbling sense of humor, which ordinarily he kept surface deep, might never have been. Perhaps he coped with too many memories of another wedding, or maybe he experienced the same withdrawal symptoms she felt. Their eyes met briefly, and he flashed a quick smile. Then his expression turned grave and aloof, a little stubborn. Carol tugged at Aunt Martha's hand as they eased into the pew immediately behind Mark. "I want to go home," she whimpered. Aunt Martha hastily searched her purse. "Here, eat this," she whispered and handed Carol a mint with a no-nonsense gesture that warned the child to curb further interruption. Carol chewed the mint and leaned stiffly forward to get as close to Mark as possible. Suddenly she clutched her stomach, and Christy noted with alarm that Carol's face had grown excessively pale while a film of moisture showed on her forehead. Uncommonly neat braids fell forward but did not hide the tears that spilled down her cheeks. Is this child trying to upstage me at my own wedding, Christy wondered, but familiar signs from her own childhood blazed signals too ominous to ignore. She crossed the aisle, swept Carol up in her arms and headed toward the lavatory in the narthex while Mark jumped up to follow. The startled guests stared in amazement. Oh, God, Christy prayed. Get us there in time, or we'll both be disgraced.

By the time Aunt Martha and Beth crammed into the cubicle, Carol had rid herself of her breakfast and considerably more, it seemed. Oddly enough, the incident stabilized Christy's emotions. She returned to her place followed by the retinue of assistants as though standard wedding procedure required the bride to deal with an upchucking child. The chaplain tolerated brief commiseration, then initiated the beleaguered ceremony. His opening ritual and prayer were ordinary enough. "Who giveth this woman in marriage?" he asked. Richard responded, then returned to his seat beside Beth. The chaplain paused and looked at Christy and Mark so intently she wondered if this man with the thoughtful face and penetrating eyes could have guessed their intent. Don't condemn me, she silently begged. I'm doing this for Davy. Just tell me I've made the right decision. For a moment she visualized a joyous wedding with her little nephew happily tucked between Beth and Richard as they sat in the chapel behind her. Tears glazed her eyes, and she lowered them quickly. Oh, Davy, I didn't mean to take you away from your parents. Darling, forgive me. The chaplain had been speaking for some time, she realized. She gave him her attention. "The purpose of marriage is to banish the evil of loneliness," he said. She listened now. She knew about loneliness. "A sound relationship denotes mutual esteem," the chaplain said, "and bearing with each other's weaknesses and infirmities, offering comfort in times of stress and providing for each other in times of adversity. May you strive for peace and joy and good humor, which is not hilarity, but a deep sense of inner strength that, come what may come, you can handle together." Relief surged through Christy as without reservation she affirmed the vow, and so did Mark. They exchanged rings, and Mark gently kissed her. They were married. They turned to accept the good wishes of the small group, and Carol came over to cling to Mark's hand. She looked more than ever the pathetic waif, and Christy could imagine what a bewildering experience the wedding must have been. No wonder the child was upset. Mark gave Carol a hug. "Everything is going to be all right, punkin. Aunt Martha has gone to telephone your mother. Someone will take you home as soon as we get to the reception." There was more talk before Aunt Martha returned and took Carol with her. "Hurry, darlings. We're late, you know," she cried and herded everyone out of the chapel. The rain had stopped, and sunlight broke through the scudding clouds. "Happy the bride the sun shines on," Sam sang out as he guided Christy and Mark to his white Cadillac. They settled into the custom-leather seats and waited in silence while Sam engaged in a last-minute conference with Aunt Martha. Christy primly fingered the newness of the gold band on her left hand. Mark regarded her with an amused expression and gave her a wink. "Worried?" She shook her head. "It went easier than I expected, the vows I mean. Maybe I'm old-fashioned; I hated to swear falsely. But today's version, well, I meant that honestly.' * He reached over and squeezed her hand. "Not a devious bone in your body. You may have to give me time to get used to that." "Better wait until we get through Aunt Martha's bash before you make that judgment," Christy said. "Don't worry. It's only a small party. We can probably leave within an hour." Sam stepped in and took the wheel, and they glided through the pleasant residential streets magically transformed from rain-soaked grays to sunlit colors. She smiled at Sam's continuous affirmation that she was the prettiest little bride west of Texas, knowing Mark wished they were tucked in his Ghia headed up Highway 5 to San Felipe. The car coasted to a halt. They had moved into the canopied portico of the

Oakview Country Club, only a mile from the chapel. Mark and Christy stared apprehensively at the winding avenue lined with cars parked as far as they could see. Sam leaped out and opened their door with all the exuberance of a tour director. "Surprise!" he cried and laughed at their shocked faces. "What made you think Martha and I would let you go away without an honest-to-God party? Man, this wedding is something to shout about! Get moving!" CHAPTER SIX

MARK AND CHRISTY SCURRIED up the canopied steps while Sam turned the car over to a parking attendant. "I can't believe this," Christy said when they entered the lobby. "If I'd known, I would have stopped it." Mark looked stonily ahead, and Christy supposed he probably didn't believe her. After all, she'd been able to control little else about this wedding. Then she saw he fixed his attention on two figures ahead, Darcy and Carol. Christy felt chilled as if from a sudden draft. A confrontation looked inevitable. Darcy hurried toward them, towing the drooping child. The understated dress she wore might have been every woman's dream of a Coco Chanel, and her hair, tawny and silken, swung rhythmically in her stride. She fairly exuded the assurance and charm shared by so many of the Beautiful People. For a second, Mark and his former wife locked glances, and a lightning sixth sense made Christy certain that something live and real still existed there. Mark reached for Christy's hand and held it firmly. "You girls remember each other, I'm sure," he said evenly. "Of course," Christy replied and felt Darcy's amber eyes scan her like a computer. "Congratulations, darlings, and the best of everything," Darcy said warmly. Her accent shamelessly flaunted her recent drama-school credentials. "Thank you," Christy said and heard her own voice sound wispy and colorless by comparison. She watched a dimple play near Darcy's sensuous mouth. What a beautiful woman she was. In spite of her theatrical flair, Darcy had always seemed a very loving, very generous, fun gal. Mark must have been devastated when she left him. Christy felt like an anonymous figure alongside this enchantress, who was an intriguing combination of an earthy music-hall girl and a finely bred aristocrat. Darcy laid her hand fleetingly on Mark's arm and managed to look both beguiling and innocent. "I'm not a party crasher, honest. Martha just called for us to pick up Carol. Ghastly timing, isn't it? Spence is still in New York, so I'm afraid that left just little old me." She flashed a dazzling smile, apparently certain she had dealt splendidly with the trying moment. Meanwhile Carol leaned against her mother, her face pale. She looked up at Christy, and the small mouth turned obstinate. Get away from my daddy. He's mine. Don't you dare touch him, her glance seemed to say. Dear child, you're not really losing your father to this nasty lady. It's all a charade. Honest. Christy silently answered the rebuff. Mark knelt and hugged his daughter. "You'll be home in no time. Then you can take some "medicine that will make you feel better. I'll call you later, sweetheart. Take care." He kissed her cheek and let her go. Carol listlessly returned his kiss. "Okay, daddy." Then with a brief nod to Darcy, Mark took Christy's arm, and they climbed the circular stairway to the reception hall. Sounds of music and voices floated into the corridor. Relax, she told herself. Make yourself look pleasant. You can go through this farce if you don't let everything show in your face. Suddenly Mark stopped on the landing. "I'm sorry," he said. "Darcy's forte

is staging scenes, in case you haven't heard." "It doesn't matter." She wanted to reassure him on that score. "But I am sorry about Carol." "Too much excitement, I suppose." He studied her for a moment, then broke into a grin that translated the entire affair into a trifle. "Forget Darcy," he urged. "Mind over matter; isn't that your philosophy?" She felt heartened by his attitude. Perhaps it would be catching. He spoke with such determination, though, she wondered if he actually directed the advice to himself. Or did he have the knack of easy erasure? The reception, under way for the past hour, apparently flourished in spite of the tardy wedding party. People danced or sat at tables decorated with baskets of creamy spider chrysanthemums tied with enormous red bows. White-jacketed waiters walked among the guests to pour champagne, and at the far side a satin-draped table supported a wedding cake, an architectural miracle of stunning proportions. "A Sam Douglas extravaganza if I've ever seen one," Mark commented wryly. Christy groaned as she saw a gazebo in the center of the ballroom banked with camellias. An ornate cage of lovebirds hung inside. "Don't blame it all on Sam," she said. "Darling Aunt Martha's touch is all too apparent." Sam appeared then and led them to the platform inside the gazebo where they became the recipients of an endless stream of toasts, some eloquent, some sentimental and not a few drenched with champagne superlatives. Mark gallantly responded to each one, and they raised their glasses again and again. When the musicians struck up a waltz, Mark and Christy danced, just the two of them alone on the floor at first while the crowd watched fondly. Once they swept by Aunt Martha who beamed at them like a pasha in her pink turban, no doubt savoring the results of her splendid conspiracy. "Hey, I prescribe one fetching smile," Mark said, looking down at her with mock severity. "You look as if you've just been thrown to the lions." "What perceptive eyes you have, Dr. Freud. The truth is, I'm not very good at playacting." He drew her close and rested his cheek against her hair. "Thank God for that," he murmured. She pulled back, a little breathless. "I'm concerned about what all this has done to your timetable. We'll never make San Francisco tonight." He looked amused. "We'll just have to make a new list, won't we?" He maneuvered a space between them and lifted her chin with one finger. "Come on, pretend I'm Robert Redford." She smiled to join the conspiracy. "All right, I'll look radiant, and you make like you're whispering sweet nothings in my ear." Mark's grin was carefree. One would think he honestly enjoyed the unexpected turn of events. This man she'd married was no flat sketch done in pencil. Then he tightened his arm and led her into such an intricate set of steps she wondered if he were testing her. She followed with ease. Didn't he know that rhythm came as second nature to her? His eyes shone devilishly. "You're damn good, Mrs. Brandon!" Hearing her name spoken aloud startled her so she stumbled. Together they laughed and gave themselves completely to the music, responding in unison to its pulsing charge. She felt weightless in his arms, full of grace and very feminine. There had been moments in her life when she had experienced a high sense of exhilaration beyond all explaining, like the time she came upon the plum tree in a cloud of blossoms against a blue sky with the scent all around her, or when she first heard the Bach D Minor Toccata and Fugue on the university pipe organ. Waltzing with Mark now filled her with that kind of elation. The incredible day receded as their bodies took to the music as if made for it, and they moved in a joyous meld of rhythm, sight and sound. Gowns glowed like jewels under the crystal chandeliers, and the baskets of flowers turned into sprays of fireworks. Even the kiss Mark planted on her temple in deference to the crowd's expectations did not break the spell. Heaven

occasionally allowed such moments so that one would know how to define it, she decided. At last the dance ended. He released her, and she felt faintly resentful. It seemed as if some new person had been set free inside her. Mark smiled wickedly down at her as they walked from the floor. "If this is any indication of our compatibility," he began and squeezed her hand, but before he could finish, Sam Douglas took her arm. "Watch out, Christy," Mark said as he handed her over. "Sam's a foxy one!" The band began a percussive contemporary beat. Sam looked doubtful. "I'm not much of a dancer, but if you're willing?" They faced each other, and he did little more than a stiff shuffle. Christy felt amused that his self-assurance did not follow him onto the dance floor. Suddenly he threw up his hands. "How about sitting this one out?" "I'd love it," she said and meant it. "Good! I'd rather flirt in a corner with a pretty girl any day than compete in this arena." They found a table in an alcove tucked behind a bower of ferns. Waiters appeared to pour champagne and to pass platters of skewered prawns and hot crab canapes. Christy motioned toward the room. "We do thank you and Aunt Martha for this classy affair, but you shouldn't have, you know." He grinned. "A team of wild horses couldn't have restrained us. Besides, if there was ever a marriage I'd like to take credit for, yours is the one!" Join the crowd. Everyone wanted a piece of the credit, Lord knew why. "Sam, the irrepressible romantic," she said. He laughed as though the compliment pleased him. "Well, I can't claim the credit, of course. Still, that San Felipe job might have tilted the scales, eh?" He winked. "Like a sledgehammer," she said. He leaned over to pat her hand. "You're A-OK, sweetheart." He clasped his big hands together, and his manner grew confidential. "Mark hates failure; you must have found that out by now. It almost finished him when Darcy took Carol and left him for that phony Hollywood character. That's why we're all so happy about you." She thought about the one-year contract and didn't know what to say. He leaned back reflectively. "Well, Darcy didn't become an instant star, after all, although I hear she gets a small part now and then, just enough to keep the footlights in her eyes, I suppose. Nevertheless, she's sure one glamorous hunk of woman! But you're made of solid stuff, Christy," he added quickly. "A man can see that right off." "Pure homespun and a yard wide," she said. And I don't underestimate the fascinating Darcy, thank you, she thought. Darcy's timing for picking up Carol was exquisite. Well, timing was important for an actress; it took accurate calculation. Christy remembered Darcy from high school. She never missed an opportunity. This entire plan might turn into a juggling act. She suppressed a weary sigh. Brides were supposed to be breathlessly happy, not weary. Sam downed the rest of his champagne and set the glass on the table. "This is a hell of a conversation! Here I am running off at the mouth about Mark's former wife. What about you? Mark tells me you're a musician." "Juilliard," she said. "I play the piano." "Well. No reason why you can't continue your music. You can get Mark to take you to a concert in San Francisco once in a while. Maybe even take on a pupil or two." "But not three or four or more?" she needled. His heavy white brows knotted. "Damn it, Christy, let's not beat about the bush. This year represents Mark's dream come true. Your support or lack of it can be crucial." "My goodness, Mr. Douglas, haven't you heard of women's lib?" He looked so startled she hastened to reassure him. "Well, don't you worry. My piano is in storage far away in New York, and I solemnly swear to keep the home fires

burning this whole solid year. I'll wear pink gingham aprons, cook up a storm and polish the patina right off the furniture. I've even signed a contract attesting that very fact." He chuckled and reached over to plant a hearty kiss on her cheek. "You two will make it, that's certain." His statement rang with the authority of a command, and he continued to nod as if to underscore it. Now the music abandoned its rock beat and began a dreamy ballad. Amused, they watched the change of style switch generations on the dance floor. Throughout the conversation Christy saw Mark table-hopping. Then he danced with Aunt Martha and with Beth, lovely in sea-foam chiffon. Moments later, Christy felt his hands on her shoulders. "This tete-a-tete has gone on long enough," he said. "I'd like you to meet some of my co-workers." Mark had no family here. He'd mentioned two brothers in an engineering firm in Colorado. He tucked her hand in his, drew her through the crowd and accepted congratulations, made introductions and engaged in the kind of witty repartee in which she always felt so remiss. He wore his role with such palpable charm that Christy felt only admiration. The musicians broke into a fanfare, and Aunt Martha signaled to cut the cake. A bevy of frilly-aproned waitresses descended like pouter pigeons to reduce the towering confection to crumbs. Christy and Mark had barely tasted their own portions when a waiter touched Mark's arm. "Sir, excuse me. This telephone message just arrived." "More congratulations?" Mark skimmed the note. His face grew ashen. "My God!" he said hoarsely. "Carol is unconscious! She's been rushed to the hospital!" CHAPTER SEVEN

CHRISTY FELT the room fuse into a nightmare of writhing color. What was she, the kiss of death? Double tympanies beat within her, the ache of little Davy and now Carol. A green sickness washed over her. Mark swung away to scan the room, his face still pale with shock. "Where's Sam?" Panic shook his voice. Christy tugged at his arm. "Never mind, let's go. No need to explain." They scurried out a side door, and Mark pulled out the key Sam had slipped to him earlier. He handed it to the parking attendant. "In the night-watchman's garage. Hurry!" The attendant grinned, anxious to comply with such traditional intrigue, then loped off with a puzzled frown, no doubt wondering at their grim impatience. In moments the car skidded curbside. Mark took .the wheel, and Christy clung to an armrest as they roared out into the dirty gray twilight. Rain showers had resumed, and she felt the tires slither treacherously on the slick streets. Lights flickered and blurred at the end of their vision. Traffic increased, and the car slammed to a halt for one stop signal after another, wretched red beacons that impeded their progress. Mark bent forward, his body taut, hammering the steering wheel in frustration with every stop he made. "How much farther?" Christy asked. "Only about a mile, but these damn signals! We've missed every one." With a curse, he wrenched the wheel and turned off the avenue to dodge through side streets. Christy locked trembling fingers. Don't let her die, she prayed silently over and over. Houses flashed by in a series of muted blobs behind the amber street lamps, and the air, scented with dampness, seemed to close in and stifle them with dread. Carol's cry for help had come much earlier, but they hadn't listened.

The hospital came into view at last, and the Ghia careened left, then right, and finally skidded to a stop. Together they scrambled from the car and raced across the lawn in a shortcut to the sidewalk and up the wide steps to the hospital entrance. In the foyer an orderly directed them to a waiting room. "Stay here," Mark said and strode over to the desk. Christy sank into a chair and felt a nauseous deja vu in the antiseptic room with the plain buff walls, the serviceable uncomfortable chairs and the nurses who bustled in and out with their polite starched smiles, seemingly untouched by the crises that seethed around them. She saw Mark's knuckles gleam white as he gripped the edge of the counter. He leaned forward and spoke intently to the woman at the desk, then looked at his watch and impatiently made a turn around the room. Christy felt despair, anguish and hope crowd the small room, and she put a hand to her throat as if to ward off a sense of drowning. Somewhere in the background she heard a clicking sound, jerky and erratic. Through the glass door she glimpsed a woman pacing the corridor. It was Darcy. She seemed smaller somehow, as though drawn into herself, her face pale and bleak in the harsh overhead light. A moment later, Darcy recognized Mark and came into the room. She walked straight toward him as if no one else were present and spoke to him in hushed tones. Then she covered her face with her hands and pressed against him, sobbing. Mark put his arms around her, and for a moment they clung together in mutual support of the bond that still lay between them. It wasn't secretive, but it demanded privacy, and Christy looked away. There were too many parallels here, too many hideous memories: a lifeless Davy, a deathly ill Carol, parents with tragedy-scarred faces. And the guilt. Oh, God, how did one deal with guilt? Bury it? Tell the world? Do penance? Her throat ached intolerably. A doctor strode into the room and huddled in a closed circle with Darcy and Mark. Christy strained to hear his subdued report from where she sat, but she caught only fragmented sentences, terrifying in their significance. "Throat swollen closed... strident breathing... adrenaline...intravenous...." The doctor left, and Mark and Darcy stood as if frozen. Christy could bear the silence no longer. She rose and walked over to touch Mark's arm. "How is she?" Mark stared down at her as if trying to explain her presence. "Critical," he muttered at last as if his lips were numb. "She's in shock from a severe allergic reaction. My God! How could it happen so fast? I just talked to her a few hours ago, and now she's fighting for her life!" Christy gasped. "But what happened?" Darcy began to sob again. "All I know is that as soon as we got home from the country club, I sent her to my dressing table for her tablets. She knows exactly where I keep them because she often has these spells of upset stomach." The explanation came haltingly. "So why did she get into my antihistamine prescription instead? The tablets do look the same, so I didn't realize she'd opened the wrong bottle. But why? They were in totally different containers." Darcy looked long and beseechingly at each of them, pleading for understanding. Christy felt a lump rise in her throat as she shared their anguish. But good intentions did not compensate for making fatal errors. She'd learned too well that cruel lesson. Mark and Darcy began to converse quietly again. Christy regarded the two troubled figures and felt like an intruder. "Perhaps I should wait for you at home," she said to Mark and imagined the trauma with which Beth and Richard would greet the lone bedraggled bride. He nodded absently, then suddenly snapped into focus. "Home! Good Lord! Wait a minute. I'll see if I can get a hotel near here." He strode to a telephone booth in the corridor. In a little while he

returned, took her arm, and they walked to the foyer. "I've made reservations at the Montclair Motel near here and ordered a taxi. Get some rest. I'll call you as soon as...." He hesitated. "As soon as there's something definite." "Mark?" She ached with his agony and hers. "Pray!" he said. THE MOTEL ROOM was one of those resolutely functional places that appeared to be decorated in three shades of mud. There were twin beds with heavy brown spreads, two straight-backed chairs, an ugly plastic-topped dresser and a lamp that illuminated a simulated oil painting of a brooding Indian. Not exactly a bridal chamber, Christy mused and promptly felt aghast that such a thought would enter her head, especially now. Such fleeting romantic symbols had no place in this contract. She must put her trust in tangibles. But at the moment there seemed a distinct lack of tangibles in her life. She took off her wedding gown and examined the spattered skirt. Poor wilted thing. Even if it could be cleaned, she doubted if she would ever wear it again. This wedding day had occurred as a singular result of tragedy, and now it looked as if it would also end in tragedy. She wanted no material reminder. She took a long hot shower, put on her slip - her suitcase still remained in Mark's car - and crawled into bed. She lay rigid under the blankets and listened to the rain softly slap the window. Macabre images floated in and out of her mind: nurses removing a tangle of tubes from Carol's bedside; a doctor covering Carol's waxen face; a throng of attendants singing discordant snatches of Mozart's Requiem Mass. At midnight she still lay wide awake under the surveillance of the stoical Indian. Hours later, or it may have been minutes, she heard a sharp knock at the door. "Christy!" Mark said, quietly persistent. She leaped from bed and lifted the chain lock. His face looked lined and gaunt in the dim light, but his eyes told her what she'd prayed to hear. "She's all right!" Christy cried. Relief charged through her. He nodded and slumped into the nearest chair. "Yes,- she's out of danger, but we almost lost her. I saw her. She knew me." His shoulders sagged, and he leaned forward to rest his head in his hands. Christy's tongue was suddenly shy as she tried to shape words of comfort and support. Instead, she stood behind him and gently massaged his neck and shoulders, a routine she'd sometimes watched fellow musicians exchange after a tedious rehearsal. "Hmm, wonderful," he murmured. After a moment he moved to a bed, slipped out of his outer clothing and beckoned Christy to continue. In silence she kneaded the tense muscles with her strong pianist's fingers. Once he started to speak but reached for her hand instead and held it against his cheek. She felt unaware of time as she continued the ritual with her free arm. At last a sigh escaped his lips, and his breathing became deep and regular. Carefully she removed her hand, drew the blankets over him and slipped into her own bed. The rain had stopped, but now a peevish wind droned around the eaves and rustled the shrubbery against the wall. After a time it swept eastward, and before dawn arrived, she heard muffled thunder roll against the sheer flank of some far bluff. CHAPTER EIGHT

A PERSISTENT BUZZ brought Christy out of a deep sleep. She pushed herself up on her elbows to look around the room. A pool of sunlight rested on tumbled blankets in the adjacent bed. She smelled the aroma of coffee and turned to find a breakfast tray on her bedside table, and began to feel like a

trespasser who wondered how she got here. Mark walked into the room, winding his shaver and cord into a small case. All the austerity had vanished from his lean face. "A merry Christmas to you, Raggedy Ann!" She ran her fingers self-consciously through her tousled hair. "You meant it, didn't you? The news is good?" "It couldn't be better. I just called the hospital, and Carol is fine. Kids are resilient. The doctor says she can go home this afternoon or tomorrow." Christy breathed a sigh of relief clear to her toes. "What a marvelous Christmas present!" "I know," he said. His jaunty air disappeared, and she knew they both dealt with fear over what might have been. He tapped his watch. "Rise and shine, my girl. It's almost noon, and we must get on our way to the land of tall trees and vast vineyards." "Sounds suspiciously like a real-estate come-on, but I'm hooked." She reached for the breakfast tray and lifted a cover. "Mmm, an omelet." How many years since yesterday? She'd barely tasted the food at the reception, and when had she eaten before that? It was odd what a wide-awake sense of assurance she felt from the scent of food, from the bright sunlit room and from Mark's presence. She savored it, layering it over the memory of yesterday's terrible hours so she might forget them. Mark watched her for a moment, then reached down and pushed the wavy hair back over one ear. "Just as I thought, you have beautiful ears." "All the better to hear you with," she said and gave full attention to the omelet. He chuckled as if she'd said something witty. "I'll run along while you eat and dress. I put your suitcase in the closet. I want to say goodbye to Carol and settle up the hospital bill." Christy put down her coffee cup. "I'll hurry and dress if you'd like me to join you." He snapped his bag and fumbled with a stubborn latch. "Darcy will be there, but come along if you don't mind." Christy suddenly needed to do something with her hands. She reached for a sweet roll and broke it apart. She didn't mind, but apparently he did. "Maybe you should go on ahead after all. I can take my time and be ready when you return." "It shouldn't take long." He shot her a brisk smile and left. People weren't ever completely divorced, Christy thought. One couldn't really take a hatchet to human relationships. Strands of memory, a love once shared, the link of children - all were tendrils that bound them to each other no matter how slightly. What did a man say to his former wife on a bright Christmas morning after an emotionally charged situation such as they'd just experienced? Did he put comforting arms around her again? Did they then look into each other's eyes and recall the good times? With regret? Christy mentally slapped her wrists. Why should she even wonder? Thirty minutes ended, and Mark still had not come. Nor did he show after an hour. She grew alarmed and planted herself by the window so that she could look up the street and watch for his car. Had Carol taken a turn for the worse, she agonized. How long did it take to pay a bill and say goodbye, for heaven's sake? Probably long enough for Darcy and Mark to reassure their child, long enough for them to find a private place to discuss whatever parents needed to discuss about their child. Exactly two hours later, Mark walked in the door and grabbed the suitcases. "Sorry. I didn't think it would take so long" was all he volunteered. "Is Carol okay?" Christy asked and hoped her impatience wasn't too apparent. "Completely recovered. Darcy is taking her home now, and is that lady ever in charge! All those doctors, nurses and orderlies scrambling to attention. A few klieg lights and it would be complete. A hell of a production!"

Did he enjoy it, she wondered. MOMENTS LATER he guided the Ghia north on the freeway, and Christy lay back in the seat, giving in to a heavenly stupor, reasonably earned, she assured herself. The sky arched an innocent blue after yesterday's nasty disposition, and the landscape passed in a collage of garish fast-food signs, housetops sprouting bayonetlike TV aerials and an occasional stand of palm trees, their slender rawboned trunks outlining an avenue. Her eyes grew heavy. "If you feel lonely, wake me up," she said and instantly dozed. Much later she felt a hand prod her shoulder. "Vamonos," Mark said and opened her door. "Which roughly translates into: 'Let's have a stretch and a cup of coffee."' She arched her stiff neck and rubbed her eyes. "Talented word," she muttered. "And don't laugh. Someone sewed up my eyelids." He looked amused. "Are you always this scintillating when you wake up?" "If you mean, am I always this clearheaded and articulate, absolutely!" "Not even a little rant and rave once in a while just for the hell of it?" "Never, or maybe to quote that pompous old Gilbert and Sullivan character, 'hardly ever.' " They drank the strong excellent coffee offered by the small cafe and in minutes were back on the freeway, driving cautiously now because they entered a swirling fog. "Tulle fog," he explained. "In the winter it has the annoying habit of rising from damp areas and hovering around like a bunch of ectoplasm." "It's eerie. We could be the only people in the world." She shivered. Mark gave her a quick glance. "Are you sure it's the weather that's bothering you? You're not getting cold feet about this marriage business, are you?" She swallowed hard. Darn his perception. "A little, I guess," she said. "I hope you didn't let Sam intimidate you with his grandiose notions on entertaining clients. We'll cut that down to size." "Are you up to the bad news? I'm not much of a cook, nor have I done any entertaining of the kind he expects. But I'm a fairly quick learner, and I did bring along a couple of good cookbooks." "I might have predicted that." "I'm so transparent?" "Not at all. I appreciate grit. In fact, I'm looking forward to an interesting contrast." "Oh, sure, the Christy-special, pasta casseroles, as opposed to candlelight and lobster thermidor." Served by a blonde in a low-cut gown, naturally. For heaven's sakes, Christy the shrew! "Aha, so she bites after all." "I never promised you sweet Alice, Ben Bolt. But I do promise to tackle the pots-and-pans department." "That and anything else you set your mind to, right?" His eyebrows lifted knowingly. She felt her defenses rise. Would, he never let her forget that awful day she approached,him in his office? "I expect you're referring to a lot more than my culinary efforts," she said stiffly. Mark shed his bantering tone. "Perseverance is never out-of-date, my girl." They were quiet for a while, but she felt as if they were saying things to each other just the same. He reached over and patted her hand. "Stop worrying. I'm an old casserole man, myself." She gave him a half smile. "I guess the thing that really bothers me is all those Puritan ancestors breathing over my shoulder. I keep asking myself if our contract is moral." "Well, it's certainly legal," he said with the fine air of a judge announcing a decision.

"Legal is moral?" she asked. "I'm not sure what you mean by moral. As far as I'm concerned, an action is moral if it refines my finest self. Hey! How's that for a twenty-one-karat definition?" "Profound, I think." "Why scrutinize every action? Sometimes it works out better to play things by ear. Speaking for myself, my intentions in this arrangement are right on target. I don't like to think of our marriage as some kind of purchase agreement. I want to treat it as a valid relationship." In most situations Christy knew her own mind and prided herself on viewing problems objectively, but when it came to their marriage, she found she couldn't sort things out with as much assurance. Mark showed such confidence that nothing could touch him. In spite of all her reasoning, her fears continued to lie like clouds of mist that obscured the horizon. It was a new experience for her. The day felt unhinged, detached from the calendar. Except for a few wilted street decorations along the way, one wouldn't have guessed it was Christmas. She'd brought a gift along for Mark, but so far the day hadn't lent itself to the giving. An odd res-tiveness plagued her as if the music played on and on, ignoring the conductor. How were Richard and Beth coping, she wondered and felt the familiar sting in her eyelids and the thickening in her throat that accompanied every memory of Davy. They planned to spend Christmas with Aunt Martha, so Christy had left all her presents under Aunt Martha's preposterous tree, which was done up all in orange angels and pink tassels. Would that long-ago August day haunt their Christmas? If only the freak rainstorm had come any other time in the year. If only Christy hadn't insisted on driving Davy. If, if, if---How much guilt could she hold? Well, God knew, she was trying to do something about it. IT WAS NINE O'CLOCK that evening when they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, beaded filigree spanning the darkness, yet its form as strict and classic as a Haydn sonata. "How much faFther?" Christy asked. "A little over an hour's drive. San Felipe is about twenty miles from the ocean, so we turn west off the highway when we get to Sonoma County." "I've never been north of L.A." Christy said and for the first time wondered about the new environment. "No smog up here, blue skies, rolling green hills, acres of vineyards and, of course, the giant redwoods. They grow over three hundred feet tall. And I'll wager you've never seen a more rugged picturesque coastline. Luther Burbank settled in this area to conduct his plant-breeding experiments and put it on the map when he said that the Redwood Empire was the chosen spot of the earth as far as nature was concerned." He seemed to check her expression. "I'm sweet-talking you, you know. I'm anxious for you to like it here." She smiled at his earnestness. "I do already, and I'm looking forward to exploring it with you." "We'll do it," he said, "but right now I'm looking forward to a hot cup of coffee. Knowing Sam, the kitchen will be stocked with some basic supplies. I'm sorry you had no part in selecting the apartment - Sam, the inveterate arranger, you know." "Really, I don't mind. I've lived most of my life in dorms, so I expect it will seem like a palace," she said. Mark looked relieved. San Felipe slept in a small valley. Although it was only ten o'clock, streetlights shone dimly on almost empty streets. They drove through the town, passed fountains that played to a vacant square, then meandered around a wooded hillside. Mark geared the car to a crawl, studied numbers and coasted at last into a complex of town houses. "Beautiful," Christy murmured and suddenly felt shaky and queer. She followed Mark up the walk as he carried their suitcases. Camellias

glowed in the indirect lighting of a large oak, and the scent of daphne drifted around them. Mark took out a key and opened the door. "Home at last, Mrs. B." He seemed to hesitate. Oh, Lord, she thought, I hope he doesn't think he has to carry me over the threshold. She quickly stepped inside. Mark set down their cases and searched for a light switch. "My God, it's cold in here! Where's the thermostat?" Light flooded the hallway, and Christy hurried up the carpeted stairs with Mark behind. They peered in a small room on the left, noted it would make a good study for Mark, then walked into the master bedroom, spacious and elegantly understated in ivory and gold. Mark drew the draperies from a wide window to reveal the soft city lights far below. "A heavenly view," Christy said. "For sure. Old Sam really came through." For a second their eyes caught and held. "I'll bet you're tired from all that driving," Christy said, slipping out of her coat. "Do you think the pantry might include coffee?" "I'll make a bet on it. And probably a log in the fireplace, as well." She hurried down to explore the compact kitchen. There you go, she thought. Anytime the poise gets teetery, you scurry for cover. She found a jar of instant coffee, and as the water heated, the pleasant scent of burning wood from the adjacent room affirmed Mark's prediction. She poured the coffee into mugs and carried them into the living room. Lamplight showed this room as tastefully decorated as the others. Mark sat on the floor against the raised hearth of a flagstone fireplace, soaking in the heat. Firelight touched his hair with rusty highlights and left his face in shadow. She was reminded of the first night she met him. He patted the hearth at his side. "Over here," he said. Her gaze had locked on the darkened far end of the room. Her throat closed, and she swayed so she almost spilled the coffee. She managed to set the cups on the hearth and then walked over to the grand piano. It was a Steinway, and the case looked familiar. She felt for the tiny nick along the side that her professor assured her could be easily refinished. She turned to Mark, but her lips wouldn't form the question. He grinned. "It's yours, all right. I had it shipped out, sort of a combination wedding and Christmas present." "Oh, Mark!" Her fingers trembled as they hovered over the keyboard. For most of her life the piano had been her closest companion, a kind of extension of herself. She'd felt as if part of her had withered away when she left it behind. Tears started in her eyes, and she ducked her head before Mark could notice. He beckoned encouragingly. "Play me a little Beethoven or Brahms, or whatever it is you rarefied musicians perform." She went into a Bach fugue, the best tonic she knew to get one's head on straight, and took the tempo a bit slower than usual in order to keep it clean after so long without practice. Mark came over, leaned against the piano and watched her play. The piece was short, and she finished with an exaggerated flourish, a decoy against showing how deeply she was touched. "Bravo! I'm impressed." She sensed a tenuous reserve. "But you don't care for Bach?" "On the contrary. I'm overwhelmed at what your music reveals about you, your self-discipline, your persistence, your integrity - it's all there." His analysis tangled her in confusion as surely as if she were caught in an invisible net. She was no match for him when words became the medium for revealing one's feelings. She sat with clasped hands, searching for a reply that didn't sound stuffy. "Hear, hear!" he said. "Just because I'm a world-famous music critic, don't let me intimidate you."

"I'll play you some Chopin," she said and abruptly began a nocturne. Music was the only language she spoke fluently. Her fingers wove the moods of the entire day into her playing: the capricious morning, the somber fog and that breathless moment a short while ago when they looked at the twinkling lights of the city. Every note she played spoke her thanks to him. At last* the resonant tones of the final chord seeped into the silence. She glanced up. Mark looked as if he'd just opened a door and was stirred by what he saw. He gave a low whistle. "Wow!" he said quietly. "And in addition to everything else, she's a warm, caring person. Vulnerable, too." She rose. "My, my, you do have on your rose-colored glasses, don't you?" The words tripped on her tongue. Why did she have to act flippant at a rare moment like this? Mark's eyes held an undefinable expression. Hurt, displeasure? With a sob, she suddenly covered her face and felt his arms close around her. She'd never been held and comforted by a man before, and she stood incredibly still to savor the sweetness of it. She pulled slightly away in order to speak. "I still can't believe it. I never dreamed of such a thing! How can I ever thank you? I -guess I had this crazy notion that by denying myself music, I helped to pay my debt to my sister." "Doing penance? There goes that intransigent trait of yours again." She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. "Partly that, I guess. But you see, I have always been an alone-kind of person, and I'm not used to..." she paused to search for the right word. "Not used to being comforted? Reassured? If we're human, we need all those supports. Perhaps it is time someone gave them to you, Christy." He did not release her but kissed her gently, then rested his chin against her hair. One part of her continued to deal with the gift of her piano while the rest reveled in Mark's closeness. "Thank you for everything," she said softly. His eyes, ordinarily so steady and clear, shone with an intensity she had not seen before. Something changed between them. This was a different Mark, one she didn't know. She heard his breath catch as he rested a hand on her hair to twist a lock behind her ear. "Oh, Christy," he murmured, then held her close again, and she loved both the strength and gentleness of him. Dismay and joy wrestled within her. Suddenly nothing mattered anymore - not her tangled emotions, not her firm resolves, not even her contract. Only his nearness. It seemed as natural as breathing to slip her arms up around his neck, and he kissed her, his lips firm and seeking. Her whole person seemed to dissolve in longing as unseasoned emotions mindlessly responded. He loosened an arm and reached back to turn off the lamp behind them. Dimmed to firelight, the room filled with vague outlines and restless shadows, which at each new burst of flame leaped and diminished with a vitality all their own. The hearth rug was deep and soft, and Mark drew her down upon it. The fire burned with a generous warmth now, enclosing them in its ambience, making fleetingly luminous the curve of cheek and ivory shoulder, of rounded hip and stretch of limb as he slipped off their clothing. Then he took her in his arms. His body felt lean and hard, and she fit herself eagerly against him, awed at the desire that blazed up within her. "Are you okay?" he whispered. Her answer was complete response as his lips closed on hers. Then he held her in an intimacy all at once protective, gentle, demanding and blindingly sweet to explore a breadth of sensation more real than she'd ever known. LATER SHE LAY in the strange bed upstairs and felt Mark's warmth beside her, the furious throb of her pulse again calm and her heart back to its normal tempo. He slept soundly, contented and relaxed, while she tried to deal with her astonishing emotions.

In the shadows she could barely see his face close to hers on the pillow, the coppery curl of his lashes, the slight smile of contentment. She propped herself on an elbow and leaned over to examine the authority of his stubborn chin and the neat way his hair curled around an ear. Impulsively she bent and laid her cheek against his. How had her small-boned slender body felt to him after years of holding the voluptuous Darcy, she wondered. Had there been a dismayed comparison? Or did that sort of thing matter to a man? As far as she could tell, he showed no disappointment, if his tenderness and ardor were any indication. But then wouldn't such lovemaking come naturally if Mark pretended he held the woman he truly cared for? Christy understood the insistence of a man's sexual desire. At least, she'd heard enough about it, so part of the lovely intimate things he said to her could be put in relative perspective, the accepted vernacular of the game plan, so to speak, holding no substance out of context. As for the rest, well, she had exactly what she bargained for, the role of a surrogate wife. A week ago the knowledge would have provided excellent insurance for their transitory contract. Even now, none of it would have mattered at all except for one irony. Tonight she discovered herself hopelessly in love with Mark Brandon. CHAPTER NINE

CHRISTY EXAMINED her new feelings for Mark continuously during the weeks that followed. She ran the gamut from trying to deny them completely to wondering if you could love a person without expecting anything in return. After Sandor she'd never put much faith in the romantic mystique. It seemed too fragile to be counted on. Real love meant caring about someone, accepting his faults and moods, acting with compassion and understanding. Well, she could do all that, couldn't she, without letting him know? Was that asking for the moon? But the deeper truth became an open wound in the mind. How could she give away the child of the man she loved? Perhaps she ought not to get pregnant. She might hide her love for Mark, but could she manage such control when their baby arrived? Their baby? No, a baby for Davy's parents. Had she so soon lost sight of the purpose of this arrangement? Oh, God, what had she got herself into? It was with relief that she welcomed her demanding role as Mark's wife. Managing a home and frequent entertaining came as a completely alien experience to a girl who had grown up in a boarding school. Her only taste of home life had been a couple of high-school years with Aunt Martha and those bleak months with Beth and Richard. It was not as easy as she had imagined. Mark, in spite of his orderly mind and immaculate grooming, strewed his belongings from one end of the small town house to the other. She coped with that, keeping the place shining and neat as any model home. But entertaining Mark's clients was another story. She pored over stacks of cookbooks that she'd borrowed from the library in an effort to make the food distinctive, and she arranged each table setting as carefully as if it were to be photographed. The hours consumed just to plan menus and accomplish the shopping seemed unbelievable. But one needed skills other than the ability to plan a menu and read a cookbook, she found. Experience, for example. Her souffles drooped, and stubborn roasts frequently disobeyed the time charts. Her elaborate desserts earned superlatives, and so they should, considering they seemed to require every utensil in the kitchen for their preparation. She'd come to rely on Aunt Martha's stuffed mushrooms for the cocktail hour, a favorite of Mark's, but the endless chopping and grating defeated her time schedule. Her confidence dwindled after each occasion. You perform like a not-too-bright kitchen maid, she rebuked herself as she recalled last

Saturday's debacle. Mark had come home early to announce two more guests in addition to the planned foursome. "Will that blow your menu?" He peered into the oven at the roast and estimated its potential for the extra demand. Too late, she tried to conceal the stricken look on her face. "Don't worry," he said hurriedly. "We'll take everyone out to dinner." "No problem." She made an attempt at nonchalance as she continued to chop the ingredients for the mushrooms. Her eyes stung and watered unattractively from the onions, and she wondered how in the world she could stretch the au gratin broccoli and find time to stir up batter for more dessert crepes. Not to mention cleaning up the kitchen! It had turned into a disaster area. Every counter was littered, and cupboard doors hung open like mouths agape. Mark looked around and shed his coat. "Good Lord, girl, can't you just set out some cheese and crackers? Why go through all this?" He waved his hand to include her complicated preparations. She'd spent two whole days cleaning, shopping and preparing for this dinner. "It was my understanding this sort of thing fulfilled my part of the contract," she said stiffly. "Well, dammit, you needn't go overboard. I'd rather you arranged these affairs so that you wouldn't have td spend all your time hibernating in the kitchen. You ought to use more time for yourself, get out into the community." He gestured grandly, she supposed to include the myriad opportunities to keep the young housewife scintillating and astute. That's a pretty large slice of wry, she thought. "You're programmed as a musician, Christy," he continued. "So what if you're no Julia Child?" "Yes, sir. I'll try harder, sir," she snapped. His eyes narrowed into an angry gleam. "Cut it out. You know what I mean. You make me feel like a slave driver!" "Sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I'll try to get my act together a little better in the future," she said. Maybe a course in juggling would help. She wished he would leave. It was embarrassing enough to have him stumble in on this mess without having him hang around to offer all the free advice. So she was no Julia Child? Before the end of their year together, she'd make him eat those words. "Stop worrying. I don't expect you to go in for all this fancy gourmet stuff." He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a card. "I met this guy at Rotary a few days ago. O'Rourke, I think his name was. Said he needed an accompanist for some little-theater group. I wrote down the telephone number. Why don't you look into it?" She shook her head. Men! Memorize a concerto, take a class in Greek, play a game of tennis and presto! When you arrived home, a perfect dinner appeared on the table. Of course, she knew quite well she planned too elaborately. She faced up to the reason. Such demanding activity helped camouflage the new emotions that surged within her. They must not become part of the fabric. In the few short weeks with Mark, she'd found that being close to someone, sharing his pains and pleasures, exploring one's sexuality, all could make a person more complete. But she'd made it on her own for most of her life without the complications of loving a man, and she must do it for the rest of this year. So how else could she anesthetize her feelings except through hard work? If she had no time to think, wouldn't such obsession eventually wither? Mark's lovemaking was a complicated matter she hadn't yet been able to resolve. She knew she couldn't handle it much longer without revealing too much in her response, and she refused to subject him to that embarrassment. She realized that Mark was a skillful, perceptive lover. For him, she supposed, it became a matter of technique, the means to achieve the eternal pattern. But for her, it was an experience enriched by her love for him, an emotion of which he was unaware, one which she must not allow him to discover. Her cheeks grew warm as she recalled the last time he had made love to her.

She had been cutting sprays from a flowering plum beneath their bedroom window when Mark came home unexpectedly at noon to pick up some papers. He followed her into the kitchen and watched while she arranged the flowers in a pewter bowl. Wearing jeans and a faded plaid blouse, her hair caught up in a ribbon and face devoid of makeup, she suddenly felt self-conscious at his steady regard. "Someone ought to paint you," he said finally. "Do you know you make a fetching picture? Girl with Blossoms, we could call it or something equally original." She took a critical look at the bouquet and added another stem. "Sounds more as if I belong in the fruit section of a seed catalog." He chuckled, went up behind her, bent to kiss the nape of her neck and wrapped his arms around her. "Mmm, you smell nice. And are you always so philosophical in the middle of the day?" "Only on rare occasions, and how can I work when you do that?" He turned her around to face him and pulled a dour face. "Who says work takes priority on a day like this?" She laughed at his ridiculous countenance. "Oh, some guy who cracks the whip around here." "Some tyrant. At least, you're still smiling." "Actually, that's my number-ten facial expression, known as the hospitality special. Today's translation: Have bread, will fix sandwich. Are you interested in lunch?" He kissed the tip of her nose, then her chin, and his eyes held a wicked gleam. "Lady, am I interested! And not in lunch." She pulled away. "Mark Brandon, are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?" He grinned. "Absolutely." He took her hand and lead her upstairs. They teased and laughed a lot and took their time to undress, then lay on their bed with windows open to the scent of plum blossoms. She recalled every nuance as if it were a ballet: fingertips exploring, caressing; lips kissing earlobes, throat, breasts; bodies hard against each other feeling the Tightness of it, the absoluteness, and the pure melding of some mystic thing she couldn't identify. He called her darling, not once but over and over. Only when he made love to her did he use the endearment. But she lay in his arms and wanted him to mean it for all time, for it to be real. Pretend this is forever, she pleaded silently. Don't let it end. She loved having him make love to her. It was natural and pleasurable and mysterious and wonderful. Forget all the intellectualizing and moralizing. She loved him, and she thought he liked her. So what if he didn't really love her? Probably lots of married couples enjoyed sex even though one member might not be in love with the other. Later, after he went back to work, she showered, dressed, came down to earth and knew she'd been out of her mind. Well, she must cope somehow, and restraint seemed the only way. She had just begun to learn what respond meant. For years she had used the word without knowing the wealth of its meaning. But loving response held disaster for this contract. From now on she must discipline her emotions, hold back, exercise all her control. But she couldn't deaden the longing for what might have been. For the first few weeks that she practiced the new constraint, Mark made no comment, but she could tell he seemed puzzled. Then one night after he turned out the light, he drew her to him and held her gently while he nuzzled her cheek. She held her breath, exerting every nerve to remain quiet. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Not a thing," she said a little too insistently. "I can't believe that. There's been something out of gear for some time now. I don't want to force myself on you, Christy." She was glad for the darkness. "Really, Mark, it's all right," she said. "You should know by now that I will never refuse you. We have a contract,

remember?" She stopped aghast. Her reply sounded downright callous, as if she quoted clause one of a legal document. Her face burned. Whatever made her utter the insensitive words? Abruptly he released her. "Of course not, I forgot. Duty is the criterion whether mushrooms or bed!" He turned away. Her body ached with the dismissal as much with the whiplash of his words, and the stillness between them hurt as cruelly as their dialogue. She wanted his arms around her again. She wanted to lay her face against his shoulder and pour out her dilemma. But she couldn't do that. She was Christy Brandon who was going to have a child for her sister. Then anger began to filter into her reasoning. Why all this upset about offending Mark? After all, she had not denied him. Anyway, Mark didn't want her, not really - only her body, willing and responsive - and there was nothing in this contract about the measure of one's reaction. Not a single thing. What she must battle now was not Mark, but her response to him. From then on that segment of their life moved into an infrequent but considerate and silent affair, a quick satisfaction of selfish physical needs. But each union became for Christy more and more an agony of self-denial, and she felt their relationship fray like torn cloth. Mark brought no clients home the following week, so Christy spent the uninterrupted hours at her piano with the assurance that whatever else went wrong, music would never fail her. She'd worked for several days on the Brahms G Minor Rhapsody and, one morning after she tidied the house, challenged herself to memorize it. Outside, a cold wind whistled around the eaves, racing up and down the octaves like an exercise in solfege, while inside, the widely spaced chords and complex rhythms of the Brahms charged into the room, cramming it with a rugged energy. All day she reveled in the antiphonal experience of wind and music as if she performed the background score for scenes in a Bronte novel. As always when she practiced, she lost track of time, although subconsciously she knew light waned and heard the wind whip itself into a blustering gale. Suddenly a tree limb snapped, crackling like a gunshot, and the lamp over her music went out. In the dim twilight she barely made out the clock on the mantel. Mark was due home any minute, and she'd not even started dinner. How long would the electricity remain off? She felt the house begin to cool, and when Mark arrived a few minutes later, she still hadn't been able to start a fire in the fireplace. He seemed amused at her efforts, and tore the smoking mess apart and with his knife cut slivers of kindling. "You're no country lass, that's for sure." At last the fire burned steadily, and he stretched out before it. She sat a little apart, hugging her knees and soaking in the warmth. "Do you think the power will come on soon, or do you mind something cold for dinner?" she asked. "Who knows? Before it comes on, we may have time to complete a chess tournament or write a thesis on the wars in Ireland." He sounded almost hopeful. "Why don't you surprise me? Isn't improvisation your bag?" His mood was catching, and she smiled. "You may be sorry," she said with a knowing lift of an eyebrow. He leaned over and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Hey, smile like that again. I thought I glimpsed a pixie there!" She wished he wouldn't tease. His charm was more tangible then, bright and warm as the flame that warmed them. She rose hastily to go to the kitchen. She had to do something physical to counteract this awful feeling of vulnerability. Would she ever get accustomed to acting the outward and inward Christy with Mark: the outward, serene and poised; and the inward, as sensitive to highs and lows as a barometer? She felt in a drawer for a flashlight and set it on the counter to illuminate her preparations, then sliced and buttered a loaf of sour French bread, quartered a papaya and found a small brick of Swiss cheese, then piled everything on a tray with a bottle of Chianti. The hearth provided a table,

and the glow from the fireplace enclosed them in warmth of soft orange light, against which the rest of the room was reduced to unfamiliar humps and squares. "Ah," Mark said and patted his stomach indelicately when they'd finished the simple supper. "Perfect! 'A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread and Thou.' " Christy watched the coppery highlights weave in and out of his thick wavy hair. She took in a deep breath and let it out quietly. "We could read some poetry. What about that 'Book of Verses underneath the Bough'?" She went to the bookcase to find the copy of Robert Frost. "Read away," he commanded as she sat down beside him. She suddenly felt shy. Poetry had a way of revealing the intimate self. She thrust the book at him. "You first." He moved over so that their shoulders touched, placed the book close to the firelight and thumbed through the pages, selecting poems at random. He read quietly and rather slowly as if allowing time to savor the meanings. But she barely took in the words as she absorbed the touch of his shoulder and the pleasant rhythm of his voice. One could relish the palpable feel of a shoulder, couldn't one, without allowing it to grow more complicated? Think of it as an isolated marvel, she told herself, like the fragrance of lilacs or a Mozart concerto. She became aware that Mark repeated a comment. What had he said? He looked at her in amusement and handed her the book. She flipped the pages, but each familiar verse seemed too personal for this moment. She wished she'd not suggested the poetry. "I'm afraid it's too dark to read. I'm no Abe Lincoln." He reached for her hand and tucked it in his. "Christy, Christy, when will you stop building fences around yourself?" The shadowy room, the warmth from the fire, the intimacy of the moment all seemed dreamlike, as if she were witnessing it from a dark corner. The one authentic thing was the touch of Mark's hand. A traitorous voice clamored within: This is real, perfect^ and satisfying. Build on it. Let it grow. Frost said it best, but Mark's hadn't found those lines. "Before I built a wall I'd ask to know what I was walling in or walling out." No, she shouted soundlessly at herself. Remember who you are and what you 're up to. She jumped up to put the book away, jerking her hand rudely from his. The vividness went out of Mark's face like champagne gone flat. He rose without a word and took the tray into the kitchen. What was the matter with her? She wouldn't have treated a mere acquaintance with such a lack of subtlety. Was she so afraid of revealing the way she really felt about him that she rebuffed even so kind and casual a touch? Outside, the darkness persisted, unbroken by a single light. She sat by the hearth again, but the warmth had left the flickering embers. The waning moan of the wind mingled with sounds of Mark making ready for bed, but she didn't join him for a long time. CHAPTER TEN

OFTEN SHE WONDERED if she were yet pregnant. Could one tell immediately? Would she feel some vague quickening? Would there be some mysterious telepathy that announced the new life so that she wouldn't need to wait for physical evidence? One evening as she set the table for dinner, Mark came in declaring he wa6 beat. He settled himself in a chair and closed his eyes. Christy noted the weary droop of his shoulders and the lines of fatigue around his mouth and wished she felt free to place her hands on his back and massage away the tension. But an indefinable coolness in the atmosphere forbade it. She picked up the day's mail and sat across from him to sort through it: a small mail-order catalog, a bill, two requests for donations and something from a photographer's studio. She opened the envelope and took out a folder

announcing a week of special rates. A color photo of a beautiful little boy illustrated the ad. Christy caught her breath. It could have been Davy, the same curly red hair, the lightly freckled nose and the pixie grin. She stared as if in a trance. No, the face was not at all like Davy's, and the child was probably a year or two older. But Davy might have looked like this if he'd reached the age of three or four, baby chubbiness gone, small firm chin indicative of facial character to come. My God, for the rest of her life would she see Davy in every child she encountered? She had planned that her own child would resemble Davy. In fact, he must become Davy. She would will it so. No, a stronger voice cried out within her. You must not think like that. Your baby must become its own person. Don't force him into another mold. Christy suddenly saw that Mark stared at her oddly. "What on earth are you reading?" he asked and came over to sit beside her on the sofa. She crumpled the ad quickly. "Oh, nothing, just the usual junk mail." "Some junk! You should see your face. Let me see." Reluctantly she handed him the wadded paper, and he spread it out on his knee. After a moment he looked up. "Would this be an announcement, Christy?" he asked quietly. "I'm not pregnant yet, if that's what you mean. I guess for a moment I was stunned by the resemblance to Davy." Mark laid his hand on hers. "Still grieving, aren't you?" She nodded and couldn't speak. Davy's death threaded her life, a relentless counterpoint in a minor key. "I understand," he said. "And I think it's worked out for the best that you haven't got pregnant yet." She jerked her hand away. Something like electric shocks traveled up her spine. "Will you please explain that?" she cried. "Hold on. I'm not reneging on that blasted contract. But I've thought a lot about us during the past week, and there are a few things I think we should talk about." Christy swallowed hard. She didn't like the sound of this at all. "Goon." "It's not easy to put into words," Mark said earnestly. "What I mean is, when we were married, you coped with emotional trauma. You still do. I admit I was somewhat in the same boat what with my divorce and losing custody of Carol. Do you honestly believe that in addition to all this, we are ready to give up our baby, Christy? Now that you've had some time to consider, don't you think we need a few more months to get ourselves in gear for something that will affect the rest of our lives? I sure as hell do. Being married to you has made me realize only too well what we've got ourselves into. Can you honestly say you haven't any doubts?" Christy's anger flared. "Of course I have, but you seem to have forgotten that we agreed to put aside our personal feelings. The first priority was to provide a child for my sister!" "And I'm not at all sure you have your priorities straight, although I acknowledge your unselfish motive. I say we both jumped into something without considering the consequences. Before we compound our problems, let's give ourselves time to think things through." "For heaven's sake, Mark, I trusted you. I can't believe that you'd do this to me!" Mark put both hands on her shoulders and forced her to meet his eyes. "All I'm asking is that before we make a final commitment, that you put off getting pregnant several more months. Then if you're still of the same mind, I'll go along. Actually you yourself suggested a year in which to conceive. We've only been married a little over two months." Damn. It was hard to think straight when he held her like this, his eyes so deeply blue and pleading. "All right," she said at last without hiding her irritation. But nothing, she resolved, absolutely nothing would make her change her mind. He gave a relieved little smile. "I know you won't be sorry. Anyway, there

are a number of other reasons to delay. As you can see, this is going to be a hell of a year, especially the first six months. I have to be away a lot, and when I'm home, you're in for a lot of entertaining. By June or July I'll have this Australian deal under my belt, and things should ease up around here. Just from a physical aspect it would be easier for you to wait until then." She merely nodded. Lay it on all you want, she thought, but you'll not break the contract. He got up and walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses of cream sherry. He rarely drank the sweet wine; he preferred brandy. She supposed it was a gesture toward her acquiescence. Viva the victorious male, she thought bitterly. "I can't tell you how relieved I am that we got this out in the open. At this point your pregnancy would really throw me. I admit I'm not ready to handle it." As he handed her the glass of amber liquid, his hand shook a little. She'd believed that all the turmoil in their arrangement had been her sole province. "Our child," he'd said. Not once had she considered his feelings regarding the child they'd planned. It had been her decision, her baby, her gift to Richard arid Beth. Her insensitivity came as a distinct shock. DURING THE DAYS that followed, Christy felt reduced to an anonymous person who glided silently about the house. Then at breakfast one morning, Mark seemed determined to make conversation. "Nutmeg?" he asked indicating the spice on the French toast. "Cinnamon," she said. Dear man. He tried, but both of them knew he couldn't tell paprika from parsley. They gave the weather a whirl, and he made a comment on a friend's new car, but the subjects were good for only a word or two. Every topic seemed prerinsed or dehydrated the moment they touched it. Mark finally gave up and concentrated on the morning paper, tossing each section on the floor until the space around him took on a layered look. Odd how a man so immaculate concerning his person could go around creating litter like a perpetually shedding dog. She eyed the papers. Patience. Don't rock the boat. Pick them up after he leaves. She did the dishes, cut and arranged some primroses and wondered why he didn't get on his way. "Ah, would you care to fly down to L.A. with me tomorrow?" he asked rather stiffly as if he'd practiced the invitation and was afraid he might muff it. "There's a board meeting for the National Rental Association. We would go down in the morning and come back the next day. I hoped you might come with me this time." Christy tried to mask her amazement. He'd never asked her to attend meetings of his professional groups. Although they frequently entertained his clients, he shared few of the other aspects of his business. Was this his way of trying to get their life back on an even keel? She hoped so. She wasn't sure how long she could handle the present state of affairs. "I'd love it," she said. He looked pleased. "Good. I'll get plane reservations. Maybe you'd like to spend some time with your sister while I'm at the afternoon meeting?" "I'd like that," she said, touched at his thought-fulness. He whistled a little tune as he went off to work. She'd never before heard him do that. A telephone call found Beth involved in a faculty-wives' project, disappointed she couldn't get away for the short visit. But Aunt Martha, delighted at the prospect of seeing her niece, promptly issued an invitation for lunch. Christy felt a rush of affection for her aunt and knew how much she'd missed this ebullient member of her family. MARK WAS TALKATIVE AND JOVIAL on the drive to the airport the next morning, but the moment they fastened their seat belts on the plane, he took out some papers from his attache case and studied them intently, barely speaking during

the one-hour flight. Once or twice he looked at her and smiled in a way that lifted her spirits. It was as if he said to her, "Look, we've hit a few rough spots, but let's forget them." Perhaps he'd thought over their argument about postponing her pregnancy and was ready to concede, after all. She still felt betrayed by his attitude. On the other hand, she knew she acted entirely too self-centeredly regarding her plans. It was time for her to consider his feelings, his needs. Mark was a sensitive man, and at times her actions bordered on the brutal. She realized that now. Perhaps he saw this trip as a kind of flight from mistakes and pain, a new start for them. All right, then, she would do her part. On arrival in Los Angeles, Mark rented a car for her, then fumbled in his pocket to bring out an invitation. "There's a cocktail party at seven in the president's suite and a banquet to follow. Let's meet in our room ahead of time so we can go together." He hailed a taxi to take him to his nearby hotel, and she headed out of the congested airport and onto the freeway. Cocktail party! She'd packed only a simple short black dress. Would it be appropriate? But she soon forgot the occasion in the anticipated reunion. Aunt Martha was her usual vivacious self. She served a delicious crab Louis and inundated Christy with witty gossip about mutual acquaintances and strangers alike, her conversation one long stream of non sequiturs. "Beth needs to get out more, goodness knows. The child isn't resilient like you, Christy - can't seem to adjust to new situations. If she doesn't watch herself, she'll turn into no bargain of the day, believe mev Isn't it marvelous about Richard's appointment to head of his department? He's not a bit stuffy or conceited about the whole thing, but he's frightfully busy, poor lamb. And darling, how do you cope with that business of Mark's? I don't understand it at all. Well, when you're around those folks, just listen and look profound. Builds character." And so the afternoon sped by. Noting the clock, Christy decided to dress before she drove back to meet Mark. Her aunt eyed the simple gown critically. "Don't you have anything dressier? The party is likely to be a sumptuous affair if it's held in the president's suite." Christy felt dismayed. Why hadn't Mark mentioned it earlier? Borrowing from her aunt's plentiful wardrobe was out of the question because of their size difference. "Here, take this. Jewelry will help." Aunt Martha handed her a handsome necklace. A dozen genuine pearls spaced on a long gold chain indeed added a touch of elegance. Martha dismissed Christy's protests about borrowing it. "I'll be coming up to see you one of these days. Wear it until then." The moment Christy entered the freeway, she knew she'd not allowed enough time for the cross-town trek. The usual swift pace diminished to a crawl in the rush-hour traffic, and when she took a wrong off ramp, she found herself stopping for endless signals as she tried to find her way to the hotel. It was seven-forty-five when she walked into the lobby and picked up her room key. Mark was probably furious, but a note propped on the dresser said he had called Aunt Martha, not to worry, join him at the party when she arrived. Relieved, she touched up her makeup quickly and took the elevator up to the executive suite. The door was open, so she stepped inside. There were at least twenty people there, and every woman present wore a long formal gown. The room could have been a decorator's showplace done in soft greens and ivory, crystal chandeliers, furniture upholstered in velvet and bouquets of creamy roses everywhere. A trio of musicians played discreetly by the small portable dance floor installed at one end of the room. Mark stood with his back to her, talking with a tall exotic-looking woman who could be anywhere between thirty and forty. Her shining black hair was pulled straight back into a chignon, revealing an interesting, if not beautiful, face. Her dress was a startling shade of coral, perhaps an Oriental silk, provocatively draped on her perfect figure. She showed complete absorption in Mark's every word.

Christy still stood at the edge of the room. No one paid the slightest attention to her. It was as if she were invisible. What ought she to do? Mark was the only person she knew, and he seemed far too preoccupied to interrupt. She eased into a nearby love seat. At least her inappropriate gown would be less conspicuous if she sat down. Or maybe people would think she was one of the maids resting tired feet. She looked around and made a silent game of trying to pinpoint the host, wishing endlessly that she hadn't been late. Mark turned around then, smiled and made a small gesture with his hand that could have meant anything from, "I'm glad you're here" to "I'll see you later." He turned back to the lady in coral and continued their intent conversation. The way the lady's dark eyes glowed, she didn't look as if she had business on her mind. A waiter passed a tray of prawns and cheese and asked if he could bring her a drink. Christy glanced around the room. It looked as if everyone drank martinis or Scotch. "White wine, if you're serving it," she said. He looked as if she were some unique, somewhat disagreeable species but eventually returned with a glass. She'd barely tasted the wine when a tall good-looking youth sat down beside her. Although he probably wasn't over twenty-one, he was so suavely turned out he could have come with the suite, as much a part of it as the handsome cherrywood highboy that graced the room. "Hi, foxy lady, I saw you the minute you came in," he said. "How could I miss? The prettiest girl in the room!" His eyes underscored the compliment. "I broke away as soon as I could. What's that you're drinking?" She smiled gratefully at this handsome boy who'd just rescued her ego. "Chablis," she said. "Wine, when you can have Scotch?" "I live in northern California. Support the local product, you know." "All right," he said with approval. "And are you one of those wine snobs?" "I can't tell Gamay Beaujolais from Zinfandel." "Neither can I. Scotch is my thing. I'm Jeremiah, by the way. Dad and mother are throwing this party. Dad is president of the national board of directors this year. You know him, of course?" "I'm afraid I don't know anyone except my husband. I'm Christy Brandon," she added a little tardily. It might have been fun to remain anonymous for a while as long as Mark seemed to have abandoned her. "Not Mark Brandon's wife! I thought you might still be in college. I might have known Mark would be married to a classy lady like you." "Well, thank you, I think, but I'm afraid I feel more like a banty hen among a flock of peacocks." His eyes narrowed, and he gestured around the room. "A carnival done up in poster paints. Everyone complies with empty conventions. I can see you're the real thing." She felt amused at the intensity of his tone and thought she saw what lay behind his youthful vehemence. Jeremiah caught her looking over at Mark. "He has a tough assignment this session, and as usual it seems he's going to swing it." "I'd say things don't look too tough on him at the moment," she said dryly. "Oh, she's it." "The assignment?" Christy asked unbelievingly. "Yeah, that's Ursula St. James, the very important Washington, D.C. attorney. Your husband's job is to persuade her into becoming the association's lobbyist. Looks as if it's tn the bag. He's been with her since lunch, and I'd say she enjoyed every minute of it." Christy silently agreed. "And do you also have an assignment?" "You'd better believe it." His tone turned acid. "Observe carefully. Here you see Jeremiah Arlington HI in the process of becoming brainwashed, learning how to wheel and deal, pull strings, finding out what makes the organization tick." "Interesting," Christy murmured politely.

"Like hell," he said. "Dad owns three of the largest equipment rental firms in Texas, rents oil-drilling rigs, the big stuff. Did you know a D-9 Caterpillar costs one hundred fifty grand? Dad owns sixty of them and reminds me of it daily." Christy knew nothing about machinery, but she nodded. "He runs the outfit with all the fervor of a religious zealot," Jeremiah continued. "You might say he considers himself the high priest. No decision is ever made without considering the effect on J. B. Arlington, Incorporated." "I suppose you work in the business?" Christy said, her eyes wandering once more toward Mark and Miss St. James. "I'm still in college, but I'm expected to take over when dad retires. The grooming process is at fever pitch. Bishop Jeremiah. How does that strike you?" Christy wished she could eavesdrop on Mark's and Ursula's conversation. It appeared so compelling, maybe she could pick up a few pointers. Jeremiah looked at her expectantly. "It strikes me you're not exactly happy about the line of succession," she said finally. He grimaced. "The understatement of the century. Hey, I didn't mean to bore you. It's just that this whole scene gets to me once in a while, and I rarely find a sympathetic ear in which to pour out my frustrations." He glanced around the room. "Come meet my parents," he said, suddenly changing the subject. He took her hand and drew her over to a small group near the bar. At once Christy saw that Jeremiah received his gray eyes and charm from his mother but was not surprised to note he had his father's resolute cleft chin. They chatted cordially for a while, then Jeremiah moved her smoothly to other groups, making introductions. Some of the names were familiar from hearing Mark speak of them. Christy glanced wistfully at Mark. Jeremiah observed her and shook a playful finger. "That's a no-no. We don't interrupt at this point. See how well I'm learning," he said mockingly. He brought her a tall drink with an unfamiliar name and insisted she hadn't lived until she tried it. She took a sip while he watched her reaction. It was the strongest drink she had ever tasted. "I don't think so," she said and set it down. She would never be able to walk out of the room if she drank it. He grinned. "No? Aren't you afraid of hurting my feelings?" "And what about mine?" "Good point," he said. "Shall we dance?" Jeremiah guided her onto the tiny dance floor. The combo now blared a disco tune, and she could feel the thump of the string bass against her temples. What was she doing here with this college kid? She liked to dance, but she didn't know any of the new steps, much less how to disco. What if she made a fool of herself in front of Mark and the very important lady lobbyist? But two other couples were already dancing, which prevented much movement in the small space. Jeremiah held her close, laid his cheek against hers and merely swayed to the beat. She felt so relieved she relaxed and allowed herself to savor the rhythm. It would have been nice if Mark could spare a little time to dance with her, she thought, but at least he wasn't dancing with Ursula. Were the rental-association affairs always like this? Considering Mark had spoken barely a dozen words since the plane left San Francisco, she wondered why he bothered to bring her. Moments later she caught Mark's unsmiling face as he stared at her. She beamed and gave him a blithe little wave, then closed her eyes during the rest of the tune and took pleasure in the soapy scent of Jeremiah's cheek, maliciously grateful for her attentive companion. "What do you think of the Gamma Rays?" he asked after they'd danced awhile. Heavens! Was she so far removed from the adjacent generation? She didn't know whether he meant a rock group or some scientific phenomenon. However, the music covered her mumbled response, and he smiled so engagingly she could only

smile back. He held her closer as if they'd just reached some deep understanding. She hoped Mark was still watching. "Let's split and go find some real action," he said when the music ended. "I'll take you to Pedro's. It's almost time for the banquet. I'll bet you don't want to listen to dad's after-dinner speech any more than I do." "But surely your parents expect you?" "Probably. But it's time I dropped a few hints about my future intentions." "Meaning?" "That the corporate world will have to do without J. Arlington III. This rat race isn't my bag. I don't want a part of the hierarchy. I plan to defrock myself, so to speak." "Now? But aren't you still in college?" "I just quit. That will cause a few fireworks, but I won't be around to enjoy them. I'm taking off for Europe next week, going to tramp around for a while." His clear young eyes looked troubled. "I need to find myself, Christy. I'm not sure who I am yet." "Well, have a good time, but don't count on finding yourself over there," Christy said. "Geography hasn't much to do with it." He shrugged. "I'm not into any heavy analysis at this point. How about Pedro's?" She was amazed. Did he honestly think she would go with him? "Thanks, but I plan on attending the banquet with Mark." "Oh, come on. He won't even miss you. He's got other things on his mind right now. Here he comes. Tell him." "No, but thanks, Jeremiah," she said firmly. Mark joined them then, and the three made small talk for a few minutes. Jeremiah lifted a hand in a farewell salute. "I'll stick around for a little while. If you change your mind, the offer is still open," he said. "What offer?" Mark asked as they walked to the elevator. "Oh, he wanted to take us to some place called Pedro's," she said, diplomatically pluralizing the pronoun. "Pedro's! That's a discotheque where the college kids hang out." She couldn't help laughing. "Believe it or not, he thought I was a college kid." Mark frowned. Apparently he didn't think that amusing. In the banquet room they found their seats at the head table. The guests trooped in, and Miss St. James turned up at Mark's left. He introduced her to Christy, and the woman said a pleasant how-do-you-do. Her voice had a faint Boston accent that revealed the cool executive accustomed to discreet lunches with senior senators. She probably regarded the world as her stamping ground. "You're a nice little thing, but don't interrupt," her manner implied as she immediately launched into what apparently was a continuation of a recent conversation. "So what was the percentage rise on your insurance premium with the purchase of the skidsteer loaders?" she asked, darting a brief glance at Christy as she carefully enunciated the name o{ the equipment. She probably thinks I'm not able to pronounce it, Christy thought and resigned herself to the ongoing monopoly of her dinner partner. She barely finished the excellent prime rib when she missed the necklace. Alarmed, she searched under her chair. "Aunt Martha loaned it to me today," she explained to Mark. "It's a valuable piece. I know I had it on when I arrived at the hotel. I'd better retrace my steps immediately." Mark helped her look around their table. "Shall I come with you?" "It won't look good if you leave now. I'll return as soon as I can." She slipped out a side door and raced to the elevator. The most likely spot was the crowded dance floor in the Arlington's suite. Look there first, then call lost and found, she decided. Jeremiah's face lit up as he opened the door.

"Great! You made it, after all." "Oh, no," she said and described the necklace. "I was here while the crew cleaned up the place. I'm sure they didn't find it," Jeremiah said. Nevertheless, they searched diligently, leaving no cushion unturned. "You need a drink," he said finally. Christy insisted she didn't want anything, and from the flush on Jeremiah's cheeks, she suspected he didn't need one, either. He put his hands on her shoulders and leaned down and kissed her. "You're really upset, aren't you?" The lingering kiss distressed her. "Yes, I am. The necklace isn't mine. I feel responsible." "Relax, we'll go look for it after a while. I'm sure it's okay. In fact, I'll bet on it. First things first, dear lady. My dad will ramble on for another hour at least, followed by the usual question-and-answer period. Everything is under control." His flip certainty made her impatient, and she didn't like the faint undertone of meaning his words implied. "Under control?" "Sure. Almost two hours to ourselves. But you knew that, didn't you?" He slipped an arm around her waist. Christy was dumbfounded. He thought she returned to him. He really did. "Please, Jeremiah," she said and drew away. "Mark won't expect you back. Even money says St. James still has him in tow." The accurate guess added to her discomfort, and she edged toward the door. Jeremiah followed and pulled her back into a confident embrace. "You didn't have to invent a necklace, you know. I wanted this, too." He kissed her again. She forced herself from his arms. "You've totally misunderstood, and I can't seem to get through to you. I'm not interested in this sort of thing. I'm married." "Of course. I know your husband. He's a great guy." "Jer-e-miah, I'm married," she repeated, amazed at his candor. He grinned beguilingly. "So, don't you like me?" "Of course. You're good-looking and charming and have been ever so nice to me. It's true I'm not a lot older than you, but it appears as if we're at least a couple of generations apart." He looked genuinely puzzled. "Cue me in. I don't get it." "Well, to put it bluntly, I'm stuck with an old-fashioned principle called fidelity. I don't go in for plural intimacy. I suppose that isn't hip, what's in, or whatever the current term is, but that's the way I am. You strike me as the kind of person who would respect my convictions." He seemed to consider her statements. "You really mean that, don't you, Christy?" "Yes, I do, Jeremiah." "Well, then, not to worry. Let's just say things didn't work out." "And they usually do? " He grinned and nodded. "And they usually do," he agreed. He walked her to the elevator. "This is a helluva way to end our short acquaintance. We could still go to Pedro's." "No," Christy said. "And let's forget these past few minutes. Aside from that, I want you to know you were a real friend tonight. I didn't know a soul at your party; Mark was busy with his 'assignment,' and I felt inappropriately dressed. In fact, I was ready to leave when you rescued me. You were wonderful to take me under your wing, introduce me, dance with me. I'll not forget you, Jeremiah." She reached out and laid a hand on his arm. "Good luck on your defrocking." He pushed the button to summon the elevator. "I'll not forget you, either, Christy," he said. Then his gray eyes grew thoughtful. "I was lucky to meet you tonight. I can see that I have to straighten out a few things in my life. One thing is for certain. I won't consider I've found myself until I'm as sure

of my values as you are of yours." He bent and kissed her lightly, then took her hand and dropped in the necklace. "I found it under the love seat only a minute ago, and in case you're interested, I made a bet with myself that you'd not go along with me either here or to Pedro's in spite of my dazzling personality." As the elevator whisked her down, she decided not to return to the banquet. The speech would not be over, but she didn't relish a conspicuous entrance. Anyway, Mark probably preferred to wrap up his assignment, attention undivided. Still, it rankled that after Mark was so insistent on her accompanying him, that he couldn't have spent a little time with her. She felt truly interested in the workings of these affairs and their importance and tie-ins with his business. Did he think that she was too naive to understand? Back in the room, she took a leisurely shower and put on a cream-satin peignoir, a gift for her trousseau that she'd never worn. Then she sat on the bench at the dressing table and brushed her hair, going over the events of this long strange day. A few minutes later, Mark walked into the room and came up behind her. He looked at her reflection for a moment, then put his hand on her shoulder. Their eyes met in the mirror. "You look lovely," he said. She smiled her thanks and brushed the damp curls away from her face. "Over already?" she asked. "No, but I left right after the speech. I've been with that crowd all day. Gets claustrophobic after a while. I hoped I'd find you here." He pulled a small package out of his pocket and dropped it into her lap. The smart little gold box carried the label of the fine jeweler whose shop she had seen near the lobby. She looked up in surprise. "But it's not my birthday, " she said and untied the ribbon. "I know. I just felt like giving you something." " Pearl earrings exquisitely set in etched gold rested on a velvet cushion. "I love them! My first genuine pearls," she cried. She pulled off the clips and inserted the posts into her ears. Christy felt so overwhelmed by the unexpected gift that she could hardly speak. "They're lovely, but Mark..." she said. "But Christy," he mimicked, then turned serious. "I guess I'm trying to tell you something, and I'm not very good at it. The truth is, it means a great deal to me to have you along with me at these business functions. I know you may find that hard to reconcile after today." She couldn't believe her ears. "Well, I admit I got a rather different impression." "I can understand that, and the way these affairs work out, today probably was not unusual." He sat down next to her and took her hand in his. "I can't explain exactly, but just knowing you are with me makes me feel more complete, gives me a feeling of support. Does that make any sense? Then tonight when I saw you across the room at the Arlingtons' party, I kept thinking, that beautiful girl over there is my wife! I felt so proud of you." "Why, that's lovely, Mark." Her voice sounded husky, and she knew she would cry if he said any more. He pushed her hair behind her ears, the better to get the effect of the earrings. "Just as I visualized them on you," he said, then noticed her brimming eyes. "Hey, what kind of a reaction is that?" She shook her head. "Sorry. Just overwhelmed, I guess." Mark was such a conundrum. He always seemed so self-sufficient, so in another world not at all relevant to hers. Then all of a sudden he would surprise her with his sensitivity as if he'd been tuned in to her all along. The way he surprised her with her piano, for example. "You do such thoughtful things, Mark," she said and wiped her eyes. "Are you okay?" he asked. She nodded. "Okay." Her heart was too full to say anything else.

He went to shower then. She picked up a magazine and thumbed through it, not seeing a single page. What was this all about? Did he feel guilty about deserting her today, or did he really mean all he said? She was certain that he'd never looked more earnest. It was as if he were saying he needed her. Yet in the light of recent quarrels, nothing added up. He came out a few minutes later in his pj's, still toweling his hair. "Feeling better?" she asked. "Much." "Mission accomplished, no doubt?" "Ursula St. James signed a contract tonight, if that's what you mean." "A most attractive lady." "And sharp as they come. The association is lucky to get her. She's strictly business. Did you find your necklace?" "I lost it at the cocktail party. Jeremiah found it." Mark raised an eyebrow. "A real handy fellow." "Oh, so you noticed?" "You bet. Every move. He seemed to hand out quite a line." "That he did. It wasn't very original, though. But I thought he was rather sweet." "So I gathered. I must say I didn't think much of his dancing. But you seemed to enjoy it." She rolled her eyes. "Strictly business. Board-members' wives must be charming to board-members' sons. Right?" "Well, next time I'd prefer that you avoid that kid, even though he is J.B.'s son." Mark looked so ridiculous, the way he stood glowering, flicking the towel back and forth, looking for all the world like a matador in a bull ring, that she burst out laughing. "Oh, Mark, I'll swear you're snorting fire and brimstone. How can you get annoyed at anyone as harmless as Jeremiah? He's just a baby." She picked up a decorator pillow from the chaise longue and playfully hurled it at him. His eyes glinted as he caught and flung it back. "So, you like fireworks? Well, come here, then." His tone was pitched low, which pointed up the challenge. Still laughing, she circled the chaise longue and around the room, then dodged, feinted and unexpectedly bumped into him. He pulled her down on the bed, where they continued to struggle, limbs entwined, slapping - not hard twisting arms, pinching lightly, biting. Heavens, they were going at each other like a couple of savages. But how splendid it felt. A catharsis? Who cared? Mark framed her face and brought it close to his, eyes glistening with excitement. Then his touch softened. She stopped struggling and closed her eyes to his kiss, gentle at first, then urgent and demanding. Don't think, a cameo moment, something to cherish, no regrets.... AFTERWARD THEY LAY in each other's arms, incredulous and exhausted. He ran a finger over the faint bite on her shoulder that probably would turn into a bruise, then kissed it. "Dare I comment?" "Only if it's flattering and classy." "Well, it's honest," he said. "You're wonderful, Christy, truly wonderful, except that word doesn't express everything. It doesn't stretch. It isn't big enough. Anyway, I have a suggestion. We have a choice, you and I. From now on we can chuck all the barriers we've both set between us, and if tonight is any indication, we can explore what could be a great relationship." He held her against him and kissed her forehead. "Or we can clam up again and stockpile a lot of neuroses." She reached up and ran a finger across his chin. "I guess you're saying: 'Make love, not war.' " "You could put it that way. What do you think?" "I think it sounds like a

slogan on a poster." "And a damn good one. Shall we adopt it?" Oh, yes, Mark. I want to, I want to, she thought but said nothing. Too many gremlins rode around the edges, preventing the commitment he asked. Not daring to speak, she slipped her arms around his neck once again and kissed him. Did that satisfy him? She hoped so. At least, he soon fell asleep. She didn't want to do anything to spoil this night. She wanted to keep the dearness of it intact in her memory forever. If she had brought up all the questions that hounded her now, she would have turned everything to ruin. What barriers did he mean? She was afraid to ask. She felt a flood of warmth as she recalled their love-making. "We can chuck all the barriers - from now o"," he stated. She was grateful he hadn't said "for the duration." Duration. Such a cold limiting word. That's what he really meant, of course, and it would have slammed down on her like a guillotine. But Mark had said "from now on." That phrase had promise and grace. It was open-ended. It hinted of a future. She touched the pearl earrings and wondered if she dared hope. CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE FOLLOWING WEEK Mark left for Oregon. He would be away for three weeks while he set up a couple of new franchise operations. The moment he left, Christy began to count the days until his return. Stop it, she warned, you've already devised too many treacherous little schemes to undermine the contract, and she headed for the piano to concentrate on scales and arpeggios. Her fingers didn't perform well this morning* and after a few minutes she gave up and went upstairs to write a letter to Beth. Halfway through, she tore it up and called her instead. Richard was fine. He had been invited to read a paper at a science conference at U.S.C. and Beth spoke with animation about her new project at the hospital, something to do with organizing play therapy in the children's ward. Christy recognized the wistfulness that edged Beth's voice as she described some of the children. The quality would probably always remain unless she had a child of her own to love. Patience, Beth. Christy went downstairs to fix herself a bite of lunch. What made her feel at such loose ends today? Everyone else seemed to have purpose and direction. She eyed the latest pile of cookbooks she'd borrowed from the library. Odd how Mark seemed to enjoy impromptu meals, far more than her labored preparations. Well, okay, then. Exit one inept gourmet cook. Perhaps she'd check with the college night-school program, enroll in a course. Not cooking. She needed an immediate purge so decided to walk to the library and return the books at once. Outside an early-spring sun argued with a chilly noon. Scudding clouds dappled the sidewalk, and the surrounding hills turned chameleonlike from green to violet in the changing light. The atmosphere, brisk and assertive, underlined her determination. The librarian, half glasses sliding down her nose, checked in the books and handed-Christy a card that marked a page. "Something important?" Christy scanned a name-and telephone number in Mark's firmly slanted handwriting. O'Rourke. The name seemed familiar. Then she recalled Mark's mention of the drama group that needed an accompanist. When had he mentioned the opening? Whenever... it was probably too late. But she still rode the crest of her resolve and found a pay phone in the lobby. She dialed the number. "Oak Knoll Elementary School," a businesslike feminine voice replied. "Sorry. I was calling a Mr. O'Rourke." "Mr. O'Rourke is the principal. Please hold." Hang up, you fool. You can't even handle your present responsibilities, Christy told herself. "Ryan O'Rourke here." A resonant voice came on the line. "This is Christy Steele speaking, that is, Christy Steele Brandon," she added quickly, embarrassed at her slip. "My husband mentioned that you were

looking for an accompanist. Is the position still open?" "Is it ever! Brandon? Of course. I met your husband at Rotary. He says you're a female Van Cli-burn." Christy raised her eyebrows. She couldn't imagine Mark saying that. "Not exactly, but I do have a fair amount of experience." "Fabulous! And what perfect timing! Our present accompanist is moving to southern California tomorrow." His vitality leaped across the wires, and Christy found herself going breathless at the prospect of getting back into her very own world again. "I do have other obligations. How much time is required?" "Evening rehearsals held twice a week here at the school auditorium. Later you may want extra time with soloists and dance numbers, but you can arrange that at your own convenience." Christy hesitated. She'd worked on these productions and knew quite well the hours involved. "Perhaps I'd better check with my husband." "Oh. I'm positive there's no problem there, none at all," Mr. O'Rourke said with an assurance that minimized any further excuse. "As a matter of fact, your husband seemed anxious to find an outlet for your talent." She felt a flush of pleasure that Mark had promoted her talent. Aside from his thoughtfulness in moving her piano, she believed he'd forgotten about her music. "Mrs. Brandon? Christy? Are you still there? Your husband did mention that this was a volunteer stint? If it's pay that concerns you, I might wangle a stipend from the Civic Art Commission." "Oh, no, it's not that." "Well, then, it's settled," he said authoritatively. "I can bring the music over this evening and go over the score with you if that's okay. What time is convenient, and where do you live?" Hold on, Mr. O'Shea, O'Brien, O'Rourke, or whatever your name is. You're going awfully fast. But she heard herself give her address. "Darlin, you're a gift straight from heaven!" So it was "darling" already, was it? She smiled with nostalgic recall of the familiar language among close-knit performing groups. Mr. O'Rourke's school was located down the hill only three blocks from the town house. She could walk to rehearsals. That would take care of one complication since she and Mark still shared the same car. She felt elated, a little frightened and thoroughly satisfied with herself. AT PRECISELY EIGHT O'CLOCK that evening the doorbell rang. The blond giant at her door bore not the remotest likeness to Christy's mental image of Ryan O'Rourke, elementary-school principal. Only the cultured voice bridged the identity. "Mr. O'Rourke, of course. Come in," she said, still trying to reconcile the tall bearded man who seemed more a fit descendant of a Viking conqueror than the pedantic head of an elementary school. He was probably in his middle thirties, and the set of his head, the fluid movements of his handsome body and his eyes, alight with a disarming roguishness, spoke of an unflagging zest for life. "The name is Ryan," he said with a grin. His glance swept her from head to foot and apparently found her not wanting. "Attractive place you have here." "Only the piano and books are ours," she said. One doesn 't buy furniture for a one-year stand, she thought, but Ryan O'Rourke looked the kind of man who would not be startled by such information. "May I fix you some coffee? A drink?" He strode over to the piano and spread out the manuscript. "Later maybe. Let's get to work on Catherina." He indicated a place beside him on the bench and chorded aggressively for a few minutes. "Great instrument! I play a fair cello, but I'm no pianist." "I'm not familiar with this musical. Tell me about it," Christy said. "Well, actually it was written by two college students as a

senior-composition project, and it's based on the family of J. S. Bach." "I like it already!" "I think it's a winner, all right. As you know, Bach's sons all achieved fame and popularity throughout Europe during their lifetimes, but the premise of the show is that the oldest daughter, Cath-erina, was actually the real genius." "But because she was a girl...!" "Exactly! She had to stay home and help mind the kids." The music immediately intrigued Christy, a marvelous blend of baroque and rock, which to her mind had enough similarities to be blood relatives, anyway. As she played the score, Ryan sang the parts and made subtle changes in posture and expression to bring alive each character. His expertise astonished her. "I love it!" she cried several swift hours later. Ryan gave her an uninhibited bear hug. "You're a pro, Christy darlin'!" Her morale soared at his wholehearted admiration, and she flushed with pleasure. It was a wonderful feeling to do something well for a change. "You're pretty unbelievable yourself," she said. "You've given me real insight into all the characters." He stretched, then moved easily to slump into a comfortable chair. "Oh, dramatics is just one of my many talents. Bend me in any direction, and I sparkle plenty. But make no mistake, I'm schoolmaster first, last and all the way in between." Appearances to the contrary, she thought. Well, there was no law that said you had to look the part. "By the way, where's Mark?" he asked. She felt a guilty start as she explained his absence. She hadn't once thought of Mark during the entire evening. So the cure worked better than she anticipated! She caught Ryan's eye and had the uncomfortable feeling that he already had her sorted out and cataloged like some one-celled lab specimen. "I'll have that drink now if the offer is still good." He smiled. His face became all dents and creases with an elusive dimple in one cheek. A face like that couldn't be labeled and filed; that was certain. She poured two glasses of port and wondered if Mark might be amused or would even be interested that she shared a glass of wine with a handsome stranger at midnight. THE SAN FELIPE CIVIC THEATER GROUP included members who ranged from stagestruck college students to retired pros and other citizens like Ryan who shared a common passion for the stage. Christy immediately felt at home as they embraced her in the ebullient manner of show people who delight in turning inconsequential moments into significant happenings. Geoff, the male lead, asked for a quick run-through of his first solo before Ryan started the evening rehearsal. "The key isn't right for you," Christy said at the conclusion and transposed it a whole tone lower. "Man, what a difference!" Geoff cried, after singing it again while everyone applauded her skill. "Oh, I always throw in a little transposition just to impress people," Christy said, blushing at their praise. "Wow, a girl who can still blush," Geoff said. "Occupational hazard of shy accompanists," Christy murmured. "A modest redheaded beauty with brains. Rather a deadly combination, eh?" Ryan said and blessedly called for the first act. During the coffee break an hour later, Karen, who played the lead role of Catherina, sat down on the piano bench beside Christy. "Can you improvise along with your other talents?" "After a fashion," Christy said. "Ryan wants to add to a dance number after my song; something meditative, the music inside me that seeks expression, you know, while my brothers receive

all the training. Watch." Karen leaped to the stage and began to dance with slow free movements. Christy played a quiet succession of chords in a parody of a sixteenth-century pavane, and the room became suddenly quiet. Ryan loomed out of nowhere and banged a chair on the floor. "Wrong!" he thundered. "But it's a soliloquy, Ryan. I can bare my anguish more articulately in the less restrictive movements of modern dance." The group gathered gleefully to join in the argument. "Karen's right," said a Gypsylike girl called Margo. "Nothing like free movement to project an emotion!" Ryan glowered at them. "What kind of integrity is that? Catherina lived in a time when a woman's role was rigidly defined. Therefore, at this point in the story she must express her feelings in the disciplined movements of classical ballet. Granted, it's more challenging." He hurled the taunt at Karen. "Later, when she comes to terms with life, she can use the free form." They all talked at once. "Ryan, you're stressing images instead of concepts!" "Yes. You've got to show life as a trainload of discipline on a one-way track." "Not life, man. Libido, soul." "Since she wants to bare her soul, why not bare all? In a sheer body stocking, of course," Geoff added as Karen thumbed her nose at him. "Why, darlings, how very shrewd of you," Margo cried. "That will take care of the ticket sales. I can see the headlines now: 'San Felipe Players Feature Nude Dance in Spring Show!' " Karen twirled a sash and performed a series of bumps to give a smart imitation of a stripper while Christy beat out the appropriate music. Eventually they settled down to serious work, and when Ryan insisted on driving her home at the end of the rehearsal, she felt as if she'd visited a familiar planet. She loved using her skills to work with these people and reveled in their uninhibited banter, their effervescence and creativity, even though most of the time she knew she was more of a bewitched audience than a bona fide participant. Nevertheless, she shared with them an esoteric set of reflexes that made them a unique family, intuitive and supportive, with whom she could practice her art and talk about it without the reticence she felt with those who were not part of the circle. After she arrived home, she felt revved up like a high-speed engine and spent half the night trying to work out the music for Karen's ballet. Then suddenly, as if her subconscious had prepared a finished score for her, an inspiration flashed into her mind, and she worked feverishly until dawn to set down the notation. The music flowed naturally, a two-part fugue with the themes playing against each other, one strict and staid to represent society and the other for Catherina, lively and inventive. Exhausted, but with a deep feeling of satisfaction, she finally fell into bed, giving thanks for Mark's capricious act of writing down the name O'Rourke. SHE WOKE WITH A HEADACHE the next morning and felt so lethargic she didn't want to move. She must be coming down with something. Occasional nausea had bothered her for a day or so, but she'd attributed it to the long hours spent on composing with only a gesture now and then toward food or sleep. Suddenly she flung herself out of bed and ran to the bathroom where she bent double in dry rasping heaves, then walked slowly to her desk to check her calendar. She was overdue, all right. She'd been so wrapped up in Catherina that she'd not realized. Oh, God, what would Mark say? She crawled back into bed and tried to shut everything out of her mind. Her clock radio played softly, but she refused to identify the tune and closed her eyes so that she wouldn't know the time of day. Nothing helped. Please, God, not now. I mustn't get pregnant now. Mark will be furious. But maybe it wasn't so. She could be getting upset over nothing. She desperately tried to recall everything she'd ever read on the subject. Stress could delay

a period, couldn't it? Later in the day she selected a gynecologist from the telephone book on the irrational basis that his first name was Mark and felt relief that she couldn't get an appointment for another week. Maybe nature would cooperate by then, and she wouldn't need to go. On the day of the examination, she felt so ill she almost canceled the appointment. You're programming yourself not to face facts, she told herself. Call a taxi. Now. The evidence was eminently positive according to Dr. Mark Hamilton, who beamed with the information and gave her a prescription to alleviate the nausea. It seemed she must have conceived during the first month if the doctor's calculations were correct. Her baby would be born well within the year of their contract. When she'd first planned a child to take Davy's place, she had imagined nothing less than pure joy when she conceived. Instead, she wrestled with depression. There was a new life within her, a part of her and of Mark. Now she understood what Mark had tried to tell her. What had she been thinking when she planned to bundle up their baby and hand it over like one from a litter of puppies, everything neat and tidy? She could see that it wasn't going to work that way. Mark had called twice thus far during his absence, asked how things were going for her and enthusiastically reviewed his work establishing the two new rental centers. She told him she had taken the accompanist job but couldn't bring herself to divulge the news, he didn't want to hear. She knew her restraint gave an artificial quality to her conversation and could imagine his puzzled expression. Well, artificiality was made to order for the contract she originally planned. Mark said he would return on Sunday. Somehow she would have to muster enough courage to tell him then. But he had made it plain he wasn't ready to handle her pregnancy yet. He had said clearly it would "throw him." Maybe she ought to wait awhile, bide her time until a prudent moment came along. Saturday-night rehearsals always ran late, and it was close to midnight when Ryan called a halt to his relentless insistence on believable action. Then, as if to make up for the grueling evening, he sent out for beer and pizza. Christy didn't care for beer, and the smell of the hot pizza now repelled her, but she found it impossible to refuse either from the effervescent crew. Stimulated by the intense workout, they sat together on the stage floor and relentlessly intellec-tualized their roles. Christy longed to collapse in her bed as quickly as possible. She knew she had coasted overlong on the excitement of the evening and wondered how long her endurance would hold. Almost two hours later they finally broke up. "You were mighty quiet tonight, darlin'," Ryan said as he drove her the three short blocks home, a habit that already seemed firmly established. "I think a change of scenery would do you good at this point. I have a place on the coast. Sea House, I call it. It's north of Fort Ross a few miles. You and Mark are welcome to use it anytime. It's a great place to relax." "That's very thoughtful of you, Ryan, but actually I was just overwhelmed by the fireworks tonight. Are you always such a tyrant?" "Absolutely. Even more so at my school. Security flourishes with well-defined boundaries. Quote: Ryan O'Rourke, eminent child authority." "Elementary, I suppose, from a far-out Norse god named O'Rourke. Incidentally how do you explain that combination?" "Easy when you have a tall blond mother whose name was Throndsen." "Doesn't the leprechaun in you ever undermine the martinet?" "Oh, sure. We become downright polarized at times, but as a whole, I find it a useful arrangement." "I get it. The iron hand in the velvet glove." "Begorra and if you've not found me out at last," he said in a fine Irish accent. They turned into her driveway, and she stumbled a little as she got out of

the car. He quickly took her arm. "Hey, you really look beat. Any problems I should know about, darlin'? Have I pushed you too hard?" "Just tired, I guess. I didn't sleep too well last night." Drat her face. It was always as easy to read as a first-grade primer. He kissed her on the cheek and gave her a hug. "Well, take care, sweetheart mine." "Good night." She hardly had the energy to fit the key into the lock, much less to think of a witty retort. She went inside, closed the door and stood in the dark for a few moments and tried to recover her equilibrium. If only she didn't feel so dizzy. Perhaps she would just curl up on the sofa. She'd never make it upstairs. Suddenly a light switched on, and Mark came down the stairs two at a time. "My God, Christy, where have you been? In five more minutes I would have called the police!" Mark's face, grave with worry, alternately ballooned and receded without ever coming into focus. She put her hand to her head to stave off the nausea. "Well, my goodness, Mark, you said you wouldn't be home until Sunday." "Sunday! Didn't you receive my message?" Christy stared dumbly. He walked over to her. "When I couldn't reach you by telephone this morning, I called the landlady to put a note in the mailbox." She shook her head. She hadn't even looked at the mail today. Mark reached into the indoor mail drop and sorted through the contents. In silent accusation he held out the note to her. Her stomach churned. "I'm sorry, Mark. I've been incredibly busy." "Too busy to look at the mail, for crying out loud?" "Mark. I told you, don't you remember? I took the accompanist's job for the Civic Theater group. They rehearse late on Saturday nights." "Theater group!" he echoed and looked as if she just announced that she took a job in a massage parlor. "For heaven's sake, Mark, you're the one who suggested it. You gave me the director's card." "Well, I had no idea you'd get so wrapped up in it you'd put everything else out of your life." She stared at him. He seemed tired, harassed and the very picture of an injured male. "I have not put everything else out of my life, not you, not our house and not your clients. I can manage, maybe not perfectly, but I'll manage." "I'm afraid that will take some doing if you're going to burn the candle at both ends." "Look, for three months I've been dedicated to the vacuum cleaner, a slave to the meat thermometer, and I've arranged your table with centerpieces right out of House Beautiful. I like a neat household, and I like running it on schedule. But it's not enough. You " said so yourself. Music is part of me. I love what I'm doing, and I need to do it. We're putting on a show soon with a number of late rehearsals coming up. It always works this way. My goodness, you're out of town for weeks at a time. I accept that!" He looked at her oddly as if she'd just given a wretched reading of Joan of Arc. Or maybe her skin turned gray or green. Ah, he must have smelled the beer on her breath. "You'd better sit down," he said, his tone glacial. "It's apparent that you've had a rather exhilarating rehearsal. Which do you prefer, a cup of black coffee or an ice bag?" The entire conversation smacked of some crazy melodrama, and she wanted to say so. Instead, she swayed and fell forward hanging onto a chair. The room seemed to fade out like a dissolve in a movie. She swallowed carefully. "Mark, listen. It isn't what you think at all. The truth is - " She couldn't continue. The more imminent truth was that she had to get to the bathroom. Immediately. She ran, stumbling, and arrived to retch interminably, then leaned against the wall, exhausted. Eventually she climbed into the tub and soaked in the blessed balm of hot

water. She slipped into her nightgown and knew the time had come to tell Mark about the baby. Considering his state of mind, it wouldn't be easy, but this evening's actions deserved an explanation. Anyway, she longed for the comfort that would surely come if she could say something that would return them to the moment before he lost trust in her. Mark's brows were pulled into a faint scowl. He looked bushed and dear and boyish and incredibly vulnerable. It was possible that he pretended sleep, but whether or not, she hadn't the heart to rouse him to add more hurt to this already upsetting day. Well, he would know soon enough. It wasn't as if she could keep her secret much longer. She edged into bed and turned out the light. CHAPTER TWELVE

CHRISTY WAS GOING to have a baby. Now the reality edged all her thoughts and actions. Eat balanced meals', no junk food, and remember to take your vitamins. Wear that new skirt today. Soon you may be too fat. At times she imagined herself part of a metaphysical experience and thought of her child as Davy's reincarnation; Davy, who was getting ready to be born again. Davy, who at last would return to his parents. She read books on natural childbirth and worried about prenatal disasters such as German measles and miscarriage. Don't be silly, she chided herself. Birth is universal. What's new about having a baby? What's new was that she was the one who was having it. Now she watched a determined spring fling mantles over the April hillsides and dazzle San Felipe with cloudless skies, a brilliant fanfare for the new life within her. Actually she always thought of spring as a hyperthyroid condition of the earth, everything panted too hard, and she sometimes became uneasy in the ambience of the extravagant energy. She preferred autumn. Then the days held a golden gracious quality, a kind of at-ease-with-itself maturity that broke free from the frenetic pace of a year in its youth. The season found Christy caught up in the most demanding schedule she'd ever experienced. Cast members dropped in at all hours to rehearse their songs, and she ran down the hill to the school auditorium innumerable times each week to meet with the dancers or the children's chorus. Then Ryan added violin, string bass and flute to form a pit ensemble, which meant she must orchestrate the entire score for the small group of musicians. After a grueling rehearsal after school one afternoon, Christy locked the auditorium and headed to the office to drop off the key. She met Ryan with a skin diver's wet suit and snorkel outfit in his arms. "Now what?" she asked. "To the coast for a little R and R. Want to join me?" "Looks like an ominous excursion. What are you doing with that crowbar?" "Diving for abalone. Only one of the most popular sports in the area, madam, and I use the crowbar to pry them from underwater rocks." m "Abalone? I know their shells are used for buttons, jewelry and such. What do they look like?" "They're a large oval shellfish averaging seven to eight inches long. Delicious eating. A little like clams, only milder. End of nature-study lesson. I'm heading out to chaperon a high-school skin-diving club." "Some rest and relaxation!" "The best. You're in another world when you swim under those shallow coastal waters. There's a perfect cove for diving just below my Sea House." Christy suddenly recalled the last letter from Aunt Martha, something about her well-to-do friend Ida Travener, who had donated her seashore estate to Southern Sierra University on condition it be developed into a center for the performing arts. Would it be near Ryan's Sea House, she wondered. "Dojrou know anything about a place called Rockledge, the Travener estate?" "Do I know it!" Ryan cried. "It's just a stone's throw from my place. It's a palatial colonial three-story home with attractive barns and guest houses all

set in a beautiful little bay. I was in college with one of the granddaughters, Alicia Travener. We went together for a while, but she up and married some millionaire. Sure, I've been there many times. Why do you ask?" Christy explained the information in her aunt's letter. Ryan set his equipment on the counter, his body suddenly electric. "Say that again. I simply can't believe it. Do you know I've spent half my life visualizing that estate as a performing-arts center? Every time I drive by the place, I dream of managing such a project. I can tell you which buildings can be adapted for the various classrooms, and how to turn that magnificent barn into an auditorium. And with only a little excavation there's an area that can form a perfect amphitheater. How far along are they?" Christy stared in amazement. Ryan was an exuberant man, but she'd never seen anything like the excitement he now showed. "I'm not certain. I think Aunt Martha said the board of directors was interviewing candidates for the administrative staff. It seems the center will be supported by a trust fund, and the aim is to turn it into another Aspen." Ryan paced the outer office. The room seemed too small for his restless movements. He slammed a fist on the counter. "I simply have to get in on this. It's already been a part of me for years. I'd give everything I own to head up the project. It's a dream job, Christy. Do you think it's too late?" "I don't know. I don't think so. I just received Aunt Martha's letter. You're a perfect candidate, Ryan, what with your background in drama and music and a Ph.D. in administration, not to mention your knowledge of the area. Why don't you send off a query to the university?" Ryan turned to his secretary who had remained motionless over a ledger during the conversation. "Hey, Harriet, I know you've been tuned in. Dash off a letter to Southern Sierra U. before you go home, will you? Ask them for particulars and mention my eminent qualifications. See if an interview is possible." The secretary pursed her lips disapprovingly. She was one of those tall, thin, nondescript-looking women somewhere between thirty and forty, who even at her desk moved so awkwardly that she seemed put together with old elastic. All her dresses had string bows at the neckline and were of drab colors. She was never meant to be viewed in direct sunlight. Her mouth turned sulky as if she'd just suffered an insult. "Now what wild-goose chase is this?" she said. "Your place is here in San Felipe, not way up there on the coast a hundred miles from nowhere!" "Cut the editorial comment and type, lady. And you needn't put on that martyr act. You know you love writing letters for me." Harriet shook her head at Ryan with adoring eyes. A congenital worshiper who waited patiently for any crumb of attention, Christy decided. "He can't spell," Harriet said either to herself or to Christy. "And he gets crazy ideas." But a little smile played on the pale thin lips. It seemed quite likely that Harriet Pitkin didn't mind any chore Ryan might ask of her. She typed the letter quickly and handed it to Ryan for his approval. He glanced through and handed it back. "Perfect as always." Harriet blushed and fumbled in a drawer for an envelope. Ryan gathered up his equipment again, then turned to his secretary. "Please put the letter in the corner mail drop before five o'clock so it will get in tonight's pickup, and thanks, doll." He walked out of the office with Christy and headed toward the school parking lot, still chattering about the exciting prospect of a West Coast performing-arts center and the coincidence of his dreams for Rockledge becoming an actuality. Christy again marveled at his eagerness. As she started up the hill, she glanced back. Ryan stood immobile where she'd left him, the realities of school, skin diving and probably Catherina, as well, all forgotten. Developing such a center was an immense and complicated project requiring

top-quality administration. Not only was there the business of remodeling the buildings, but faculty and resident artists for master classes must be recruited, auditions and admissions arranged and performances scheduled and publicized. The facets were endless if the place were to become a prestigious center. It made her weary to think about them. The reverse seemed true of Ryan. He acted as if he'd just taken a dose of high-powered vitamins. With his creative drive, she knew he was more than equal to the challenge. She hoped it wasn't too late. Rockledge and Ryan were meant for each other. However, she suspected his plain hungry-eyed secretary didn't share such sentiments. Was Ryan aware that Miss Harriet Pitkin was in love with him, she wondered. Probably not, she considered, any more than Mark was aware of Christy's love for him. If only their relationship were such that she could let herself respond to him freely - tell him joyfully about the baby--THE NEXT AFTERNOON she and Karen spent a strenuous couple of hours polishing the ballet. It looked as if it might become a showstopper, and Christy still felt a glow from all the praise for her original music. Karen, dressed in worn black tights, sank down on the stage floor afterward and let her head rest between her knees. "I can't believe the way this number shaped up. I would never have interpreted it this way if Ryan hadn't chiseled away like a sculptor." "Dispensing challenges seems to be Ryan's forte," Christy said. Karen groaned. "If only he didn't do it with a capital C." Then she arched a knowing eyebrow. "He may not always add up, but what do you expect from a genius with a capital G?" Christy nodded. "I expect when it comes to the final analysis, he's as logical as the resolution in music of a dominant seventh to the tonic." "You're probably right, and a veritable pillar of society to boot. Oh, I don't mean that he neglects the social scene. He never lacks for female company. After all, he's one of the most eligible bachelors in town. But would you believe he's considered the top elementary principal in the state? I've heard he's slated for a position on the state board of education. I suppose what puzzles you is all that blarney he so freely passes around." "Oh, I expect that comes with the territory," Christy said. "What J mean is his deep interest in children as opposed to his worldly bachelor image. There are times when I could believe he writes the editorials for Playboy, and then again he seems the perfect father for a big family." Karen untied her ballet slippers and rubbed her feet. She looked thoughtful. "Perhaps his school takes the place of a family. Anyway, everyone is entitled to a few hang-ups, or in his case, cover-ups." "Cover-ups?" You're prying, Christy, she told herself, but she couldn't help it. "Ryan had suffered real tragedy in his life, or haven't you heard? A few years ago, just after he became principal here, the girl he planned to marry was killed in an automobile accident three days before the wedding. He drove the car, but he didn't even get a scratch. Something like that could tear up your life forever if you let it." Christy couldn't speak. She let one hand drag slowly and soundlessly across the keys while something inside cried out in a desperate empathy. CHRISTY'S TIGHT SCHEDULE did not lack rewards. It prevented her from thinking too much about the curtain of coolness that had hung between her and Mark since his return from Oregon and, as well, kept her mind off the nausea that now plagued her all day. But it could not override the continual awareness of the baby she had at last conceived. How had she ever imagined that she could detach herself like some machine from her own child? She tried hard not to examine the fierce possessiveness that she suddenly felt for this new life. What a wasteland of superficial thinking could stretch between a plan and the reality, she thought bitterly and wondered how she could make new desires match old intents. I'll deal with it later, she promised herself, when Catherina is over, and I have

time to think; then as usual she assigned her confusion to the vagaries of pregnancy. Nor had she yet revealed the news to Mark. As he'd warned, he now made numerous short trips out of town to supervise the burgeoning network of franchises. When at home, he buried himself upstairs in the den and often worked until after midnight, too preoccupied for conversation, frequently irritable. They rarely found a private moment, and she found it easy to postpone her news. Nevertheless, she knew she made excuses. "Good morning, Mark. What do you know, I'm going to have a baby!" As simple as that, she could state it. Was there any reason to spare him? None, except that he was tired, overworked, and she loved him and didn't want to burden him with something he hadn't wanted to deal with until months from now. Only a week remained before the show, and she hurried home after a rehearsal with Karen to put a casserole in the oven before the men's quartet arrived to work on their difficult number. Thus far, the quartet had been unable to master the song to Ryan's satisfaction, and at the last rehearsal he was ready to cut it from the production. "Oh, no," Christy begged. "It's one of the choicest numbers in the entire musical. Give us a couple more days. I think I can bring them around." "You're over your head in rehearsals now," Ryan said. "The rhythms are too tricky, and the tempo must be furious, or it will lose its effect. You'd have to be a magician to pull this one out of the bag." But she'd insisted and Ryan reluctantly agreed. The young men arrived promptly, and she set them to work. The music was contrapuntal in style, sung on a neutral syllable, reminiscent of a Bach invention, but greatly syncopated. Christy had always been fascinated by counterpoint, and the members immediately caught her excitement when she showed them how to listen for the way the main theme slipped in and out of each voice and helped them examine the playful repetitions and imitative phrases to provide insight to the learning. They drilled with new zest, and Christy heard with satisfaction the concurrent melodies begin to spin fluidly against each other. Ryan dropped by to listen on his way home from school and sat with head cocked in rapt attention. At the conclusion he applauded extravagantly. "Bravo!" he cried and gave Christy a hug. "If that doesn't bring the house down, nothing will!" Christy felt deliriously pleased at their success. "Any music teacher worth her salt, given four bright students, could have done the same," she said and extricated herself from Ryan's embrace. She started the introduction again. "Come on fellows, once more over lightly, and we'll call it quits." "Slave driver!" Ryan cried, but wholehearted approval obviously shone in that perfectionist's eyes. Halfway through the song Christy glanced over her shoulder to see Mark standing in the doorway. She wondered how long he'd been there. He shifted his weight impatiently and finally disappeared. He probably holed up in the den again. Such energetic vocal gymnastics weren't exactly balm for a tired man after a full day at the office. It was after seven-thirty when the men finally left. Christy hurried to set dinner on the table and frowned in distress at the withered-looking casserole. She called Mark and, when he didn't answer, ran upstairs, but the den was empty. Perhaps he'd given up and gone out for something to eat, she thought guiltily, or maybe he went back to the office. She sat down with a glass of juice and tried to read the evening paper. After a while, when he still hadn't returned, she ate a few bites and put the food away. Elation from the successful rehearsal and concern for Mark had destroyed her ap-. petite. Two hours later he arrived, his face unsmiling and his movements tense as he walked into the room. Christy jumped up. "My goodness, Mark! I've been worried. What happened?" He set down his briefcase, his brows drawn in exasperation. "Dammit, Christy, we had a dinner invitation tonight. How could you forget? I saw that

you had it marked on your calendar." Christy stared at him for a moment, then clapped a hand to her head. She remembered now. An out-of-town business associate wanted to take them to dinner at the country club. Mark had told her last week. Of course. It was a representative from the Australian organization for whom Mark planned to work next year. Lord! She hoped she'd not jarred the protocol. Her knees felt weak, and she sat down. "I can't tell you how sorry I am!" He went to the liquor cabinet and poured a glass of brandy. "I'm sorry, too. This was one occasion I wanted to go well." "Did I spoil anything?" "Well, it was a bit awkward, of course, since he brought his wife. I tried to smooth it over, told them you were involved in a big rehearsal." A slight thinning of his lips enunciated his anger. Christy felt a chill creep down the back of her neck. It wasn't like her to act so carelessly. He really must be furious. The expression in his cool blue eyes made her wonder that he didn't shout at her instead of maintaining this icy reserve. "I guess I got involved in the rehearsal and completely forgot. Why didn't you interrupt?" "The task seemed a bit formidable. Anyway, it was already late, and I could see you weren't ready. Incidentally is this an all-male production?" "Not at all, but we're a volunteer group, which means the men and students have to rehearse after work and school. Besides, the musical does feature the parts of Bach's sons. Most of his children were boys, you see." Mark threw up his hands. "How many children did he have, in heaven's name?" "Well, twenty, but - " "Twenty! Good Lord, that's obscene!" "Maybe so, but fortuitous for our musical heritage. I admit I've become far more involved than I intended, but it's a unique show, and I can't help wanting it to go well. You of all people should understand that." She meant it as a compliment to his own ability and drive, but the sardonic twist of his mouth told her he saw only her own unreasoning stubbornness. He'd commented on that quite recently. Well, it was one trait they shared in common whether he'd admit it or not. "What can I say, Mark? I guess I just get carried away when it comes to music." "Apparently. And does O'Rourke play one of the famous Bach brothers?" Christy's eyes widened. "Mr. O'Rourke is the director." "Naturally, the necessary omnipresence, although I fail to understand why. It looked to me as if you were doing a rather adequate job with the music." "Well, Mark, you must remember I'm just the accompanist. Ryan has the final say-so." He raised his eyebrows. "Ryan?" "Ryan O'Rourke," she explained. There was positively no reason for the hot flush that suffused her face. "I see." He opened his briefcase, took out a paper and studied it intently. Remain patient, she charged herself as she tried to mend hurt feelings. "I sincerely apologize about tonight; it was unforgivable. But I do want you to know How much I appreciate your encouraging me to take this accompanist job. It's meant a lot to me, especially since you've been so busy lately. I do hope you'll plan to come see us perform, then maybe you will understand why we're so dedicated." It sounded like'a pat little speech that she'd memorized and rehearsed for the occasion, and he gave no indication he heard a word of it. She felt like a kitten that had been put out for misbehaving. His silence suddenly infuriated her. "This whole business will be over soon," she said with all the sarcasm she could muster. "Then I promise to get out the dust mop and not let go again." His mouth twisted into a little smile that never reached his eyes. "Forget it. I didn't mean to make such a big deal out of it. Just edgy, I guess." He didn't elaborate but went upstairs to the den and closed the door. Christy couldn't get to sleep that night thinking about her forgetfulness.

She swung ambivalently from wallowing in guilt to feeling defensive. Suppose the Australian company took her action as an insult. Could such a faux pas influence the business deal? It was a world that she didn't know, and now she agonized endlessly that she might have damaged Mark's prospects. Still, she was only human, she reasoned. Everyone had moments of forgetfulness. She'd worked hard to entertain his clients, the crab-quiche luncheons she'd whipped up at a moment's notice, the tureens of bouillabaisse and the rich desserts whose preparation left her kitchen in a shambles. And if she lined up all the stuffed mushrooms she'd made during the past months, they'd have stretched down the hill and up again. It wasn't the most rewarding experience to knock herself out for all those people she would never see again, especially some of the overeffusive wives, all a little too well turned out, unanimously subscribing to the same unwritten law: Don't lift a hand in the kitchen. Surely all that work canceled a little of her blunder. Stop acting the martyred housewife, she warned. Expect a failure once in a while. She deserved one. But why couldn't it have been a nice little insignificant oversight instead of this monstrous boner? FOR THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS Mark continued to bury himself in work. Although he remained remote, at least, there were no more harsh words. In fact, Mark was usually so exhausted from his heavy work schedule when he came home at night that there was practically no communication at all between them. At the Thursday-evening rehearsal she paused at the den door and watched as he bent intently over a pile of papers. "You've had your nose to the grindstone all week," she said, apprehensive at interrupting him. "A little relaxation would be good for you. Why don't you come with me tonight?" He looked up, and Christy saw the taut new lines around his mouth and eyes. "Count me out, Christy. I'm swamped." "As busy as that?" "Yes. It's the Australian deal. Their representative spilled it to me the other night at the country club. As you know, the corporation had promised to send over a delegation of their investors to look over our franchise operation later this month and then sit down to discuss the system in terms of their own environment and economy, which varies from ours. Now they've postponed their visit and want the plans,- cost estimates, kinds of tools and machinery, the works, first! That spells unbelievable hours of time for me and a lot of correspondence and research. I'm not sure I can complete it in the time limit they've specified, along with my other work." She looked at the pile of papers on his desk. "But couldn't the representative see that, for heaven's sakes?" Mark laid down his pen with a scowl. "I have a feeling it was strictly his idea. The representative is a young business major, a senior at Stanford, brilliant no doubt, but totally without experience in the rental business." "But why would they send someone like that?" "Figures when you learn that he's the son of the largest investor." "It's so terribly unfair!" She desperately wished she could offer more adequate consolation. "Fair is a term one rarely uses in such deals, my dear," he said curtly and glanced at the stack of music in her arms. "When is the big production?" "One more week. The performances will be on Friday and Saturday evenings with a matinee on Sunday." "Get a ticket for me. I'll plan to come to your matinee." She felt an inordinate rush of pleasure at this unexpected show of interest. "Oh, wonderful, Mark. I've wanted so much for you to come. We're invited to the cast dinner party afterward at Ryan's, where you can meet everyone. Believe me, they'll act as a perfect tonic for all your stress." He nodded absently and returned to his work. Dismissed, she stepped out and closed the door without a sound. Weil, at least she now understood why he had not been himself. Her heart ached for him. When the show was over, she would

offer to help. There must be something she could do, type, compile research? Just so he wouldn't shut her out. She hiked down the hill to the school auditorium, her spirits soaring now that Mark planned to attend the show. You're on an ego trip, she chided herself. You want him to see all your busywork was worthwhile, not to mention hearing that splendid fugue you composed. It was true. People should support and share each other's triumphs. But don't count on it, she cautioned. In his present state he'd probably never even see her name on the program. CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHRISTY WOKE UP SUDDENLY in the middle of the night, wondering if Ryan had heard from Sierra University yet. She had been so wrapped up in Catherina that not once had she given a thought to the letter his secretary had drafted days ago. Surely he must have received a reply by this time, but wouldn't he have mentioned it? After a rehearsal with Karen the next afternoon, she hurried over to the office, but Ryan was at a district meeting, Miss Pitkin informed her with scarcely veiled satisfaction. Christy looked at the dragon lady. Who was this intense woman who always seemed to consider Christy an intruder? Harriet Pitkin's whole life apparently centered around this office. Did she turn into a gray moth that crawled into a file when school closed each day? Christy eluded herself for the flippant thought and resolved to remain pleasant in spite of the chilly reception. "Just wondered if you knew whether Ryan had heard from the Rockledge project?" Christy asked with a friendly smile. Harriet straightened a stack of reports with several jerky pats of her fingers, then put them into a folder, allowing the silence to grow awkward. Dear God, how she must intimidate the children! Then the woman folded her hands precisely on the desk. "Mr. O'Rourke," she said and paused to emphasize the mode of address acceptable in this office. "Mr. O'Rourke has received no answer yet, and everyone knows it will be to his benefit if none comes. He has a brilliant future ahead of him in California's public-school system. He's certain to become the next county superintendent, and the state superintendency will no doubt follow. It's foolish for him to cut short such a promising career for some harebrained scheme way up there in the boondocks." She stopped abruptly, probably realizing she spoke with undue fervor. "But he wants this challenge very much," Christy said. "And it isn't exactly a harebrained scheme, you know. It's a fully endowed institution for talented high-school and college students, sponsored by one of California's most prestigious universities." The secretary frowned and seemed to ignore Christy's argument. "Well, you have to understand Mr. O'Rourke. He goes off on these tangents occasionally. Eventually he comes to his senses. In the meantime he needs an anchor until his reason catches up with his actions. This county needs him. It would be traitorous for him to abandon us," she said as if pronouncing a manifesto. "We'd all miss him in San Felipe, of course, but our feelings shouldn't count. We don't have the right to legislate a person's dreams, do we?" Christy asked kindly. "But it's not a practical proposition. Who is going to traipse way up there to hear a performance? I say that project is doomed before it starts." "Many such centers are located in rural areas surrounded by natural beauty. Think about it. Why don't you give the university a ring and see if they received the letter? I believe you would be doing Mr. O'Rourke a real favor." Miss Pitkin rose in a gesture of dismissal. "I'm sure you realize I take such orders only from Mr. O'Rourke." Christy felt irritated but determined not to show it. "I can understand that. Would you mind putting a message on his desk, then?" She dialed

Information on the counter telephone and requested the university's number, which she jotted on a pad, then wrote: "Ryan, call S.S.U. now and see what's going on. Maybe they didn't receive your letter." She signed her name, folded and handed the note to the secretary. "Just a reminder," she said. "Don't you think you're jumping the gun? A big university like S.S.U. needs time to process mail." And I think you protest too much, dear Miss Pitkin, Christy thought. She walked slowly home. Perhaps she was unduly concerned. Interviews for an administrative staff weren't accomplished overnight. CHRISTY WAS so EAGER to find out the results of Ryan's call she walked down to school the next morning even though she had no rehearsals scheduled. On the school grounds she had to detour around a set of barricades that surrounded an open ditch and a large trencher machine. Ryan chatted with two men nearby. The logo on the machine showed it was from Mark's rental center. More and more she saw Mark's bright yellow equipment as she drove around San Felipe. He apparently was becoming successful in his campaign to educate the community to rent instead of to buy certain tools and machinery. Ryan looked on as the two men took pictures and stretched a tape to take measurements. She had never seen Ryan look so grim. After a few minutes the men left, and Ryan caught up with her as she walked toward his office. "Problems?" she asked. "I'm afraid so. Those men are from the school's insurance firm. One of our kids fell off the trencher into the ditch this morning and broke a leg. His parents are raising holy hob. I'm sure they are going to sue." "Over a broken leg?" "Millions have been collected for less. All the children were warned repeatedly to stay behind the barricades while this work was going on, but the Boggs boy sneaked in, anyway. He denied it at first, said someone pushed him, but I saw him climb up on the machine. I ran out but didn't get there fast enough to prevent the accident. He's twelve, old enough to know better." "But if it's his fault, why would his parents sue?" "Unfortunately today a lot of people take the attitude that someone must pay regardless of who is at fault. They accuse us of providing an 'attractive nuisance' on the school ground." "Good heavens, almost anything could be labeled an attractive nuisance as far as children are concerned." "Exactly," he said angrily. "And I'm fed up with people who undermine their children's characters by not allowing them to face up to the consequences of their own actions. In addition, such suits raise all our insurance premiums." Ryan was equally dynamic on stage or off, she thought as she listened to his heated recital. "Maybe it won't come to anything," she said hopefully. "I mustn't detain you, or I'll get more demerits from Miss Pitkin. What did S.S.U. have to say? Tell me, then I'll run." He looked puzzled. "S.S.U.?" "Didn't you get my note?" "What note?" "I handed it to your secretary to put on your desk yesterday." Christy explained her concerns. "I don't understand. Harriet is efficiency personified and completely loyal." Christy hesitated, then decided to voice her doubts. "Perhaps too loyal, Ryan. She feels you're not using good judgment leaving a promising career. Moreover, and pardon me for indulging in a little feminine intuition, but I think your secretary is so fond of you she wouldn't be averse to putting up a few roadblocks." "Oh, come on, Christy. Not Old Faithful. She's just a frustrated mother, no kids to pamper, so she pampers me to our mutual satisfaction." Not your mother, Ryan. More like an infatuated secretary, Christy thought. "Nevertheless, the fact remains that you didn't receive my note, and you still

haven't heard from the university." Ryan frowned. "Maybe a few questions are in order." They walked into the office. Harriet's smile vanished when she saw Christy. "I'm taking an early lunch break," she said to Ryan. "May I do anything for you before I go?" "No thanks, Harriet. By the way, do you recall the date you mailed the letter about the Rockledge project?" She ran her finger across the dates on the wall calendar. "I typed that letter two weeks ago yesterday," she said evenly. "And incidentally I didn't receive Mrs. Brandon's message. Any theories on what could have happened to it?" Harriet flushed, a frequent habit, it seemed. "Are you accusing'me of neglecting my duties?" "None of that now. You know damn well I have the most efficient secretary in the entire school district." "Well, I can't-keep track of everything that goes on around here, people in and out all day long. The custodian could have picked it up in his vacuum cleaner for all I know." Her voice trembled, and she looked as if she were about to cry. "Go on to lunch, Harriet. I didn't mean to give you a bad time." He gave her shoulder a brotherly squeeze. She blushed again, grabbed her purse and almost ran from the office. "Call now," Christy said to Ryan. "Hey, one bossy woman around here is enough." He strode into his inner office. "Wait for me," he said before he closed the door. Christy impatiently fingered a song from Cath-erina on the counter as she waited for Ryan to complete the call. Dread rose as the time passed. The wall clock indicated he had been on the telephone for twenty minutes. Finally he came out of his office, holding up two fingers in a winner's circle. "They received your letter!" Christy cried jubilantly. "Not a trace." Her spirits plummeted. "Are they giving any interviews?" "Would you believe they were held in San Francisco last week? The team is in New York now," he said cheerfully. "Oh, no," Christy wailed. He held up a hand. "But they relented after I snowed 'em with my superlative qualifications. I have an appointment for an interview." "I should have known." "They're making a special concession. I fly down the last Friday of the month. No exceptions, no changes. Be there or lose out. That's final." Christy felt weak with relief. "Wonderful!" In spite of Ryan's debonair manner, a film of moisture glistened on his forehead, a clue to how much he cared about this job. He opened a file cabinet and pulled out a folder. "They want my resume immediately. I'll ask Harriet to get it out right away. I have a meeting this afternoon and a rehearsal this evening, or I'd do it myself." "Let me. I'll type it and take it to the post office." He grinned. "Still suspicious?" You bet, and with reason, she thought. "Let's just say I'm superstitious. Three strikes and you're out. Don't tempt fate, Ryan." He gave her a tolerant grin and handed her the folder. "You'll find everything you need here. In fact, there's already a pretty good resume in a program printed the year I directed the summer repertory theater at Cal State. Just bring it up-to-date. Don't hold back anything. Remember that modesty isn't one of my virtues." "Count on me," Christy said. "What I wouldn't give to be part of the action," he said softly to no one in particular as Christy turned to leave. She breathed a prayer that he'd not be disappointed.

AFTER DINNER THAT EVENING, Christy got out her typewriter and set it up in the living room. She was not an expert typist, but with persistence she could turn out faultless copy. She finished the resume around nine and drove to the post office to mail it When she returned, she found Mark still at his desk in the den, but now he rested his head in his hands. "Tired?" she asked. "A nasty headache." Suddenly feeling guilty, Christy hurried to the medicine cabinet. Her evening had been spent typing the resume when Mark probably needed her help far more than Ryan. She handed him a glass of water and the aspirin. "Work piled up again?" "Yes. I've run into an unbelievable amount of research in order to provide the kind of survey the Australian corporation wants, and now I'll run short on time because of a legal suit that has just come up against my company. In fact, I spent the entire afternoon with my attorney and the insurance representatives. And if that isn't enough, the Rotary Club president called today and reminded me that months ago I promised to arrange a sight-seeing tour for a group of visiting Japanese Rotarians. I completely forgot about it. It's coming up toward the end of the month, which means I must get on it right away." Christy was touched by the weary slope of his shoulders, and she wanted to massage his neck and back to ease the tension as she once had long ago, but some subtle essence forbade the familiarity. She glanced at the stacks of papers filled with hand-drawn graphs and columns of figures. "I'd like to help you, Mark. I'm a fair typist, and as for the tour, I would enjoy arranging that if you will trust me with it." He thumbed through the papers a little dubiously, she thought. "It's true my secretary is overburdened right now," he said finally. "But then, so are you, what with all your rehearsals." "I'll make time," she said earnestly. "I want to do something to help you, Mark, something tangible." He gave her an odd look. "Maybe I should ask you to explain that remark." "Nothing Freudian. It just seems as if we're destined to turn into strangers, you and I. I wish we could be friends and help each other when the going gets rough. Will you let me?" He cocked an eye at her quizzically as he seemed to consider her offer. "You may be sorry," he said and handed her the sheaf of handwritten pages. "Not easy typing, graphs, charts and such. I need this right away. As for the tour, I know you'd do a great job if you wouldn't mind taking it over. Arrange anything you want, maybe a wine tour, or you could bus them over to the Sacramento Delta for a cruise on a river-boat. That might be easiest." "Riverboat in Sacramento?" "Of course. Are you aware that the delta region here vies with Holland when it comes to waterways, hundreds of miles of rivers and wide sloughs all banked by levees? I can remember I got quite a start the first time I traveled across the flat farmlands over there and saw the tip of a sail cutting across a cornfield all but hidden by the levee. But do your own thing. I trust your judgment. Coordinate your plans with the president. I'll give you his number." Christy knew she would have to get the typing done tomorrow. Too many rehearsals tilled the rest of the week. Catherina would be over next Sunday. After that there would be plenty of time to map out the sight-seeing tour. "What about the legal suit? Does that have anything to do with the accident at Ryan's school?" He scowled. "That's the one. It probably won't come up on the calendar for at least a month or so, but there's a lot of work to do. We have to get the government safety inspector here, for instance, to make a report that we followed all the safety precautions on the job." "But why are they suing you? I thought the suit was against the school." "They probably decided they could get more out of us. They'll wipe out the San Felipe center financially if they win."

Christy felt ill. She had no idea matters were that serious. "But aren't we insured?" "Of course, but not for the astronomical amount the Boggs family is asking." "Why so much? I thought the boy just broke his leg?" "Pain, suffering, trauma, attractive nuisance, the usual. The safety inspector and the operator can state that we obeyed all the safety laws, but O'Rourke is our only witness to the accident itself. Just pray that he'll be an effective one, or we may as well throw in the towel." "You can depend on Ryan. At least you can put your mind to rest on that score." "I wish that I had as much faith in him as you do," Mark said dryly. She wouldn't go into that. Why did everything about Ryan spell irritation as far as Mark was concerned? Odd, when Mark had been the one to initiate the acquaintance. To begin with she thought the men would like each other, that they might become friends. It wasn't too late, of course. Maybe the problem would solve itself as the men worked together in the preparations for the trial. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHRISTY TOOK A SIP of coffee, set down her cup and stretched her arms high above her head. She'd typed since eight o'clock this morning, and it was now the middle of the afternoon. Mark's estimates lay complete in a neat stack free from errors at last. She didn't want to think about how many times she had had to do them over. Except for Ryan's résume, it had been a year since she had touched a typewriter, and her skill had grown rusty. But all the work was worthwhile if it served to lighten Mark's load. She drank a little more of the now cold coffee and pictured Mark's pleased expression when she handed him the finished copy. The peal of the doorbell abruptly interrupted her thoughts, and in some freak movement she could never explain, she tipped over her coffee cup as she rose, flooding the pages, soaking everyone. "Oh, no," she cried at the sight of the dripping stained sheets and ran to the kitchen for a towel. As the doorbell rang again, she frantically mopped up the spill. Sick with the realization she'd just ruined an entire day's work, she hurried to open the door. Her sister and another young woman stood on the porch, each holding a suitcase. Christy drew them inside. "Beth! What a surprise! How wonderful!" The sisters hugged each other. Beth clung for a long time, then Christy held her away and realized she looked pale and strained. "Alexi Miller," Beth said, introducing her companion. "I drove her up. She is on her way to visit her grandmother in Sacramento. I'll run her over to the bus station after a while." "Alexi, spelled with an I '," the girl said, smiling brilliantly. "I'm going to enroll in a modeling school." It took only a glance to see that Alexi was a stunning girl of perhaps sixteen or seventeen. But Christy's concern was for Beth. Something was not right here. Alexi went upstairs to change into something more comfortable, and Christy poured fresh coffee. "Beth, I just can't believe you are here. I'm so happy you cafiie." Beth toyed with her cup. "I know I should have called first, but I only decided this morning on the spur of the moment. When I heard Alexi wanted to come up to see her grandmother, I offered to drive her, and well, we just took off." "A wonderful surprise," Christy said warmly. "And how is Richard?" Beth bit her Up and seemed to ponder her answer. "I'm not sure," she said finally.

Christy stared at her sister's brooding expression. "Why, what do you mean?" "Well, let's put it this way. He was gone last weekend on a field trip, the week before to a seminar in Colorado, and this week he was home a total of one evening. Do you think he is trying to tell me something?" Ice seemed to shoot through Christy's veins. Surely nothing had gone wrong with their marriage. Here she sat with the child growing inside her that was to be her offering to them. Her head felt so light that she wondered if she were about to faint. "Beth, what's happened to you two?" Beth wiped her eyes and nervously twisted her handkerchief. "Oh, nothing's happened between us. That's the whole problem. He's just scheduled himself out of my life, that's all." Christy pictured the kindly Richard and recalled his devotion to Beth, his patience and consideration after her traumatizing operation and Davy's death. She couldn't imagine that he'd change now. "You still love him, don't you?" "Who said anything about that? Of course, I love him." "Well, then, why don't you talk things over, let him know how you feel?" "How can I? I never see him," Beth said tremulously. "Oh, come now. Surely that's an exaggeration." Beth started to cry again. "Now you're talking like Aunt Martha. I thought I could count on you, Christy." Count on me, Christy thought. I've only turned my life upside down. I've entered into an impossible situation to give you the child you can never have. And you say you can't count on me? But of course, Beth didn't know that. "I think you are overreacting to a situation that is likely to happen in any man's life." "You don't understand at all," Beth said. "I understand that Richard is under a lot of pressure right now, getting ready to take over the head of his department. He needs your support. Not more problems." "How would you feel if your husband ignored you?" Beth cried. Christy looked away and noticed that Alexi sat on the stairway, totally engrossed in the conversation. How long had she been there? "Wow, this is really getting interesting. Just like in 'All My Children.' What a blast! Hey, don't let me interrupt," she said as the two women stared at her. "This is a private conversation," Beth said stiffly. "Maybe you ought to go upstairs and read a book or something." "In a minute. I saw the note you left for Richard on the table, and the way you acted, I thought you might be leaving him. What a bummer! But golly, it's neat this way." "Alexi!" Beth said sternly. "All right. I'm going. Is it okay if I call my grandmother?" "Yes, use the upstairs phone," Christy said. "She is so preoccupied with clothing that amazing figure of hers, I didn't think she suspected anything," Beth said. "You should have seen her a year ago. Talk about an ugly duckling!" "The note, Beth!" Christy said sharply. "What did you say?" "That I was taking off for a few days. I'd get in touch later." "Beth, how could you do such a thing? Don't you realize you're tampering with your marriage?" "I'm not leaving him, Christy. I just want to give him a taste of what I've been going through." "That's immature and childish, and I'm completely surprised at you." Beth's mouth turned down in a pout. "There you go siding with Richard. I shouldn't have come." "Go take a rest in the den upstairs. We'll talk later." Beth left with the air of a chastened child who'd been told to go stand in a corner. Christy's head ached. She ought to start dinner, but there was all that typing to do. Beth's arrival threw her. What would Mark say if he thought

Beth's marriage had floundered? "Aren't you glad now that I insisted we postpone your pregnancy? Weren't we wise not to rush into things?" Oh, why hadn't she braved an earlier confession? The longer she waited to tell him, the more complicated it became. She went to the typewriter set up in a corner of the living room and rolled in a fresh sheet of bond. But she only stared at the blank paper, her mind still on Beth. Alexi came down with an album under her arm, undulating as if she were a model on a runway. Her dark hair hung straight to her shoulders and shone from frequent shampoos and brushing. She'd changed to form-hugging shorts and a brief halter top that revealed the kind of figure every teenager dreamed about, both male and female. She found the stereo, put on the record and curled up on the sofa like a frequent visitor. "Do you mind?" she asked rather tardily, a beguiling dimple appearing, then vanishing, in her cheek. "Go ahead," Christy said and was simultaneously deluged by a decibel outpouring of electric guitars, drums and a singer who by turns shrieked or mumbled incomprehensible lyrics. Christy gritted her teeth and typed the same page over three times, making one mistake after another. She threw them into the wastebasket and rubbed her aching head. The work would have to be finished tonight after rehearsal when everyone was in bed, and she could concentrate. Anyway, it was time to fix dinner. She would make tostadas, quick and easy, and maybe they'd put Mark in a good mood. He was fond of Mexican food. Alexi got up and began to work on a complicated disco routine, her eyes closed as if transported. When Mark arrived, the girl turned off the music and beamed at him expectantly. Christy hastened to explain. "Beth has come up to spend a few days with us, drove up with her friend Alexi Miller." Mark broke into a wide grin. "Not little Alexandra Miller? Well, well, how you've changed! How long has it been?" Alexi smiled at him, turning on a full battery of charm. "Centuries. Three years, at least. I think I was fourteen when I baby-sat for you and Darcy. I guess I've grown up a little since then." Mark was clearly impressed. "I guess you have. I can hardly believe it. Alexandra Miller. Not that skinny little devil with braces!" She put her hands on her hips, took a deep breath and thrust out her bosom so that it strained precariously against the plunging neckline of her halter, removing any doubt at all that she no longer remained a "skinny little devil." "I made this outfit myself. Do you like it?" She pivoted slowly, smiling at Mark. Good heavens, the girl was flirting with him. " Very nice," Mark said, accenting the adverb. What there is of it, Christy silently added. "Alexi is on her way to visit her grandmother in Sacramento," she said, mostly for Alexi's benefit since the girl seemed to have forgotten. Somehow Christy would make time to take her to the bus station after dinner. Or maybe she'd just put cyanide in her taco sauce. Alexi shrugged her pretty bare shoulders. "Actually I'm in no great hurry. I adore being with all you interesting people. I told my grandmother not to expect me until she saw me. If you don't mind, I'll bunk here tonight. I'll make no trouble, put my sleeping bag down anywhere you say." "Why, of course, Alexandra. It's great to see you again," Mark said cordially. "Alexi, spelled with an I," she reminded. Beth came down then, and Mark greeted her warmly. She lit a cigarette and began to smoke in quick breathless little puffs. She probably hadn't been at it more than a day or two, Christy guessed. "And how is Richard?" Mark asked. Beth's expression turned remote. "Okay, I guess." Christy winced. Mark poured some sherry."Would you care for a glass, Beth?"

"Richard and I used to have a sherry every night before dinner," Beth said, her voice quavering. An uncomfortable silence followed. "How about setting the table for me, Beth? I'll have dinner on in a few minutes." Anything to shut Beth up, Christy thought. She didn't want to deal with Mark now if he suspected trouble between Beth and her husband. Dinner went smoothly enough if one didn't mind listening to Alexi prattle on about modeling school, including all the statistics of her astonishing measurements. Thankfully the chatter provided a smoke screen for the turmoil that seethed close to the surface. But the spicy food tasted as bland as straw as far as Christy was concerned. Juggling the conversation away from Beth's problems proved worrisome enough, but there was tonight's rehearsal with Margo and the children's choir, then all that typing afterward. And somehow she must find time to talk with Beth, encourage her to call Richard. In fact, Christy wanted to talk with him herself. Beth had never acted so irrationally. Maybe she needed hormones or something. Alexi augmented dessert with a series of eight-by-ten photographs of herself. "I'd like your opinion, Mark. I'm supposed to submit one to the modeling school." Mark obliged, studying each portrait gravely with the attention it deserved. The girl posed in such an abbreviated bikini most of the pictures would have qualified as centerfolds. Beth asked to be excused, and Christy made up a bed for her on the den sofa. Mark followed and waited for her at the top of the stairs, then beckoned her into their bedroom and closed the door. He lowered his voice. "What's up with Beth? I've never seen her like this." "Worn out from the long drive, I think. You know how frail she is," Christy said nervously. "That den couch isn't the best bed in the world. Maybe I ought to get the two of them a motel room," Mark said. "Oh, Beth won't mind for a few days, and Alexi is leaving in the morning." Mark shook his head. "Well, Beth is not herself. She and Richard aren't having trouble, are they?" "Not anything serious, I'm positive. But I am concerned that Beth didn't tell Richard where she was going. He is very busy now, and I think Beth used this little jaunt as a bid for attention. Not very admirable." Mark frowned. "Well, let's not get involved in any family squabbles." "I've barely had time to talk to her much less get involved. Anyway, I couldn't tell her to turn around and go home the minute she arrived, could I?" "I imagine Richard won't be too happy with you." "Good heavens, why would he blame me?" "Well, keep out of it. Let things work out by themselves, and if they split up, thank goodness you're off the hook." "Meaning my worries are over about giving them a child?" "Exactly." He picked up his briefcase and started downstairs. "Mark, I need to talk to you." "Later." "Please. Now. I have something to tell you." "Come on, Christy, what more is there to say? I must put my report together. Where is the work you did for me today?" Christy shook her head and held out her arms in a helpless gesture. "Did you forget to do it?" he asked unbelievingly. "I completed it, then accidentally ruined every page when I spilled some coffee. I'll do it over tonight right after rehearsal." They went downstairs, and he looked over the stained crumpled pages. "Damn. I planned on assembling the reports tonight. I promised to send them air mail first thing in the morning. You're not going to feel like typing after you come home from another of those lengthy rehearsals." "I'll get it done, Mark. Don't worry." Yes she would if she had to stay up all night. Alexi still perused the eight-by-tens as if seeing them for the first time, but she suddenly got up and strolled over to pick up one of Christy's ruined

pages. She studied it for a minute or two. "No problem, Mark. I'll do the work for you. Actually I'm a super typist. I won the school trophy for speed typing last year." She pointed to Christy's work. "The tabs aren't set right, but I can fix that in a jiff." Mark enthusiastically explained the layouts to Alexi, and Christy left for the rehearsal, not sure whether she felt relieved or humiliated. Margo's solo went well, and the children sang their three-part a cappella number expressively and on pitch. At least, something turned out well on this awful day. Ordinarily nothing interfered with her absorption in the music, but tonight was different. Her heart ached for Richard. She wondered if at least she ought to call and let him know where Beth was. But don't interfere, Mark warned. The rehearsal went so smoothly she dismissed the group early and hurried home. The typewriter still clattered as she entered. Surely no one in the whole world could type accurately at that speed. Alexi stopped and whipped the paper out of the typewriter with a little flourish. "All done," she said, looking up at Mark with her seductive smile. Mark put a hand on her shoulder. "This girl is a marvel. Not only finished your work, Christy, but did additional pages I hoped you'd do for me tomorrow." Christy stared at the pile. It took her six hours to accomplish what this youngster tossed off in a fraction of the time."Amazing and lucky for you," she said. Alexi preened like a well-fed cat. "It's nothing. I'll just grab a jacket, Mark, then we can go." She ran upstairs. "You're not taking her to the bus station at this late hour?" Christy asked. "Oh, no. The kid has a yen for a chocolate malt - the least I can do after all the work she turned out for me tonight." He slipped the pages into a large brown envelope, beaming with satisfaction. Some kid, Christy thought and decided the girl probably collected men like charms for a bracelet. Alexi reappeared wearing a shiny purple jacket. She took Mark's hand with a proprietary air and fluttered the fingers of her other hand prettily at Christy as they left. If she doesn't leave in the morning, I just may strangle her, Christy thought. The telephone rang and she answered. "Christy? Is Beth there?" The strain was apparent in Richard's voice. "Yes, she arrived this afternoon." "It's true, then. Someone named Alexi left word at the office. I thought it was a prank until I got home and read the note. Let me talk to her." "She's asleep. Why don't I give her your message in the morning?" "Did you know she was coming?" "No." "You're leveling with me?" "Of course." "I know it's natural for sisters to stick together." "If you're telling me to mind my own business, I'm doing my darndest, but people don't act this way without a reason, Richard." "Reason! What possible reason could she have for pulling a trick like this? Marriages have rough spots. I'll bet you've had a few already. I'd appreciate it if you'd stay out of this, and please don't put any foolish ideas in her head." "Honestly, Richard, I'm in your corner. Now why don't you come up and get her? Let's face it, Beth isn't herself, or she wouldn't behave this way. But she needs you, and for certain you both need to talk to each other." "That's the devil of it. I want to come, but I've scheduled exams and appointments all day tomorrow. I'll call her in the morning." They said constrained goodbyes as Beth came into the room. "Traitor! "she cried.

Christy stared in astonishment. "How can you say that? Richard called; not I. He wanted to talk to you." "Let him wait awhile. Sometimes I wait for days before I have a chance to talk to him. Don't crowd me, Christy. I know what I'm doing." Christy looked at her sister unbelievingly. "What's got into you, Beth?" "What's got into .you? You don't act like family at all. I came up for a little sympathy and support, and look what happened." "I think you had better go back to bed," Christy said and wearily trudged upstairs to her own room. Her head still ached, so she swallowed a couple of aspirins. It was midnight when she heard Mark and Alexi return. Viva the chocolate malts! There was no way she could talk to him now so she pretended to be asleep when he came into the bedroom. As CHRISTY PREPARED BREAKFAST the next morning, she saw Mark and Alexi jog up the driveway. Mark ordinarily jogged alone, but by the looks of him, he certainly enjoyed company. A little later he appeared at the table, showered and dressed for the office. "Remarkable girl," he said. "Seems to know who she is and where she's going." "That she does," Christy said. "And I think she did the right thing to alert Richard." "Oh, she told you? I thought you didn't want us to interfere." "Letting Richard know her whereabouts was just plain common sense." He opened the paper to the financial page. "Ah, yes. We can use some of that around here, can't we?" she muttered. "What did you say?" "Nothing. I think there's a hole in your argument, but I haven't come to it yet." Alexi walked in then, complexion glowing, wearing another of her marvelously engineered creations. She sat down and looked expectantly at the empty bowl at her place. Welcome to the Hilton, Christy silently greeted her. "I was just going up to check on Beth," she said. "Hot cereal on the stove, juice in the pitcher. Help yourself." The doorbell rang then and Mark answerd. "Richard! Good to see you," Mark said heartily as if his brother-in-law were expected at some normal family gathering. Richard's face looked haggard and more owlish than ever behind his heavy horn-rimmed glasses. "I caught a late plane to San Francisco last night. Stayed in a motel, rented a car and drove up this morning." Christy went to him and kissed his cheek. "I'm so glad you came. Beth isn't up yet. Sit down and have some coffee with us." He stared at Alexi. "Alexandra! I didn't realize it was you who called." "I knew you'd want me to," she said modestly. "Where is Beth?" Richard asked. Christy motioned upstairs, and he headed up two at a time. "When did you call him?" Christy asked Alexi. "Right after I talked to my grandmother. It's okay, isn't it, I mean the way it turned out so great and all?" She obviously savored her role in the perfect denouement. Mark went back to his paper, and they were silent against the background of low-pitched voices and the muffled sounds of Beth weeping. "Don't you think it's getting a little heavy around here?" Alexi said and walked over to play a few chords on the piano. "Name a tune, Mark, and I'll liven things up a bit." Naturally, Christy thought without surprise as Alexi posed her hands above the keyboard. The girl probably could play a Prokofiev sonata with one hand tied behind her. Mark set his paper down. "How about a little ragtime?"

"Ragtime!" Christy scoffed in an aside to him. "Girls like Alexi don't go for ragtime. Now it's disco or rock." But Alexi beamed at Mark. "I always knew you and I operated on E.S.P. Why, I'm practically an authority on Scott Joplin," she said and launched into "The Entertainer," beating out the rollicking tune with a solid rhythm. Her awkward fingering and strange hand position marked her as a self-taught amateur, but the girl was a born showman, and the end result was quite spectacular. Mark applauded enthusiastically, and Richard and Beth joined in as they somewhat sheepishly came downstairs together. Alexi obliged with another number, and Richard and Beth stood, arms entwined, occasionally gazing at each other with unrestrained tenderness. Christy looked at the lot of them and felt a desperate loneliness. She went out to the kitchen to fix some breakfast for Richard and Beth, put on ah apron and promptly dropped a glass and broke it. Well, sexy Alexi, she mused as she swept up the pieces. At least, you'll not give me any competition out here. The role of lovable old servant holds no charm for the likes of you. But don't bet on it, she reminded herself as she again set the table. Through a series of machinations Christy was never certain how she accomplished, she convinced Beth and Richard to drive Alexi to her grandmother's and catch their southbound plane from Sacramento. Somewhat reluctantly Alexi changed her clothes, and amid a lot of hugging and hand shaking, they all left at last. Christy handed Mark another cup of coffee and slumped into the chair across from him. She felt so exhausted she didn't want to move for a week. Mark smiled contentedly. "Well, it all turned out okay after all, thanks in large part to young Alexandra. Quite a girl." Christy raised an eyebrow. "Yes, you said that before." "Hey, maybe we shouldn't have rushed her off, invited her to stay awhile. Kind of refreshing to have all that youthful vitality around. Livens things up." "Yes, doesn't it," Christy agreed. "In fact, I'm exhausted." "How come?" he asked innocently. "I thought she seemed quite helpful." "Perhaps that was the problem, a surfeit of riches, rather hard on the ego." Also the back, the head, the ears, not to mention endurance, she silently added. Mark looked at her shyly and sighed as if at some divine recollection. "Ah, Alexi," he said. Christy made a face and started to comment, but he held up a hand to prevent her. "Alexi, spelled with an I, the most important letter in her alphabet," he said and leaned over to squeeze her hand. "Come on, don't look so glum. Don't you think I know who really moves mountains around here?" CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE DRESS REHEARSAL was burdened with only a minimum amount of missed cues, and Ryan's high spirits seemed to predict a weekend of sparkling performances. However, everyone was too exhausted afterward to engage in the usual rap session. They could rehash to their heart's content at Sunday night's party. Ryan drove Christy home as usual, but he sped up and passed her house instead of turning into her driveway. Christy looked at him in surprise. "Where are we going?" "Off to London to see the queen." He whistled the nursery tune. "I think your kindergarteners have finally got to you. I'm tired, Ryan. Head for home." He screwed his face into an aggrieved pout. "Hell's bells. Here you are acting like a balky little mule. I thought redheads restricted themselves to more elegant theatrics." "Just a hangover from a previous reincarnation. Mighty handy, I might add."

He gave an exaggerated sigh. "Well, what do you know, I've been taken in by the Bridey Murphy of the animal kingdom!" He swept his eyes over her, then gave a low wolf whistle. "Mighty gorgeous for a little ol'mule!" How readily flattery rolled off his tongue. With Mark, a compliment came more often as the shine in his eyes or the touch of his hand. But she'd know. "You're mighty generous with those ten-dollar adjectives," she said. He grinned and tapped his temple. "Plenty more where those came from, darlin'." She smothered a laugh. His charm bubbled like a fountain, sparkling and winsome. He turned into the circular driveway of his handsome ranch-style house and shut off the motor. She looked at him sharply. "Worried about something?" he asked. Keep it light, she warned herself. "I think something worries you, Ryan." He banged a fist on the steering wheel. "You're damn right!" "My goodness, you're mighty profound for this late hour." He suddenly reached over and turned her to face him. "It's you that worries me, sweetheart. My sixth sense tells me that you need to unwind tonight. I'm prepared to offer you my ear, a little Southern Comfort and a good leather chair at my fireside." Christy pulled away and looked straight ahead. Where did this conversation lead? "Thanks, but no thanks. We can go to my place for a nightcap." "I don't think so. Anyway, it's early." "Not really." "Well, earlier than usual. I'll even turn on my fabulous Irish charm." "I'll take bets on that!" The dim light barely obscured his roguish grin. She wondered if convention was a cloak he threw carelessly over one shoulder, there when he needed it? Or did his leprechaun heart truly beat in innocent rhythms? She moved a little away from him, and his smile vanished. "If you think I'm making a pass, Christy, I'm not," he said quietly. She was relieved that the dark obscured her flush of embarrassment. "I didn't mean to imply that, but you'll have to admit this looks suspiciously like - " "Like a quick stop at a fast-food palace for a little sustenance? Never." "I'm glad you said that. Sex as a pastime isn't my thing." "Nor mine. Lust is short-lived and erodes a relationship. Besides, it refuses to get involved. I don't need that. I believe in commitment and a lasting involvement. In other words, love." His words fell into the silence and seemed to echo around every recess in the car. She looked at him in confusion. "You'll have to forgive my thick head. All this fencing makes me uncomfortable. Say it out straight, Ryan. Why did you bring me here? " He reached for her hand and held it in both of his. "Most of the time you seem too serene to be true. Did you know that it has a restorative effect on everyone around you? But the aura has grown rather thin lately. I think you need to tell me about it." "So now it's O'Rourke, the psychologist." "Without peer. Invaluable in my profession, you know. And I'll tell you what I see." He shed his bantering tone like a jacket that had grown too warm. "You're allowing something to eat you up inside, and we'd better tend to it soon. I don't know where Mark figures in this. Either you're refusing his help, or he's not offering any. Don't refuse mine, Christy." This was too much. She ached with weariness, with the turmoil of hers and Mark's relationship, with the conflicting thoughts aroused by her pregnancy, and she felt alarmed by the sensitivity of the man beside her. She pressed her palms into her eyes to hold back the tears and immediately felt Ryan's arms close around her. She clung to him, weeping. He spoke comforting words and held her until at last she grew quiet. Then she told him about Davy and the August day that changed her life. When she finished, an agonized sob escaped Hyan's throat.

"Oh, darlin', darlin'," he said huskily, and they clung together in mutual compassion over the similar tragedies that they each had suffered. Within the circle of his arms she finally wiped her eyes with the handkerchief he provided. "Sorry," she said. "I don't often lose control." "Perhaps it's time that you did, then," He kissed her and held her close again while they absorbed the comfort of human touch and the healing qualities of the silence and darkness that surrounded them. "And that's only the prologue, isn't it?" he said softly at last. "That's all for now." Her voice was hoarse from crying. She reached up and framed his face with her hands. "You're my dear friend, Ryan. How can I tell you what your understanding means to me?" The little speech sounded trite and stilted, but she meant every word. He searched her face for a moment, and the intimacy or whatever quality it was that they shared, diminished. He cleared the air with a pompous thump on his chest. "I'm a veritable safe-deposit box. Open the vault any time that you need me!" Then he started the car. The streetlights glowed with misty rings like small Saturns as they drove along the quiet tree-lined avenue. In a few minutes they reached her town house. Ryan walked her to the door, then swiftly bent and kissed her on the lips. "That's for love, darlin', not lust." Then he whistled cheerily all the way back to the car as if they'd just returned from a lighthearted evening at a carnival. Christy did not understand him. He was like those nests of containers where each one opened to reveal an object of different shape and design. Which of the many selves showed the true man? And as far as the love he so glibly professed, she could not take it seriously. Either he honestly meant the pure unselfish love of one's fellow man as extolled by philosophers, or else he played the garrulous Irishman in the musical comedy who, "when he was not near the girl he loved, he loved the girl he was near." But the most troubling aspect of all was the doubt he raised concerning her own integrity. She had willingly accepted the solace of his embrace. It formed insufficient excuse to say that the moment demanded it. Was she so desperate for the reassurance that could be satisfied by physical contact? Did she long so intensely for Mark's love and support she would accept any substitute? The thoughts appalled her. It was a sensation she could have lived without. Until Davy's death she had viewed her life in clear-cut perspective. Now familiar pathways looked strange. Old definitions didn't hold. There seemed no point of reference anymore. Anyway, she cherished Ryan's friendship, but she didn't want more than that from him. Now. CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Catherines SUNDAY- MATINEE was set for three o'clock. As usual, Christy reported well beforehand in order to set up lights and stands for the musicians and tend to the ritual of warm-up and tuning. Mark assured her he would hike down the hill in plenty of time for the opening curtain. The Friday- and Saturday-night performances were completely sold out, and on both occasions Christy watched, intrigued, to see how the enthusiasm of the hometown audience spurred the cast to give stunning response. She fervently hoped there would be no letdown for today's show. She wanted Mark to see Catherina at its best, but she needn't have worried. At the lift of the curtain the players moved with an assurance earned from their long hours of disciplined rehearsals. The breathless hush during Karen's poignant ballet acknowledged her skill once again, and Christy knew Mark would be impressed even if he didn't notice that his wife composed the music. During the schoolroom number she suddenly wondered if someday her own child might sing in a musical production. Would his voice ring out with the

flutelike quality of the young boy now performing? Would her son flash an ingratiating grin and accept applause with such aplomb? Of course, he was bound to have a part in something, even if it were only third angel on the left in a P.T.A. program. But she would never see him make his small debut, she thought desolately. All through the first act she stored items in her memory she wanted to share and talk over with Mark. What did he think of the spoof on sibling rivalry, and had he noticed that adorable dark-haired imp in the children's number? She felt certain he'd be surprised at the professional caliber of both the players and the musical itself, and could hardly wait for intermission to hear his reactions. As the lights came on, she waited for him to join her, but when he didn't come, she hurried to the foyer. Her gaze swept repeatedly across the milling crowd, but she could not spot the familiar rusty head. Finally she walked down the outside corridors and then searched the auditorium. By that time, blinking lights signaled the end of intermission. There was no reason to worry, she told herself. Mark was there someplace. Perhaps he'd stepped outside on the quad to chat with friends. The second act proceeded at the same rollicking pace, and after the fifth and final curtain call, Christy rested her elbows on the keys and tried to let tension drain away. The weeks packed with hard work, creativity and real satisfaction were over. For a few minutes she chatted with the other musicians, all hyperstimulated by the atmosphere of success. Thank goodness, they were all going to the cast party at Ryan's. It would take awhile to descend from such a high. She folded chairs and stands, took her time sorting the music into folders and tried not to look at her watch. The crowd thinned in the auditorium except for the throng backstage around Ryan and the actors. Why hadn't Mark come? Somehow his absence dismissed her musical self as not worth his time. It hurt. A lot. What now? She and Mark were supposed to go directly to the dinner party, but she refused to attend alone. She could never face the intuitive Ryan much less join in the exuberance of her friends. "See you later," Karen called as Christy put on her coat. "Give my regrets, will you? I must be coming down with something. I've felt queasy all day." At least, a portion of the excuse was truthful. She slipped out a side door so as not to run into Ryan, who stood accepting accolades from the crowd around him with broad clown grins. At this point she felt in no mood to cope with his brand of persuasion. The air chilled her as she stepped out onto the darkening street, and she dug her fists into her pockets as she plodded up the hill to her town house. Everything looked unnatural at this time of day. The dusk gave a gray anonymity to the landscape. Houses, trees and shrubbery flowed together to make shadowy silhouettes against the light-drained horizon. No cars climbed the little hill. Everything seemed frozen in a bleak moment of silence. Even a wayward gull, hunched like a crone on a neighbor's fence, seemed far removed from the insouciant creature that usually winged the skies. You're orchestrating a mood, Christy chided herself, complete with muted violins and enough self-pity to feed a month of soap operas. Why all this supercharged reaction? You're the one who insisted on a no-involvement marriage. Mark is only following your dictates. She recalled their wedding ceremony where the minister had spoken of a person's need for support, for sharing, for dialogue. How superficially she'd regarded those remarks. She had not known then the quality of life she'd planned to deny. Intimacy could blossom in many colors, and one drew humanity from each experience. As she reached the crest of the hill, she saw a scarlet Mercedes in the driveway. One of Mark's clients? She felt a surge of relief. Logical explanations existed, after all. She hurried up the steps, now concerned only to get her nausea pills. Ridiculous to forget them on a day such as this. One thing she needed for sure, solitude for at least a dozen hours so she wouldn't give away her disappointment. She stepped into the living room and stopped short at the cozy family scene.

Mark held his little daughter, Carol, in his lap with the comic page of the Sunday paper spread out before them. Carol looked relaxed and content, her head snuggled against his shoulder. Darcy sprawled on the floor against a chair with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She looked striking in snug white pants and an even more snug tank top, which left little to wonder about except how she was able to so generously display her high rounded breasts without incurring total disaster. A wispy blue scarf around her neck gave a token nod to modesty, and her taffy hair fell around her shoulders in a casual arrangement that would have taken Christy hours to achieve. Even Darcy's bare feet in the Capezio sandals looked slim and beautiful. Christy leaned back against the door for support and took in the three pairs of eyes focused on her. She felt like an intruder, dowdy, dumb, resentful. Mark set Carol down and rose, but before he could speak, Darcy took charge. "Surprise!" She waved her cigarette in a kind of salute and accompanied it with a low laugh. Christy found her tongue at last. "Hello, Carol." "Hi," Carol said primly and reached for her father's hand. What a waif, Christy thought. The child's hair hung untidily as if it had blown all day in the wind, and in contrast to her mother's faultless appearance, Carol's faded pants were at least one size too large. Her wide deep blue eyes, exactly the same color as Mark's, were her most attractive feature, but now they glanced away from Christy with an air of quick dismissal. "And how are you, Darcy?" Christy asked. Darcy blew a graceful plume of smoke and watched it dissipate. "All things considered, I'm just fine. I'm on my way to Reno for more than one reason," she added. "Lovers make rotten husbands, darling. Put that down in your book." She nodded appreciatively at this bit of wisdom. Christy tried for a smile and knew she didn't manage well, then searched Mark's lean face and experienced a shock of nonrecognition, as if he'd become someone else. "Darcy has a contract to perform in a nightclub at Lake Tahoe near Reno, which seems to coincide well with her plans for divorce. I've agreed that Carol will stay with us," he said stiffly. "Of course. We'll be pleased to have her," Christy said and hoped that she would. To her surprise she sounded reasonably controlled. Some new personality must have taken charge. Carol began to pump Mark's hand. "I'm hungry, daddy. We only had Cokes for lunch." "Hold your horses, punkin, we'll go out for dinner in a little while." "Oh, no, daddy. Can't we eat here?" She continued to tug at his arm with her plea. Darcy looked amused and said nothing. Christy felt the nerves tighten in her neck. Mission accomplished, Darcy, she thought. It's time for you to do a fade out. But Darcy lit another cigarette and didn't seem prepared to fade out now or in the reasonable future. "I'll fix something," Christy said. Anything to get out of this room for a few minutes. Darcy waved a hand airily. "We're easy to please. Fruit and crackers. Make it simple." Yes, it certainly would have to be simple, considering there'd been no time to shop this past busy week. "Perhaps you'd go to the store for me, Mark. I'm afraid our larder doesn't offer much choice," Christy said. Didn't he remember they'd planned to go to Ryan's dinner party? There'd been no reason to fix dinner tonight. Mark frowned. "Oh, come now, you've had a busy day. We don't want a gourmet meal. Just set out whatever is handy - fruit and crackers, make it simple." Christy felt sudden fury at the way he echoed Dar-cy's charge. How would bread and water strike you, she thought and noted Mark showed no intention of going to the store. Darcy held out her empty glass to Mark. "Freshen it, will you, darling?"

Mark took the glass and followed Christy out to the kitchen. She flung her coat over a chair. "You'll have to give me a little time to get organized," she said curtly. Mark mixed drinks, and Christy opened the refrigerator to survey its meager contents. "I'm sorry I didn't get to your shindig," Mark said after a few moments of frosty silence. "Carol and Darcy arrived right after you left." Tears of disappointment stung her eyes, but she kept her back to him. "Think nothing of it. I missed your dinner engagement last week. We can call the score even." That was about as many words as she could handle at the moment. Indifference could act as a tool if she could remember to use it. She went to the bedroom, ran a comb through her hair, redid her makeup and changed into her most attractive hostess gown, the turquoise caftan from her modest trousseau, then returned to the kitchen. What? No drink mixed for the cook? Cut the martyr act, Christy. Mark knows you don't care for martinis, and they'd consumed all the sherry days ago. She took account of the almost empty refrigerator once again. There were a dozen eggs, a small wedge of cheese and a few greens that might translate into an omelet and a tossed salad without too much effort. Her stomach promptly rebelled at the thought of melted cheese and eggs, and she raced to the bathroom. After a few minutes she wiped the perspiration from her face, took a nausea pill and repaired her makeup once more. Something beat at her brain so that she couldn't think clearly. She took the lettuce out of the refrigerator, put it back, then took it out again. Darcy would soon be free. That was it. Darcy would soon be free. The implication bore down on her like a swarm of stinging insects. Mark stuck his head in the door and watched her make the salad. "What's holding things up? Don't tell me you're bent on whipping up one of your gourmet dandies, after all? What happened to the fruit and crackers?" She doggedly tore lettuce into a bowl. "We have a total of one moldy banana, and there are no crackers. Granted, the kitchen maid isn't too bright, but if you can bear up for ten more minutes, I believe everything will be ready." She met his eyes briefly and felt he resolutely locked out all expression. Well, he wasn't the only one who could carry on with a remote air. She laid out place mats and silver on a tray, and he took them to the dining area where he apparently enlisted Carol's assistance. His deep voice, Carol's childish chatter and an occasional easy laugh from Darcy seemed natural and in tune. And the glamorous Darcy would soon be free. Christy dished up the food at last, made her back straight and carried everything to the table. With some satisfaction she saw Darcy's eyes widen at the omelet. It lay plump and delicately browned on a silver platter with the orange cheese oozing temptingly at the edges. She'd garnished it with sprigs of mint she'd snipped from the stalk under the kitchen window, and the fragrant aroma hovered over the table like a benediction. The salad must have been all right, too, the way everyone consumed it. Christy's stomach knotted, but she ignored the discomfort and pushed the food around her plate in an effective show of eating. She thought the least Mark could do was to show a little enthusiasm for this marvelous meal she'd whipped up out of nothing, but he looked grim as if he were determined to keep his thoughts neat and orderly and never allow them to run amok. Then everyone noticed that Carol sat unmoving, staring glumly at her plate. "Eat your omelet, darling. You know you like eggs," Darcy coaxed. Carol screwed up her face as if the sight gagged her. "I hate eggs with cheese. It makes them all gooey and yucky. I like your eggs, mommy. Why can't she fix them like you do? Plain. Not with cheese." She gripped her stomach and began to wail. "I'm hungry. I want something else to eat." Mark tried to soothe her while Darcy gingerly forked out some of the cheese. Eventually hunger triumphed, and Carol cleaned her plate. But the meal had been spoiled, and Christy wondered if Carol's actions were any indication of what the future held.

Did all children behave like that, she wondered. She'd not seen Davy stage such a scene. It was a dreary thought, but she suspected that stepmothers spurred such actions. For too long now, Christy realized the room remained unnaturally quiet, then felt almost shocked as she heard her own voice, artificially cheerful, ramble on about highlights of the afternoon's performance, a desperate descant against the silence. "Really, Mark," she concluded, "you should have brought Carol and Darcy." Darey seemed genuinely intrigued and laughed gaily at Christy's anecdotes, occasionally adding far wittier accounts of her own. Darcy seemed to possess some inner core of charm and vivacity that bubbled infinitely. In the ambience of such brilliance, Christy supposed she emerged as a dim-witted student, discussing the production of a junior-high drama club. Shut up, can't you, Christy warned herself and knew her poise teetered on some catastrophic edge. After a decent interval she rose. "I'll make up a bed for you in the den, Carol, for whenever you are ready. I'm so glad you're going to stay with us." Such white lies were forgivable when mouthed by stepmothers, she thought and forgave herself. "I hope you will all excuse me. I've had a rather busy week, and I seem to have caught a bug." Carol looked her over as if she might see it crawl. "You go to bed," Mark said. "I'll tend to Carol." Darcy nodded. "Show biz can be exhausting." Christy thought she probably imagined the patronizing overtone. Bed felt like heaven. She lay down in her clothes and immediately dozed. From time to time she heard the murmur of voices and occasional laughter as if it were some foreign language that she neither understood nor cared about. Later Mark came into the room. She felt him stand over her. "Christy?" She forced her eyes open. "Yes?" "How are you feeling?" "I'll be fine as soon as I catch up on my sleep." He gestured vaguely. "I'm sorry about all this. It came at a deucedly awkward time, I know." He reached down and pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across her cheek and let his hand rest there for a moment. She felt certain that he wanted to sit down on the bed beside her, but neither of them spoke. It was one of those moments that hung in suspense, then died quickly because neither of them knew how to deal with it. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and she opened her eyes to look at him again. "Uh, we've put Carol to bed," he said a little hesitantly. "Darcy wants to see the rental center before she goes back to the motel, so I'll run her over for a look through." Christy nodded. Why did he bother with all this explanation? "I understand," she said wearily. He paused and looked at her through narrowed eyelids. "I wonder if you do. You see, while Darcy is in Reno, you will have Carol's care. Will that alter things too drastically from now on, what with your music and all?" "And all," meaning "with becoming pregnant," she supposed. She ought to tell him this very minute that she was already over three months along. That would put a prize damper on his evening. Well, she wasn't up to coping with any more scenes tonight. "Don't worry, Mark," she said. "From now on isn't that much longer for us, is it?" The thought seemed to pitch her headlong into some vast emptiness. His eyes gleamed oddly, and he turned and left her with an indistinct goodbye. She got up then and showered, put on a nightgown and crept between the sheets. She fell asleep at once. HOURS LATER SHE WAKENED. Moonlight flooded the room. Her bedside clock showed 2 A.M. and Mark was not beside her. Go ahead and think the worst just as if you've every right, she thought. Wide awake now, she had a sudden yen for a glass of milk. She went barefoot downstairs. The kitchen looked immaculate,

with not a sign of its earlier clutter. Mark and Darcy no doubt tidied it with nostalgic togetherness. She finished the milk, then went up to the den to check on Carol. The child lay relaxed with her arms framing her head, her face dewy and sweet, no longer an obstreperous ragamuffin, almost an angel. Christy bent to tuck in the blanket more securely and heard a key turn in the front-door lock, then the sound of Mark's steps climbing the stairs. She shrank into a dark corner, suddenly self-conscious of her filmy gown. Perhaps she could slip back into bed and feign sleep while he was. in the bathroom, but he strode immediately to Carol's side. Christy watched his face as he looked down at his child, then closed her eyes. It was unfair to observe such private tenderness. Then he saw her. "Christy! You startled me!" "She's a beautiful child, Mark," Christy said softly. He let his hand rest lightly on his little daughter's cheek, an endearing habit Christy cherished for herself. "I know," he agreed, then turned to her. "Why are you up? Did Carol waken?" "No, just checking. It was late, and well, I felt concerned." She preceded him out of the room. "I'm sorry. I believe I've mentioned before that Darcy allows no run-of-the-mill business in her books. Actually it didn't take that long. I've been walking." "Walking, Mark?" He offered no explanation, and they went back to their bedroom, mottled with silver light and deep shadows. She felt as if they were hung in some Gothic painting. He suddenly reached out to pull her close. "You look like a sprite in that gauzy thing, but thank God, you're real," he murmured against her hair. The fresh scent of his cheek filled her nostrils, and she willed it to keep her drugged so that she wouldn't pull away. Her arms slipped up around his neck of their own accord, and he tightened his around her, rocking her against his chest. It had been ages since he'd held her like this, and she wanted to remain there forever, letting the feeling seep into her bones. He kissed her gently, almost experimentally, then moved away to study her for a moment, as if to memorize every feature of her face, each shadowed outline of her body. "You're beautiful," he said. "Really beautiful." "Oh, no, you can't mean that," she cried and gathered the folds of her diaphanous gown across her slight new roundness. For a moment his face looked vulnerable as if she had wounded him. Then swiftly he picked her up and carried her to their bed. She watched him as he undressed, his lean muscular body touched by moonlight. He's the beautiful one, she thought, her eyes aching, and knew she ought to flee from the room. But she could not deny him tonight. Him? No, she admitted. She could not deny herself. Then he was beside her, their limbs entwined, and he caught her to him with a fierceness that took her breath away. His hands, ordinarily gentle and concerned for her pleasure, dug hard into her flesh so that she almost cried out. Her mind reeled. They clung to each other as a kind of starvation seemed to engulf them both, and all the resolutions with which she'd steadily confronted herself dissolved in the brilliance that consumed them. SHE WASN'T SURE how much later it was when she woke to find herself still in Mark's arms. The room, barely visible in the light that filtered through the windows, looked respectful and commonplace once more, and she felt an uneasy logic seep into her mind. What had come over Mark? Had Darcy so inflamed him that he needed such immediate release? The thought almost gagged her. She pulled away with a little moan, mortified at her still flaming body, a traitor to her reason. Mark got up, threw on a robe and sat on her side of the bed. He reached for her hand and gently outlined each finger with one of his. "I'm sorry," he said. "Did I hurt you?" "No," she answered and gripped hard a corner of the sheet in the other hand. "What's wrong then?"

She sensed a zealous assessment in his unwavering eyes. "I guess I don't relish the role of instant surrogate." He dropped her hand. "Instant surrogate? Is that what you believe?" She pulled the covers up to her chin. "You'll have to admit tonight's situation provided a classic setup. Give me credit for a little insight, Mark." He rose and went over to look out the window. Small night sounds seemed magnified out of all proportion. The bark of a dog roared against her eardrums, the vibrations from the bedside electric clock could have been a passing jet. Even her heart pounded like a tympani. "I see," he said finally. "I keep forgetting ours is a marriage of planned obsolescence. I can never remember there's a formula to be followed." He looked down at her reflectively. "I must say, though, I never suspected you were such a convincing actress. Surrogate wife? Surrogate husband? Well, that was the whole idea of your contract, wasn't it?" His expressionless tone fell like salt on a blistering burn. "Of course. You're right, and I promise not to react like this again. After all, I should realize the varying demands of the male glands." He muttered an oath and walked ta the closet. "Good God, Christy! Do you have to reduce everything to lowest terms?" The closet door opened, and Christy watched his shadowy form gather blankets and a pillow and knew that he went to make his bed on the living-room sofa. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHRISTY WOKE AT DAWN. A lone bird sang out a fine repertoire of mordents and trills from somewhere, and Christy wondered if she and the songster were the only ones awake in this interval before the day got on its feet. She lay on her back and felt her stomach for signs of growth as she did almost every day now. She wished she knew another expectant mother with whom she could talk over the commonplace symptoms like nausea, stretch marks, weight gain and all the exciting bodily changes so significant to pregnant women and tiresome to others. Most of all she wanted to feel comfortable about sharing with Mark the amazing things that were happening to her and to have him respond with tenderness and caring. Oh, what it must feel like to be happily pregnant! She reached over to the bedside table and picked up one of the books on prenatal care borrowed from the library. She'd left several conspicuously around, thinking Mark might see them, but he'd checked out of this room without noticing. The emptiness of her bed made her aware that her life had become oddly segmented. There was a child within her who aroused some fierce and bewildering new emotions. There was Beth, her grieving sister, unaware of the child that would soon be hers. There was a child in the room across the hall, who looked at her with cool eyes or else refused to look at her at all. And then there was Mark with the stubborn chin, who slept last night on the living-room sofa. She felt alone in this house. All her life she seemed haunted by loneliness. She wondered uneasily if loneliness after all developed in the genes and became a part of one's style like the way one smiled or walked. The puzzle of her own condition was how inevitable it always seemed. Did choice remain a fantasy? She rose, dressed quickly and tiptoed down to the kitchen. You're full of excuses this morning, my girl, she thought. Since when shouldn't a person take responsibility for her own actions? Let's see if a copper bowl of yellow primroses will cheer up the premises. She cut the flowers from a window box and arranged them with quick tense movements. Then she set the table and stirred up a batch of Mark's favorite blueberry pancakes. She followed the recipe carefully because she didn't trust her memory this morning.

Soon she heard the buzz of Mark's shaver and then Carol and Mark in quiet conversation. They came down together, Carol in her robe, clutching her father's hand. What a solemn little girl, Christy thought and wondered if she'd ever get across the child's thorn-hedge reserve. Perhaps she shouldn't try. There was no real reason to force herself into Carol's private domain for such a short-range relationship. "Good morning," Christy said brightly, taking her cue from the primroses. Mark's answer was polite, as if she were a nodding acquaintance. Carol said nothing, but kept her eyes on her father as if he might disappear if she let him out of her sight. The wistful adoration tugged at Christy's heart. How could Darcy so casually relinquish this pixie with her father's blue eyes? Why, you hypocrite, Christy thought and felt a raw thrust of pain. At least Mark and Carol greeted the pancakes with relish, and Christy heaped their plates. "More coffee, Mark?" "Yes, please." Silence. After last night's quarrel Christy supposed there remained little to talk about. She began to feel invisible, and it wasn't very comfortable. After a minute or two she poured a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. Look you two, she mutely addressed them, do you mind if I join this scintillating conversation? You look positively devastating this morning, Mr. B. with all those icicles dripping off those curly eyelashes, and Carol, I'm not going to eat you, honest. She smiled at her small stepdaughter, who maintained her distance like some infant star concerned with its own galaxy. "Now that the show is over, we'll have lots of time to get acquainted. There's a park nearby and a library, too." Carol stopped her spoon midway to her mouth. Her eyes filled with apprehension, and she made no response. Mark seemed engrossed in the morning paper. Christy wondered how long she could function in this frigid climate. She stifled a sigh. So life was full of conflict. What's new about that? One must face up to it or else succumb to neuroses. End of lecture. Plan with the head, she'd always maintained, and the heart would follow. But what did one do with a dissenting heart? Mark picked up his briefcase, and Carol followed him to the door. "Don't forget, daddy." "Don't forget what?" "You know," Carol said more coyly than Christy thought her capable. He swung her up and held her close. "How could I ever forget you? I love you, punkin." He kissed her and set her down. She stood at the window and waved until Mark was out of sight, then came to the table and slowly sipped the rest of her milk. "Will daddy come home v for dinner?" she asked after a minute or two. "Of course." "For sure? You promise?" She seemed to assess Christy's truthfulness. "Why, yes, unless he calls or has to go out of town." She leaned back in her chair with a look of relief. "Good, because daddies should come home on birthdays." "Today is your birthday? Are you certain? What is the date?" Had Mark forgotten the birthday? She was positive of it, or he would have mentioned it this morning. Why hadn't Darcy reminded him? "Mommy said daddy would bring me a present." The statement sounded more like a question. "Of course, he will." And had Darcy given her something, Christy wondered. "My mother will send me a special present from Reno," she said, eyes unblinking, as if she knew precisely what went through Christy's head. "Well, what do you know, your birthday! I say that calls for a party!" Carol seemed not to have heard. "If daddy doesn't come, I won't cry." Christy was startled to see the outline of Mark's determined chin in the small upturned one.

"Well, crying isn't so awful. There are times when we all need to cry." "No," Carol said firmly. "Daddy might go away again if he found out I cried." Christy looked at the grave little face. Who knew what terrible anxieties Carol hid? "Oh, honey, you're wrong. You had nothing to do with that," Christy impulsively laid her hand on the little girl's shoulder. She'd heard that some children actually blamed themselves for their parents' divorce. Carol wriggled free. "My mother said you shouldn't let strangers touch you." Christy felt as if she'd been doused with cold water. "Your mother is right, Carol. But I'm not a stranger, am I?" She added gently, "I am part of your family now, and I'm going to help take care of you." Carol stood up and met Christy's gaze without flinching. But you are a stranger, her eyes said as clearly as if she had spoken. "Anyway," Carol continued, "mommy isn't going to be married to Uncle Spencer anymore, so daddy can come back." "I see," Christy said. Was this the fantasy wish of a lonely child, or did Carol act as the mouthpiece for the future plan? Somehow Christy felt that last night it had all been discussed and arranged. Her vision blurred momentarily, and the color seemed to drain out of the primroses. "I think you'd better get dressed. Come along. Today we'll turn the den into a room for you." "Can daddy sleep in my room?" "I think not." "Why? That would be better than the sofa." Well, naturally she should expect a child of Mark's to be observant. She didn't answer but unpacked the suitcase and showed Carol where to put her play clothes and underthings. Christy hung up a half dozen drab little dresses. Apparently Darcy's taste in clothing did not extend to her daughter. Carol slipped into jeans and a faded T-shirt, then leaned against the window to look down the street. "Does daddy come home that way?" She pointed. "Yes, he drives up that hill," Christy said. "I'll watch for him." "My goodness, you'll get tired if you stay there all day." But Carol dragged a chair to the window and settled herself with her elbows on the sill. Christy looked at the persistent set of the little back and recalled a four-year-old Christy who waited for hours on the boarding-school steps for some relative to pick her up for a holiday outing. If you didn't watch, she remembered, the person might not come. She left Carol and went to telephone Mark's secretary. "Just remind him to get home in time for his daughter's birthday party." That ought to jog his memory. After she straightened the house and made up the beds, she convinced Carol to forsake her post and walk with her to the store. There was a small shopping center just behind the school, and even though Mark left his Ghia for her nowadays and drove a rental car from the business, she'd come to enjoy the trek to the market when there was not too much to carry. It was something she'd never done in the cement labyrinths of New York. Here the skies were open, and today from the hilltop she could see for miles. To the east the vineyards combed the land into neat contours, and from the west the fog rolled in from the ocean, thinning to a lilac gauze as it floated over outlying dairy farms and disappearing completely at the edge of the city. She loved the way the prevailing breeze stroked her skin, ruffled her hair and did its best to recharge her batteries as it sent her swinging down the hill. Petie, a neighbor's brown woolly dog, suddenly loped over to escort them. Carol reached down and patted his head. Petie promptly wallowed on his back and flopped his great paws in excruciating delight. Go ahead, old boy, Christy thought. Under the circumstances I'd probably behave just as foolishly if Carol showed me that kind of attention. But she was determined not to take Carol's attitude as a personal affront. Why should Carol admit one more adult

into her world? She'd had little reason to trust adults thus far in her short life. Christy bought a few groceries to make up a simple birthday dinner and surreptitiously managed to purchase a small music box with a twirling ballerina for Carol. When they returned home a couple of hours later, the telephone rang as they opened the door. "Mrs. Brandon?" It was Mark's secretary. "Mr. Brandon tried to reach you. He took a noon plane to Los Angeles for a staff meeting. Something to do with the seminars for the San Diego convention." Christy groaned. "Oh, no! What time will he return?" "He plans to take the eight-o'clock flight." "I see. Well, thank you." She figured swiftly. He'd arrive in San Francisco before nine, but by the time he drove home, it would be after ten, far too late for a birthday celebration. Why today, Mark, of all days? She couldn't bring herself to tell Carol the turn of affairs yet and scoured her mind for a substitute plan or at least some way to soften the disappointment. Meanwhile she prepared enough lasagna to feed an army and baked an angel food cake just as if the party would take place if she continued to prepare for it. As she took the cake out of the oven, the doorbell rang. A messenger held a square white box, and she glimpsed a florist's van at the curb. "Brandon residence?" "Yes, it is," she said and took the box inside. No card was evident, but an address label identified Mark as the sender. She pushed back the green tissue to reveal an exquisite nosegay of pink rosebuds. She buried her face in the delicate fragrance and closed her eyes to see Mark's steady gaze filled with a faint questioning. An apology for deserting her bed last night, she wondered. A delicious feeling surged through her. No card was necessary. She understood. There was something touching about the way Mark expressed himself by thoughtful acts rather than words. She'd learned that when he surprised her by shipping out her piano. Carol watched with the curiosity of a small bird, her eyes bright with interest as Christy lifted the bouquet from its wrappings. A card fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and saw a name scrawled in Mark's handwriting: Carol. Christy knew her face colored a little, and her throat felt constricted. Self-centered idiot to imagine the girlish posies were meant for you! A soundless voice breathed the accusation, and robotlike she handed the card and the flowers to Carol. How could one feel so tortured in front of a five-year-old without access to tears or at least a change of expression? "Daddy has sent you a birthday bouquet. Isn't it lovely?" She got the words out at last. Carol accepted the flowers and held them as if they might break. Then she opened the card and studied it intently. Christy knew she struggled between wanting to know what her father had written or sharing the message with her stepmother. "I can't read it," she admitted finally and handed it to Christy who knelt down and held the card so Carol could see, running her fingers under the words as she read aloud: "Dear punkin, I'm sending these flowers to tell you I'm thinking of you on your birthday even though I can't be with you. I must go to L.A. on business and can't return until late tonight. But I'll be home tomorrow, and we'll spend the whole day together. Think of some things you would like to do. Love and a hug, daddy." Carol focused accusing eyes on Christy. "You promised." "I know. I'm sorry it turned out this way." It was irrational to feel guilt, but she did. Carol took a nap then with the bouquet beside her and Mark's promissory note gripped in one tight little fist. For a second the posture of the sleeping child reminded her of Davy, and the agony of the memory rose once again to

torment her. "Help me to keep Mark's child safe," she prayed, then added a special plea for bumbling stepmothers. She went to ice the cake, and afterward wrapped the music box and tied it with a ribbon. Perhaps a present to open and five candles to blow out would help ease Carol's disappointment. She'd barely finished when Ryan stopped by with a dozen roses in one hand and a bundle of music under an arm. "Hey, you're up and about!" he cried with surprise. "Karen told us you came down with a nasty virus. We all missed you last night, darlin'." Last night? Christy stared and for a moment wondered what happened to the part of her brain that housed her memory. Catherina's matinee must have occurred a thousand years ago, not yesterday. "Come in, Ryan. Just a false alarm, I guess. I'm all right now." He followed her into the kitchen, where she found a vase and took a little time to arrange the flowers. My, my, what a day for the florist! "How did you know I adore salmon-colored roses? Aren't you a delight?" "Oh, I'm frequently a delight, or haven't you noticed? It's part of my survival kit, you know." He set down the music, appropriated the frosting bowl and began to spoon up the leavings. Well, I can certainly use some roses today, Christy thought. "They're beautiful and I thank you. And what would you be doing with all that music, Mr. O'Rourke?" He grinned and it warmed the room. "Oh, I just happened to bring along the new musical I'm considering for our next production." He set down the bowl. "Someone's birthday?" "Carol, Mark's little daughter, and I won't be able to take on anything more for a while." He nodded and studied her quite candidly for a moment. "I understand, but do me a favor and look it over anyway. At least, you can give me an opinion. I value your judgment." Christy was always surprised at his eyes, exactly the same deep blue as Mark's. Strange how eyes the same color could be so different. Ryan's glinted with quicksilver lights, provocative, compassionate, or with little-boy innocence, and sometimes like a cat about to pounce on a mouse. Mark's were unfailingly steady as if lit up from within and often warm with quiet amusement. "Isn't the big interview in Los Angeles coming up soon?" "Last Friday of this month. I've been boning up for it." "Keep me posted." "Have you ever known me to keep my mouth shut?" Carol walked into the room then, her cheeks flushed from the nap. "Well, bless me if it's not a princess," Ryan said and flashed her a brilliant smile. Christy made introductions and puttered around the kitchen while Ryan talked quietly with Carol, giving her his entire attention, and who could resist that, Christy thought. After a while he invited Carol to sit with him at the piano and showed her how to play two easy chords. Then he sang an amusing song about a cowardly teddy bear. In a few minutes he had her chording the simple accompaniment as he indicated the changes. Her eyes sparkled at their splendid performance, and for the first time Christy heard Carol laugh aloud. The child was clearly bedazzled. "Happy birthday, princess," Ryan said after they'd caught their breath. Carol's smile vanished and she ducked her head. "My daddy can't come." Christy explained. Ryan promptly pointed his nose toward the kitchen and rapturously inhaled the aroma from the freshly baked cake. "Invite me, princess. I can come. Always celebrate a birthday on a birthday. Quote: the famous O'Rourke Rule for Happy Birthdays." Carol smiled as if she'd just been handed the key to a magic door. She turned to Christy. "Okay?" she asked. Christy considered. There were enough complications in this household

without adding another. Still, today Carol of all people could use the O'Rourke birthday rule. "All right," she said but looked sternly at Ryan. "On one condition. You must bring someone else. Try Karen or Margo, preferably accompanied by assorted kindergarteners. Otherwise, no, Ryan. I mean it." Ryan pulled a long face. "Now what's wrong with plain old me? Don't you realize mobs corrode quality?" Christy raised her eyebrows. "Oh, sure. The famous O'Rourke Law of Quality!" "You bet! And I adore ladies, all ages! Moreover, I'm a resourceful conversationalist and an outstanding companion. Right, princess?" He winked at Carol, and she nodded enthusiastic agreement. Christy smiled in spite of herself. "That's the whole problem. Goodbye, Ryan." "I get it. Here's-your-hat-and-what's-your-hurry time," he said with exaggerated injury and gave Carol a snappy salute. "I like Mr. O'Rourke," Carol said when Ryan had gone. "He's fun, and he thinks I'm a princess." She giggled. And with rare magic has turned you into a real live little girl, Christy thought, not without envy. She considered the menu for the evening and wondered if she should try to prepare something more special than lasagna but decided the pasta dish would do. At least, there would be plenty. She put it in the oven and hurried Carol upstairs. "Into the tub and make it snappy. A princess should look the part." While the excited child splashed in her bubble bath, Christy looked through Carol's wardrobe and wondered again at the dowdy collection. The decision rested between a plain blue-checked gingham or a dismal orchid print with a wrinkled white organdy pinafore. With a few careful snips she detached the pinafore, then rushed to press it with the steam iron. Not bad. Now the pinafore stood out in pleasing fullness and turned the blue gingham into a perky feminine ensemble. She helped Carol into the dress, brushed her sandy hair neatly up into a ponytail and tied it with a blue bow that exactly matched her eyes. "What do you know!" Christy cried. "I guess Mr. O'Rourke knows a princess when he sees one!" Carol went to the mirror and stared at her reflection. She patted the fluffy skirt of her pinafore almost reverently, then turned to Christy. "Why, you made me look pretty," she said shyly.' Christy looked at the small shining face. She took a deep breath and caught the sudden whiff of lasagna. It smelled heavenly. Christy hurried back to the kitchen, washed some greens for a salad and buttered a loaf of garlic bread. She decided to serve buffet to accommodate the uncertain number of guests and wondered with a touch of excitement whom Ryan would commandeer for the occasion. Promptly at six o'clock the doorbell rang, and Ryan greeted her, his hands joined in a victory salute. Geoff, the young dentist who had sung the lead male role in Catherina, followed and Christy was relieved to see that he had in tow his two young sons, Robbie and Kent. The little boys looked to be around four and six years of age, their hair coerced into place with so much water that driblets ran down in front of their ears. They stood looking at Christy and Carol with the unwavering grins of two cherub heads done in plaster. "Welcome," Christy said and introduced Carol to Geoff and the boys. "It's marvelous of you to come at the last minute." "You'd better believe it's marvelous!" Geoff cried. "My wife is at her mother's for a few days, and we've existed on wall-to-wall TV dinners." Christy made a face. "And I thought you came for the company." "Noway. Food, woman, food!" Geoff teased. Ryan plopped some crazy hats on the children and took them outside. "Come on, you mad hatters, see if you can follow the leader." Over the shouts and laughter Christy heard Ryan convince the youngsters to scale the Matterhorn, walk the plank, skulk through a forest and eventually descend via hang glider onto the patio where Geoff set up a portable tether

ball. Then the men left the children to their game and came back inside. Geoff slumped into a chair. "What are you trying to do, man? Win the decathlon?" Ryan flexed an arm. "Big-muscle coordination! Perfect for pent-up energy. Not bad for promoting instant fellowship, either." He jerked a thumb toward the animated chatter on the patio. Christy handed them gin and tonics. "Angel!" they chorused. Thank God for a Ryan in her life, Christy thought. He brought a slice of sanity into this house. She knew he harbored old agonies as real as hers, but he didn't wave them around like flags as she seemed to do. Instead, his good humor flowed as though it were piped in from some vast reservoir. If hilarity were the criterion, the party was a rousing success. Carol, color high, ponytail bobbing, obviously relished her new look and played with Robbie and Kent as if she had known them always. After dinner she and Ryan performed their song about the cowardly teddy bear and had to repeat it several times for their appreciative audience. Then Carol blew out the candles on her cake. She thanked Christy primly for the music box but clung to the enormous teddy bear from the men and boys for the rest of the evening. Later Ryan helped Christy clear the table and carry the dishes into the kitchen. "Never mind, I'll finish them later," she said. All at once she felt exhausted and wished everyone would leave so she could clean up the mess and get to bed before Mark returned. When she thought about it, she was pretty sure Mark would not approve of the way she handled Carol's birthday. "You hardly touched your dinner," Ryan said. 4'Didn't I? Well...." "As a matter of fact, you look pale. Are you sure you're over that virus?" His voice softened. "Or still trying to deal with past gremlins, darlin'?" Christy gave scrupulous attention to each dish as she rinsed and stacked it. She didn't want any more emotional sessions with Ryan, especially now. Mark was probably on his way home from San Francisco this very minute. "It's been a long day," she said. "I guess Catherina was more demanding than I realized. That tyrant of a director, you know." "Hooha! I don't think so. You're quite capable of handling home and career. I've watched you work, you know, organized to the hilt. All those lists!" He stood holding a tray of glasses and frankly surveyed her. The set of his brows, the golden tan of his face and the modishly styled blond beard all seemed to emphasize his blue eyes with their probing expression. Then he broke into an eloquent smile that acknowledged his own ingenuity. "Well, what do you know! I'll bet our little Christy is pregnant!" She couldn't prevent a telltale flush. "Ryan, the congenital seer," she muttered and wished she could have squelched his accurate guess with a sophisticated retort. He set down the tray, grabbed her hand and pulled her into the living room. The children sat in front of the television engrossed in a rowdy cowboy movie tuned up to impossible decibels. Not in the least intimidated by the competition, Geoff beat out ragtime on the piano. "Fanfare time!" Ryan shouted. A rather redundant request, Christy thought, considering the uproar. "Hey, man, would you like to hear about a nifty new coming attraction?" Ryan cried. Geoff rolled his eyes questioningly but continued to play. "A blessed event starring our very own Christy!" Ryan bellowed over the din. Geoff flashed a wide grin and made a precarious modulation into a syncopated verson of "Rockaby Baby." Ryan danced Christy carefully around the room while the children shouted encouragement to the cowboys, or maybe to the Indians, and completely ignored the three adults. At that moment the door opened, and Mark walked in, then fell back as if blasted by the pandemonium. His face said quite plainly: What the devil is going on here?

Christy stepped out of Ryan's arms, made introductions and explained the impromptu party in a breathless freshet of sentences. It became one of those situations when the voice went on and on, accompanied by ineffectual gestures while the point grew more and more obscure. She knew everyone wished she would hush. Meanwhile Carol hopped up and down, impatient to show her presents to her father, and somewhat tardily the men exchanged handshakes. "Congratulations, Mark. We've just heard the good news. Hope it's a girl, carbon copy of Christy," Ryan said heartily. Mark's face made a lightning shift to that shuttered expression Christy had recently come to know. "Thanks," he said curtly and shot Christy a look charged with rebuke. Christy felt her heart thud heavily like a sodden mop as she watched Ryan's eyes skim irreverently between her and Mark. Ryan was the only person she knew who could act both charming and brutal at the same moment. Sudden bloodcurdling war whoops from the TV inspired Carol, Robbie and Kent to encircle Mark and attack him with the giant teddy bear. Ryan, savoir faire intact, thanked Christy for preparing his favorite dinner and put on his jacket, humming "He's a male-chauvinist father figure," one of Catherines hit tunes. Ryan would be incapable of an awkward exit, Christy told herself. He was too well endowed with a sense of theater. Geoff corralled his sons, congratulated Mark once more, and after an eternity they left. Christy turned off the television and felt stunned by the silence. She went to tidy the kitchen while Mark saw Carol off to bed. By the time she was through, Mark snapped his sheets on the sofa. She paused on the stair landing until he finished. "I'm sorry you had to find out that way." "I'm surprised to find out at all. I think a little explanation is due, right?" He looked remote, injured, accusing. "Well, the fact is, I conceived almost immediately." "Immediately!" he cried astounded. "How far along are you, if you don't mind my asking?" He flung the question at her as if he were an attorney for the prosecution. She'd never imagined he could turn into such a stranger. "Going on four months according to the doctor." Her throat felt so dry her words sounded strangled. "Four months!" He dropped a pillow into place, and his shoulders sagged. "But last February you told me you weren't pregnant." "I didn't know then. I found out while you were in Oregon." He threw a blanket across the sheets. "Why didn't you tell me, for God's sake? I don't like egg on my face, Christy. I'm certain O'Rourke sensed you hadn't yet told me." "Oh, no! How could he? Anyway, Ryan's a tease. He guessed my condition only a few minutes before you arrived, and I admitted it." She paused. "I did try to tell you several times." Mark's face looked pinched. "Oh, you did? When?" "Does it matter? You were so busy I hated to bother you. After all, you made it rather plain you weren't ready for the news at this point." He shook his head, threw up his hands, walked over and looked gravely down at her. "Oh, Christy, my dear, what an awful burden I placed on you. A lot of things suddenly add up. I wish you'd told me. I feel like a heel, you know." His sudden kindness brought tears to her eyes. She looked away, managed a shrug and, willed herself to look detached. "It's no big deal," she said. He moved his lips silently as if he were trying to form words, and they wouldn't take shape. "No big deal?" he asked finally and sounded weary. "I suppose I can understand that, although it's hard to accept. If your condition had some relevancy to our lives, you'd be more concerned about sharing such an intimate detail." He gave a twisted smile, and she had to look away again. "Intimate is not a word I would choose to describe our relationship, Mark." "Right on," he said dryly. "Sharing the body is easy compared to sharing one's inner self." She turned to go upstairs. "Good night," she said. What else was there to

say? He'd said it all. She got ready for bed and tried not to succumb to the bullying of her emotions. Life would not have become so complicated had she been able to hold onto her lifetime conviction: Rule with the head, not with the heart. Never, never could she allow him to learn just how relevant he and their child had become to her. Her eyes felt grainy with fatigue, and a hard little knot at the base of her neck seemed to radiate tension throughout her body. At last she fell into troubled dreams, where lights floated around like distant stars. Then they converged into pairs and hurtled toward her, monstrous trucks that roared from all directions. She screamed and covered her ears to shut out the inevitable screech of brakes and shatter of glass. "No, no!" she heard herself cry out over and over. Her throat grew raw, but she couldn't stop. Or was that her voice, after all? Perhaps it was the noisy weeping of her inflamed nerves. Then someone gripped her shoulders. "Christy, darling, wake up!" At least, she thought Mark said that. Sometimes the longing of one's heart framed words for the mind. Mark sponged her face with a damp cloth, and at last she stopped crying. "Sorry," she said. "It's that terrible nightmare again." "I know." He handed her a glass of water and a couple of aspirins. She swallowed them and lay back on her pillow. He sat on the edge of the bed."Stop blaming yourself, Christy. No one else does." "I must give the baby to Beth, you know, or this nightmare will happen every night for the rest of my life," she said as if explaining it to him for the first time. But the solution, which at first seemed so valid, set off her sobs again. Mark crawled in beside her then and folded her close. Without speaking, they clung together. His embrace became for her the words of comfort he did not utter; it became strength to be drawn upon, the feeling of emotion shared, the caring touch not necessarily sexual. A person did not need such warmth from another human being, she'd always maintained. Well, she was wrong. Mark had opened that door. It was one of life's prime needs, and she knew she'd always longed for it. She'd never thought to make such an admission. A sudden wail from across the hall tore at the silence, and they lifted their heads a little to listen. "It's Carol. All this commotion. I've probably frightened her," Christy said and reluctantly drew out of his arms. Mark got up. "I'll go see." Had he muttered an oath? She couldn't be sure. Drowsily she heard their muffled voices and thought about Mark's compassion. It had been a long time since she felt such contentment. When she woke the next morning, Mark was not beside her, and she wondered if it had all been a part of her dream. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHRISTY SAT UNDER THE SYCAMORE at the park, an unopened book in her lap. She leaned against the mottled trunk and watched Carol a few feet away feeding ducks at the edge of the small lake. She should have gone home an hour ago, but the perfume of spring grasses, the glistening water and the unaffected charm of the scene before her all enfolded her in hypnotic somnolence. At times like this she set herself free from all that had happened to her. Here she could pretend she was a happily married woman who looked forward with elation to the birth of her first child. The raucous protest of the ducks announced the end of Carol's bounty. Reluctantly Christy took the little girl's hand, and they hurried the three blocks home to find Mark and Ryan leaning against Ryan's car in the driveway. The two men were in earnest conversation. Apparently the topic was the pending lawsuit against Mark's company. Mark hadn't mentioned it for so long Christy

had almost put it out of her mind. "You girls want to get a crying towel and join us?" Ryan asked cheerfully. "That bad?" Christy said. Mark looked glum. "That bad." The literal Carol ran for a hand towel and happily planted herself between her favorite men. "The latest rumor is they're going to hire one of San Francisco's prominent trial lawyers and up the suit another fifty thousand," Mark said. Christy felt ill. Mark's business faced certain financial ruin if he lost. "I don't think there's a chance in the world for the plaintiff to collect that amount," Ryan said. Mark shook his head. "Our insurance man isn't optimistic. He says whenever a child is involved, look out!" "Are we going to be poor, daddy?" Carol asked. Mark patted her head. "We'll manage, punkin." "Not to worry, darlin'. Your dad can rent Christy out at the hotel piano bar on weekends," Ryan said. As usual, Mark didn't find Ryan's jokes amusing. Ryan seemed to size up Mark's dejection. "Maybe I shouldn't say so, Mark, but I think you're overreacting. Yours is not a jury trial, and the judges in this town are known for fair decisions. This Boggs character who is suing has a poor reputation. He's been in court for drunk driving and was cited for cheating on unemployment-insurance claims. You see, I've done some homework." "That sort of thing isn't admissible in court, Ryan." "True, but I say he's gone too far. It's insane to sue for so much over a broken leg, and I'll bet the judge agrees." Mark didn't look impressed. "Well, I won't draw a free breath until it's over. You're our only hope, O'Rourke." "I'll be there with bells on. In fact, I'm looking forward to matching wits with that high-powered attorney." Ryan reached into his car and pulled out a package. "Abalone. There was a good tide yesterday so I got a limit. Pound them as you do round steak, or you'll not be able to chew them." He climbed into the car. "I'll be off, and don't lose any sleep over all this. I'm sure everything will turn out okay." "Easy for him to say," Mark said as they went into the house. "I doubt if he'd act so unperturbed if he were sued instead of us." Christy didn't agree, but she said nothing. Ryan took a philosophic view of most situations. All except Rockledge, she corrected herself and remembered his interview came up in a couple of weeks. Christy put out dishes and silver for Carol to set the table, then pounded and floured the round white slices of abalone. Mark looked on gloomily. "Has a date been set for the trial?" she asked. "Not yet. It may not come up for a couple of months. It would be just my luck to have it coincide with the arrival of the Australians." "I'll keep my fingers crossed for you." "And speaking of luck, out of the entire population in this town, why did I draw Ryan O'Rourke as my star witness?" "Why, Mark! I can't think of anyone I'd rather have on my side." "I'm aware of that." "He's articulate, brilliant, witty. He'll make a superb witness." "You're absolutely right. I guess the thing that annoys me is that it seems that articulate, brilliant, witty man is always poking his nose into my business." If she hadn't known better, she would have thought he was jealous. "It's not like you to be petty, Mark," she said. AFTER DINNER THAT EVENING he handed her an envelope that contained an invitation to an awards-luncheon at the Fairmont. It appeared to be arranged by a state businessmen's organization. "Care to go?" he asked casually.

"Lunch in San Francisco? Do you have to ask? I'd love it! Are you receiving an award?" "So I'm told. You know these affairs, awards for everyone from the guy who reduced energy consumption ten dollars' worth to the third assistant who helped arrange the annual Christmas party." But she finally wormed out of him that he'd been elected Businessman of the Year. "Mark, how marvelous! That's wonderful. I'm so happy for you." He grinned, apparently pleased at her enthusiasm. "If you'd like, we could stay over in the evening for a play or something. I see in the Chronicle that Van Cliburn is in town. I'll get tickets if you wish." "Van Cliburn! Oh, Mark, that's fabulous." She hadn't been to a single concert of a major artist since she left New York, nor had they dined in any of San Francisco's fine restaurants. Mark was such a workaholic that, except for the endless affairs for his clients, their social life had been practically nil - not that she felt cheated. When she thought about it, she had been pretty busy herself. "Okay, I'll arrange it. I've had my nose to the grindstone what with the lawsuit coming up, and I know you've been working hard planning that daylong tour for the Japanese in a couple of weeks. I think we could use a change of scenery." Christie couldn't believe what a lift she felt from anticipating the San Francisco excursion. It was as if a lot of dormant hormones suddenly shoved her into high gear. She baked up a storm - chocolate-chip cookies for Carol and cinnamon rolls for Mark - then washed all the windows, memorized two Bach preludes and constructed Tinkertoy spaceships with Carol. She bought a stunning new outfit, a pale pink wool, a gorgeous color, with a jacket so cleverly cut that if she stood or sat absolutely straight, no one would guess she was pregnant. And yesterday a visit to the hairstylist rounded out her preparations. What heaven to go to a real live concert again! How positively super to eat a meal that she didn't have to prepare herself. Mark approved the new suit when she showed it to him. "Just a country girl getting set for her first trip to the city," he teased. She made a face. "How dare you talk that way to a New Yorker!" He grinned and, instead of returning as usual to his endless paperwork, followed her into the kitchen, offering to test the cookie dough and generally managing to stay underfoot. "Hey, you have flour all over your chin," he said and, picking up a tea towel, reached over and wiped off the smudge. Then he put the towel aside and framed her face in his hands. She held her breath. For a moment she thought he would kiss her. "Pregnancy becomes you, Christy," he said. She almost burst into tears. It was the first time he'd acknowledged her condition since he'd learned of it. Her spirits soared at the small sign of acceptance. She had wondered continually about his attitude. It hurt more than she cared to admit. Maybe he hoped the predicament would go away if they ignored it, she thought wryly. Arrangements for a sitter were made, a grandmotherly widow who lived in the town-house complex. They hadn't left Carol with a sitter since she'd come to live with them, so Christy took her over during the week to get acquainted. Friday morning Carol watched the preparations to leave, her eyes wide and doleful like those poster children who gazed at one so pitifully. "Why can't I go with you?" she asked. "I don't want to stay with that lady. Her eyebrows twitch at me. She doesn't like me." "Of course, she likes you. You'll have fun together. Why, she plans to take you to the park this afternoon," Christy said and dashed off to make a list for the sitter: sandwiches for lunch already wrapped in the fridge and Carol's favorite casserole on the bottom shelf for dinner. All was ready. Mrs. Baker, the sitter, was to arrive at ten. At nine-forty-five, as if precisely planned and scheduled, Carol bent double and began to wail. It was

the most pathetic sound Christy ever heard. Mark ran to scoop her up into his arms. "What on earth is the matter, punkin?" The child didn't answer. She sobbed, survived a fit of violent coughing, then collapsed into a series of shuddering moans. Mark rocked her against him. "Where do you hurt, sweetheart?" "My stomach. It hurts awful!" She bent over again, caught Christy's eye, then added, "Just like at the wedding." "Good Lord, you haven't taken any medicine, have you?" He looked frantically at Christy. "Has she?" he demanded. "Not that I know of. We have no antihistamines in the house. Anyway, I keep all our medicines out of reach." This was a production if she'd ever seen one. Apparently Carol received at least one talent from her mother. Carol dug her head into her father's shoulder. "Don't leave me, daddy, please don't leave me." Mark looked worriedly up at Christy, who couldn't believe it was all happening. "I guess we'd better not go," he said. "There are some suspicious parallels here." Christy ran for the thermometer and took the child's temperature. "Look, it's normal. She probably suffers from an ordinary stomach upset. She's prone to them; you know that. I'm sure Mrs. Baker can handle it." Carol started to cry again, and Mark shook his head. "We'd better not." "But what about your award? They're expecting you," Christy cried. "No problem. I'll call the hotel and alert them." But the luncheon! And the concert! I want to go, Mark. Can't you see this child is putting on an act to keep you here? The words pounded inside her head, and it was all she could do to keep herself from screaming them at him. By that time Mrs. Baker had arrived and was sent back home. Mark said again how they dared not take a chance. Maybe Carol wasn't very sick, but she certainly needed their support and comfort. After all, her hysteria was natural, considering the traumatic experience at the hospital. Christy said nothing. She felt ashamed of herself. Mark was right, of course. The child was certainly hysterical, and no doubt the stomachache was real enough, too. Even though she was sure Carol played her woes to the hilt, Christy was appalled at her own reaction. Her judgment was far from infallible. Painfully she recalled once again the terrible day she overrode Beth's wishes. Apparently exhausted, Carol fell asleep in Mark's lap. He didn't move until she awakened about twenty minutes later. She appeared bright and cheerful once more and immediately challenged her father to a game of checkers. Meanwhile Christy went to the bedroom and changed out of her beautiful suit, then marched downstairs and set up the ironing board. It was the one household chore she hated, but it suited her day to perfection. She slung the iron back and forth as if she intended to rip and scorch every garment. Damn. Just look at them. What a twosome they made, completely oblivious to anyone else in the world. Apparently Mark didn't recall he fathered another child. In fact, he barely acknowledged it. She ironed her tears, and they spit back at her. God, she hated being the outsider, the nasty stepmother, the untouchable one. Well, she almost had a day in Camelot. At least, the anticipation was worth remembering. THEY SETTLED BACK into the old routine. Nothing had changed. Mark buried himself in his work; they didn't say much to one another, and he still slept on the sofa. But with Carol there followed a period of friendly truce after the stormy Friday morning. What a likable child hid inside that perverse little body, Christy thought and caught glimpses of the kind of young woman who might emerge someday, not provocative and exuberant like Darcy, but imaginative and composed, with Mark's intelligent blue eyes. Oh, you're so marvelous, Christy. All that self-control has finally paid off! More likely Carol had decided to

accept the inevitable. Anyway, Christy felt grateful for the reprieve and wondered how long it would last. She hadn't told Carol about the baby yet, and since Mark still acted as if they weren't going to have one, she decided to wait at least until her figure called for explanations. There had been a perfect opportunity to tell Carol one morning last week, but at the time Christy felt so shaken there was no way she could have done it. They were in the parking lot of a market when it happened, an act so ordinary that it would have been quickly forgotten. "Would you mind holding my baby a minute while I get the buggy out of the car?" a young neighbor woman asked and immediately thrust the child into Christy's arms. The tiny form snuggled against her in perfect trust. Christy inhaled the sweet fragrance of the little head and impulsively laid her cheek against it. The baby smiled and cooed softly. Christy's vision blurred, and a slow trembling began deep inside her. I want to keep my baby and hold it like this, she admitted. I want to watch it grow and learn. I want it to need me and to hear it call me mother. She'd sublimated the traitorous desires for months, but now she faced them. With all her heart she longed for Mark to take a stand: "We'll not give our child away. We'll assume our obligations as parents, and we'll do it together." And she would agree with him. Passionately. There had been moments when fleetingly, just for a second, she thought Mark might voice the wish. But of course, it couldn't happen. She'd extracted Mark's promise to give their baby to Richard and Beth. As for herself, she'd made a firm vow of her own. Anyway, such daydreams had flimsy foundations. Mark was so preoccupied with important things like franchises, Australian facts and figures, not to mention Carol and Darcy, that he never gave a thought to their child. At that moment Carol begged to see the infant, and Christy was glad for the diversion of stooping and arranging the child's blanket. Carol squealed with delight when the baby gripped a finger in its diminutive fist, and all the way home she chatted continuously. Why didn't it have teeth? Could it eat without them? When would it be old enough to play with her? And wasn't its hair soft and silky? Later when Christy put the groceries away, she realized she'd only purchased half the items on her list. Accusing voices harassed her with questions she dared not answer. Now she knew she must have been either incredibly naive or completely insensitive when she chose to become pregnant. How could she have regarded pregnancy as an abstract medical condition? How had she imagined she could impersonally remove herself from the life in her womb? You've got to stop thinking about it, she ordered and pulled out a sheet of paper to write a letter to her sister. But she couldn't get started. If she revealed her pregnancy, Beth might go into depression at the contrast of her own barren condition. In a few more months there will be an answer for you, Beth, Christy thought and buried her head in her arms. CHAPTER NINETEEN

SHAFTS OF LIGHT pierced the deep shade of the redwood grove and fell on Christy's notes as she spoke to the group of Japanese tourists now gathered around her. "Can you believe that some of these trees date back to the time of the Egyptian pyramids, and others were mature when Jimmu, your first emperor, came to the throne in 660 B.C.?" The group stood in respectful silence and gazed up at the graceful cathedral columns with their parasollike evergreen tops. A primordial experience, Christy thought and for a moment allowed the unique serenity of the place to overshadow the upsetting telephone message she'd received early this morning. As if that weren't enough to spoil the day, there appeared that awful Mr.

Haley who escorted the tourists from their hotel this morning and turned them over to her a short while ago. He stood now a little apart, ready to challenge her facts as he had from the minute she got on the bus and began to lecture. It had been several weeks ago that Mark gratefully handed over the task of organizing the daylong trip after she offered. "Arrange any sight-seeing you believe might interest people from their part of the world. I understand that most of them are fluent in English so you'll have no language problem. Ours is their last stop before they fly home. I expect they will be pretty well jaded by the time they get to us. They spend a week in San Francisco before they come here, and there's no way we can compete with cable cars, Ghirardelli Square and the gardens and museums in Golden Gate Park, but good luck." Christy disagreed. An excursion away from crowded city attractions could be just the change a jaded sightseer might welcome. "Unfortunately I have to fly to Eureka that week, but I'll return in time to join you for dinner. It will be catered at the Sterling Winery, so end your tour there," Mark said. Planning the itinerary made a pleasant diversion from Christy's recent, somewhat confining, life. She mentally reviewed the places that intrigued her when she first arrived in the Redwood Empire. Although the rugged shoreline with its numerous state parks was one of her favorites, she knew it was not unique to islanders and instead chose visits to distinctive spots all within little more than an hour north of San Francisco. Then she and Carol drove the entire route to time the stops and set the pace. As a newcomer, she felt apprehensive assuming the role of guide, so she borrowed armloads of books from the library and made copious notes to anticipate questions the visitors might ask. By the time the day rolled around, she looked forward to meeting the ten Japanese couples who made up the tour group. Mrs. Baker had just arrived to stay with Carol for the day when the telephone rang. It was Mark's attorney. "You can tell your husband that everything is set for Friday after all. The plaintiff's attorney prefers the earlier date, also." "Do you mean the trial comes up this Friday? The day after tomorrow?" "Yes, the date opened up unexpectedly on the judge's calendar, and your husband hoped it would workout." Christy thanked him, then froze. She scanned the calendar, hoping desperately to prove herself wrong. Friday the twenty-seventh. The day of Ryan's interview! Oh, God. What now? Did she dare break the news tonight at dinner? Both men would be there. She didn't want to see Mark's face when she told him his most important witness had a crucial interview in Los Angeles the very time he was supposed to appear in court. The men's relationship was already fragile. This development was likely to blow it sky-high. Her anticipation for the excursion had drained away. How could she face the travelers with composure now that this knowledge hung over her? She met the early-morning bus in front of the San Felipe courthouse at the appointed time. "They're all yours," Mr. Haley said, introducing himself. "I gotta stick around, though, and see they get back to the hotel tonight." The man smelled of stale cigar smoke, his mustache needed trimming, and there was a grease spot on his tie. He seemed a dubious choice to send with these foreign visitors. "You a regular tour guide?" he asked in a raucous voice as the bus driver pulled away from the curb. "No, I'm the wife of one of the local Rotarians," she said. "Reckon you grew up in these parts, then?" "No, I've lived here only a few months, but - " "What's the matter with San Felipe? Too chintzy to hire a pro?" he interrupted. "Hell, the San Francisco club went all out." Christy cringed and looked over her shoulder at the twenty pairs of dark eyes focused on the two of them. She pointedly lowered her voice.

"Let's discuss this later. I can assure you I am well prepared." The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Don't worry. These Japs don't understand much." His voice carried at least halfway back of the bus. Most of them probably speak better English than you do, she wanted to say. "Are you a member of the San Francisco club?" she asked, wondering why an organization would select a man like this to represent them. "No ma'am. Sort of a last-minute replacement, you might say. The' guy originally scheduled had a family emergency this morning and called me, real frantic. I'm a neighbor, a native Californian," he said as if that automatically qualified him. "Any time you run out of anything to say, I'll be glad to takeover." I'll bet, Christy thought and decided that between the two of them the Japanese guests might well wish they'd remained in San Francisco for the day. The man moved to the back of the bus and slumped in his seat, displaying a bored expression as she began to describe their first stop, the Armstrong Redwoods State Park. Now standing here under the magnificent trees, she knew she would have to try extra hard to counteract the man's disturbing presence. "These Sequoia sempervirens thrive in the misty coastal climate and often grow three hundred feet high with a diameter of twenty feet. One tree can furnish enough lumber to build a house," she said. Mr. Haley waggled a hand at her. "Gotcha there," he said. "Everybody knows the largest redwood is the General Sherman Tree, thirty-six feet in diameter." Christy's listeners shifted uncomfortably. "Of course, sir," Christy said politely. "But the General Sherman Tree belongs to the Sequoia gigantea species found inland in the Sierras." Mr. Haley looked at her with a mirthless grin. "Just seein' if you were on your toes," he said. Christy told the group they had fifteen more minutes before departure time, and they quickly scattered along the spongy paths, snapping pictures and asking questions in subdued voices, clearly awed by the majesty of their surroundings. Mrs. Takahashi, a petite white-haired lady, walked beside her, and they stopped to admire the ferns that carpeted the forest floor. The woman named several varieties, then pointed out a broad-leafed clover and delicate oxalis among the few plants that could survive in the dense shade. "I taught botany in Los Angeles before I retired to Osaka," she explained at Christy's look of surprise. She patted Christy's arm. "Don't mind that Mr. Haley. You're an excellent guide," she said. One of the men touched the thick fibrous bark. "Good insulation, isn't it?" "Yes, that's why redwoods survive fire, disease and insects better than any other species, a prime reason for their long life." She could use some survival insulation herself, Christy thought as she herded her charges back on the bus and saw Mr. Haley edge into the front seat so that the couple who formerly sat there started to move toward the back. "Please take my place," Christy hastily offered. "I stand to lecture, anyway." Oh, Lord what would that awful man do next? Not only did she feel upset by his actions, but her mind still churned with the distressing coincidence of the trial and Ryan's interview falling on the same day. Already she felt ill at the thought of breaking the news to Mark tonight, but she forced a smile and continued her lecture as the bus headed for the next stop, Luther Burbank's home and gardens. "This wizard of horticulture created and improved more than eight hundred plants. Perhaps the most famous are the Shasta daisy and Burbank potato." To her relief, Haley fell asleep and remained on the bus while everyone got off to view Luther Burbank's plain two-story white house set among many of the new plant strains he bred. Everyone returned promptly at the end of the allotted time, chatting about the big spineless edible cactus Burbank took years to develop. Now they left Santa Rosa, traveling eastward, and entered the narrow Valley

of the Moon, so named by the American author Jack London. Sleek cattle grazed behind white fences, and acres of young vineyards crept up the hillsides, encroaching on prune and walnut orchards. It seemed obvious that before many years California's burgeoning wine industry would take over the entire valley. "Tired of cities and people, Jack London yearned for a quiet place in the country to write," Christy told her listeners. "He found this beautiful little valley and at one time owned fourteen hundred acres of it. According to his writings he reveled in the year-round springs and streams, the grassy meadows, the deep canyons and woodlands. However, this restless man tried to create a model ranch and spent thousands of dollars testing agricultural theories, attempting to improve farm practices." Several times Mr. Haley raised an arm as if about to interrupt her. Perhaps if she ignored him, she could keep him at bay. Again he stayed on the bus while everyone else hiked down the woodsy path that wound among oak, madrone and fir to view the remains of Jack London's dream home, Wolf House. Only the ghostly frame of the stone mansion remained. It burned down only a few days before Jack London and his wife, Charmain, were to move into it. The Japanese took enough pictures to make a documentary and scrambled through the ruins, counting the many fireplaces and inspecting the fireproof vault that was to house London's manuscripts, then hiked back to the House of Happy Walls, which contained exhibits and photographs of the author's life and adventures. The site was now a state park, and Christy invited the group to sit at picnic tables to eat their box lunches. "Why did you waste all this time carting everyone way up here?" Haley asked in his grating voice as everyone got back on the bus. "I'll bet these folks never heard of this guy." "On the contrary, sir," little Mrs. Takahashi spoke up. "Translations of Jack London's books are found in our university libraries. He is popular in our country, as well as in Europe, especially his Sea Wolf. You've read it, of course?" Haley's face grew red. He slumped in his seat and stared out the window. Touched Christy thought and flashed a grateful smile at Mrs. Takahashi, then sat down next to him. Something had to be done about this obnoxious man. "You're making this trip uncomfortable for all of us," she said quietly. "I can assure you I have reliable sources for all of my facts, so please don't make any more comments." Christy had never talked to anyone so bluntly. It wasn't that difficult to say what had to be said, she discovered and she wished she'd done it earlier. The man glowered darkly during the half-hour ride to the Napa Valley, where they would begin their wine tour. When the bus made a stop at a traffic light, he stood up. "Okay, Miss Know-It-All, the wine country is my speciality, but I'm catching a Greyhound back to San Francisco, and believe me, the right people are gonna hear about this." The man got off in dead silence. Christy gripped her notes and stared straight ahead, mortified by the rudeness. She'd not handled the situation well, after all. Perhaps she should have allowed the man to take over as he wanted. Someone would have to be recruited to accompany the group back to San Francisco. What would Mark think? Nevertheless, she was relieved, and so, she perceived, were the visitors. At least, they laughed and chatted with far more abandon. Now they entered the slender Napa Valley, often spoken of as Wine Country, U.S.A. not without reason. A sea of green vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see across the flat valley floor up the swell of the land to the high rugged hills that framed the border. "Over fifty wineries are concentrated here, many among the most prestigious in California: Krug, Inglenook, Beaulieu and Beringer to name but a few - all with free tasting rooms." Christy explained that the climatic conditions were so consistent here that every season could be considered a vintage year. "During autumn the grape leaves turn a flaming red and many shades of yellow, rivaling New England's fall foliage."

Each winery had its own distinctive architectural style. She pointed out handsome contemporary buildings, as well as a German Rhine house, a Victorian mansion and a few that looked like the early California missions. So that the group might see the inner workings of a winery, Christy arranged to stop at the Christian Brothers monasterylike Greystone Cellars. With relief she turned her charges over to the enthusiastic guide, and they trailed him through the rows of huge casks redolent with the aroma of aging wine. They viewed the crushing area and bottling process, then were invited into the tasting room to freely sample wines, starting with the dry whites through hearty reds and ending with the sweet after-dinner varieties. It was late afternoon when they boarded the aerial tramcars that took them to the hilltop Sterling Winery, where the catered dinner would be served. Now they swung high above the valley to look down on a breathtaking mosaic of vineyards. At the summit everyone gathered in the courtyard, where the air was fragrant with the scent of blossoms from potted orange and lemon trees. Christy dismissed the group with thanks for their attention, and the indefatigable Japanese scattered to take the self-guided tour or to relax in the tasting room. Christy thought what an enjoyable day it could have been if it weren't for the abrasive Mr. Haley. Wearily she climbed steps up to the main building, thinking of the bombshell she must drop later this evening. A moment later Mrs. Takahashi caught up with her and pressed a small box into her hand. "Today was the highlight of my entire trip," she said, and scurried back to her husband before Christy had time to thank her. Christy shut her eyes against sudden burning, then opened the box to find a lovely cultured-pearl lapel pin. The Japanese were known for their gift giving, but this gesture seemed generous and special. Perhaps the tour had not been a disaster, after all. On one side of the building she found a secluded outdoor deck where she hoped to claim a few minutes' solitude. The place hung among treetops over a steep hillside, giving the sensation of resting in a tree house. Below, the vineyards blurred under the rosy haze of sunset. It seemed as if the ominous aspects of the upcoming trial might lose their impact when matched against the sight, but her mind clung to the evening ahead. Did everyone allow himself to react to life as she did, turning herself into headquarters for everyone else's problems? Faint strains of music drifted around her, and she recognized the C Minor Schumann Quartet. Ryan and the other musicians were warming up for their program this evening. When Ryan had been asked to provide music for this event, he wanted Christy on piano, but on learning the rehearsal schedule, she worried about leaving Carol with the baby-sitter the four consecutive evenings that were planned. She discussed it with Mark, hoping he might volunteer a couple of times. "I'm afraid it's a busy week for me, too," he said. "I have overnight trips scheduled out of town. Anyway, haven't you taken on enough with this tour thing? You shouldn't overdo." I'm working on the tour for you, Mark. I want to join the quartet for me, she thought. "Everything is set for the tour. The music is no hardship. I'd love to doit." "I don't know, Christy. Are you sure you want to get so involved again? Especially now?" Involved? So her music rankled after all. "Surely you don't consider this little program in the same category as the months we spent on Catherina?" "Of course not, but we didn't have Carol then." "I don't think it would hurt Carol to have Mrs. Baker stay with her the four evenings. I'm with her all day." "Of course not, but you're not facing facts if you think it amounts to a few days. I know O'Rourke. Considering the caliber of the group, he'll probably book the ensemble for every organization in town. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he set up a subscription series and arranged a tour to Europe."

"Don't get carried away," she said. "That's an exaggeration and you know it." "I know that O'Rourke is a promoter." "Suppose I promise to play for this event only?" Mark sighed. "This means a lot to you, doesn't it? I wonder if you'd feel as enthusiastic if the quartet didn't include O'Rourke?" "Probably not," Christy said. "One doesn't often get to work with a man of his talent." "Go ahead, then, but don't say I didn't warn you." A wave of coolness flowed between them. His acquiescence seemed to underline more clearly his disapproval. But she went ahead and lined up Mrs. Baker, then the day before the first rehearsal the woman canceled out because of unexpected house-guests. Unable to find anyone else who could promise the four evenings, she called Ryan and explained. He came up with several impossible suggestions, then finally accepted her refusal. "I'm really disappointed. This is your cup of tea, darlin'. I can get a professional accompanist I recently met, but he's not half the musician you are. Actually I hoped we might make this a regular thing." Ryan went on. "We could specialize in nineteenth-century music, earn ourselves a reputation as a performing group, maybe even proposition Rockledge to let us present a few master classes in ensemble playing." Christy had to smile. She would never mention that conversation to Mark. She listened intently now to the rich harmony of the music, anticipating the difficult passage a few measures ahead, and wished profoundly she were a member of the quartet tonight. Performing in a chamber group allowed no room for prima donnas. Tonal balance and unity of intent were the prime concerns. For her, playing in such an ensemble always became a thoroughly satisfying musical experience. But she must forgo it now, as well as in the immediate future. Stepmothering took precedence. But in spite of her disappointment, she knew she would choose the well-being of a small child over her own selfish concerns. And it was all worth it if it would add to the small gains that came all too seldom in their tenuous relationship. The aerial tramway now was in continual motion. In the distance she watched the little cars swing on the cable like a string of baubles as they brought up the San Felipe Rotary Club members and their wives. Christy slipped in a side entrance and found a powder room to freshen her appearance. The banquet hall filled rapidly now, and the Rotar-ians mingled in friendly conversation with their Japanese visitors. Arrangements of grape leaves and candles formed centerpieces on the tables with a gift box of wine for each guest. Christy scanned the room for Mark and saw him talking with Mrs. Takahashi and her husband. Nearby, Ryan and his fellow musicians arranged stands on a platform and began the kind of incidental music meant to remain a pleasant unobtrusive ingredient for the occasion. Mark gave her a wave of recognition, lifted two glasses of white wine from a passing waiter's tray and headed toward her. A look of concern replaced his smile. "You look pale, Christy. Did you have a rough day?" "A few problems, but I think it turned out okay." "Everyone had been telling me how much they enjoyed your tour. So what problems?" She explained the difficulties with Mr. Haley. "I'm afraid I blew it. I asked him to stop heckling me, and he took off. Will that cause complications for the return trip?" "Not at all. The driver is all that's necessary tonight. I'm sorry you had to put up with that clod. I knew something was wrong. Was that what upset you?" The perfect moment to tell him about the attorney's early-morning call, but the very thought of spoiling the evening at this point terrified her. Instead

she showed him the lapel pin. "It matches the earrings you gave me," she said and touched the pearls in her ears. His eyes glinted an acknowledgment of, and at the same time dismissed, the intimate evening when he had presented them to her. No doubt he preferred to forget. Two of the Japanese couples sat at their table and were full of compliments about the interesting day planned by the beautiful and knowledgeable Mrs. Brandon. She glanced at the menu: shrimp cocktail, tossed green salad, hot sourdough bread, steak, baked potato with sour cream and fresh strawberry sundae - a typical California meal arranged for the foreign guests. A golden dry Chenin Blanc was served with the cocktail and a full-bodied Cabernet Sauvignon with the entr6e. But she had no appetite for the dinner, nor could she fully enjoy the music and jovial toasts that followed, knowing she couldn't put off her unhappy announcement much longer. The evening came to a close at last, and Mark and Christy strolled over to compliment the musicians. Christy felt thankful Ryan didn't repeat his regrets that she couldn't participate. Mark soon would have enough to rile him. "And does the court have us on the calendar yet, Mark?" Ryan asked, unknowingly providing an opening. "No," Mark said. "I don't expect the trial will come up until next month." Christy cleared her throat. "Your attorney called this morning, Mark. The case is arranged for Friday, after all." "Great!" Mark said. "I'm anxious to get it over with." A weight lodged itself in Christy's chest while she waited for Ryan's response. His smile vanished. "I'm afraid that lets me out," he said. "What on earth are you talking about?" Mark cried. "Precisely that. I have an interview in Los Angeles that day. I won't cancel it." "Any appointment can be broken when one has to appear in court." "Not this one." "My God, man, you're my only witness!" "Well, court dates can be changed, too. Obviously this one was. Call your attorney. Take a deposition." "I'm certain it's too late. You know legal process. Do you realize I haven't a chance without your testimony?" "And I think you're stewing for nothing." "That's easy for you to say. You're not the defendant in this case." Ryan threw up his hands. "This interview is a onetime chance for me. I'm not going to blow it. Either you get a postponement or do without me." "I can have you subpoenaed." "Don't threaten me, Brandon." Christy put her hand on Mark's arm. "Please talk to your lawyer. We can't ask Ryan to give up this appointment. His only chance at a marvelous job is at stake. Surely you can understand that." Mark glared down at her. Whose side are you on, he plainly asked. Christy shut her eyes to hold back the tears. Ryan glanced at her and uncharacteristically lapsed into silence. "I'm sure something can be arranged," Christy said finally to break the tension, knowing full well that nothing could. The men nodded briefly as if barely acquainted. Ryan went to pick up his cello, and Christy and Mark walked to the platform to board a tramcar. She hugged the window as they glided down over treetops to the starlit landscape below. The shadowy interior didn't quite obscure Mark's stricken face. She wanted to reach for his hand and offer some word of encouragement, but his countenance forbade the intrusion. On the ride home they hardly spoke. Empathy for both men welled up inside her. If the loss of the suit wiped out Mark's business, she shared his agony.

But, like Ryan, she could not believe a judge would award the astronomical sum when Mark's company observed every safety precaution, even though Mark regaled her with similar cases where the defendant lost. Didn't the tie-in with Douglas Enterprises mean anything? Considering the circumstances, surely Sam Douglas would come to the rescue. But she knew only too well that Mark Brandon would despise having to be bailed out by anyone. She went over every facet, seeking a solution. As the car pulled up to their town house, an idea began to form. There was one action she might take. She was no King Solomon, but just maybe she could resolve this impossible predicament. CHAPTER TWENTY

THEY ARRIVED HOME around eleven o'clock. While Mark took Mrs. Baker home, Christy quickly called Aunt Martha. "Darling, is anything wrong?" Aunt Martha cried. "Nothing to alarm you, dear aunt. It's just that we're in a bind, and you may be able to help." Christy poured out the details of the lawsuit and Ryan's essential role as a witness versus his opportunity to interview for the position at Rockledge. "So if you haven't already guessed, I'm asking if you might call your friend, Ida Travener, and see if she is willing to exert some pressure on the university committee to change Ryan's interview. Believe me, I wouldn't ask such a favor if I didn't believe Ryan O'Rourke the perfect director." Then she described Mark's concern over the effectiveness of his case without the presence of his key witness. She hurriedly concluded with a breathless recital of Ryan's considerable qualifications. She wanted to complete this conversation before Mark returned. "Good heavens, I didn't know there were any men around like that anymore! Who is he? Some friend of yours?" "Just about the best friend I ever had," Christy said impulsively. "you've ever had?" Darn. Aunt Martha never missed a nuance. "I can't go into that now. The point is, time is crucial. The trial date, as well as the interview, is the day after tomorrow." "I'll call the first thing in the morning. I don't understand the university acting so inflexibly." "Probably part of the screening process. They can't bend for every Tom, Dick and Harry. I assure you, though, if they knew Ryan, they'd bend over backward to accommodate him." "My goodness, Christy, I've never heard you so rhapsodic about anyone. He must be something! I'd like to meet him." "I'll arrange it. I guarantee you two will adore each other. And whether it works out or not, please don't tell anyone I asked this favor. Promise?" "I'll be discreet, darling. But Ida may be on one of her frequent jaunts to Europe. If I can reach her, I'll twist her arm." Twisting an arm was Aunt Martha's forte. If only the peripatetic Mrs. Travener would be home to the call. MARK SAID LITTLE the next morning, his mind clearly not on breakfast. He seemed far away in some remote lonely place. Talk to me, Mark, Christy silently pleaded. My heart aches for you. Let me share your worries, your thoughts, all that bothers you. A few minutes later she heard him speaking quietly on the hall telephone. The conversation went on for some time. Then he came back to the table. "That was Ryan," he said. "We tried to put something together that might work for both of us." Thank God, Christy thought. She felt a rush of affection for both of them. "What is the plan?" "Petition the court to see if Ryan may be called as the first defense

witness tomorrow morning. If the court allows it, he will testify, then fly to L.A. in a private plane. He's making the arrangements with a pilot friend today. I'll pick up the tab, of course." Christy couldn't organize her thoughts. They flew off in all directions with dozens of unanswered questions. "Is there a chance that will work?" she asked finally. "About one in a million, but we have to take it." "But doesn't the plaintiff always appear first?" "Yes, and I don't see how Ryan can be called to the stand much before noon, but we can hope. He must leave by eleven in order to make the interview." Christy's spirits plunged. "It's like Ryan to try for impossible odds, but I think he's gone too far this time. Oh, Mark, do you think we ought to let him do it?" Mark's jaw tightened. "It's his decision. He's doing it for you, of course." "For you, too, in spite of what you believe. Oh, why won't he call the university and try to talk them into giving him another appointment? I know they issued what seemed to be an ultimatum, but Ryan can be very persuasive when he wants." "His secretary already called." "His secretary!" Lord, just the gravelly sound of Harriet Pitkin's voice could turn someone off. "Oh, God. I can't stand it. He'll be devastated if he misses that interview." Mark's face clouded, and he looked suddenly weary. "You know, Christy, I have the impression you're more concerned about O'Rourke's job than mine. If this suit wipes us out, I'm not certain about my position, either." Christy didn't feel up to arguing the point. She still felt Mark exaggerated his risk, but she understood his drive to succeed. She met his eyes and knew hers were wet. "How can you believe I'm not concerned for you, Mark? This entire situation is heartbreaking any way one looks at it. I feel empathy for you both. I can't help it." "Well, considering events have just favored my case slightly, you look rather unhappy." Frustration engulfed her. Why try to explain? Mark maintained a blind spot regarding anything to do with Ryan. She felt starved for the communication they never achieved. All she could do now was to hope Aunt Martha's actions were fruitful. But although she stayed home the entire afternoon, skipping a promised trip to the park with Carol, no word came. Mark called around three. "Let's go out to dinner and a movie. I don't want to sit around the house all evening and think about the trial." She readily acquiesced. She didn't want to think about it, either, nor did she want to suffer through the evening hoping in vain for reassuring news, which at this late hour probably wouldn't come, anyway. She called Mrs. Baker and made plans to leave Carol all night and during the court appearance the next day. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHRISTY AND MARK hurried up the courthouse steps. Christy's throat felt dry, and the tense grip of Mark's hand at her elbow communicated his own emotional state. The early-morning sunshine highlighted the warm colors of potted geraniums in the rotunda, stirring an atmosphere of cheerfulness they could not share. They climbed the marble stairway to the second floor and walked down the long hallway with its access, to the various courtrooms. The civil court where their case was scheduled was not yet open. A few people assembled near the entrance, while others gathered in little groups to converse in hushed tones. An aura of apprehension permeated the place. Mark went over to speak to one of his witnesses, a safety inspector, while

Christy scanned the hall for Ryan. She dreaded meeting him this morning. Apparently her scheme had failed, and she felt certain the split-second timing needed for Mark's and Ryan's plan had no chance to succeed, either. How would Ryan behave then? Ryan was a fine actor. His attitude no doubt would turn flip, and Mark would say, "You see, this job was no big deal for O'Rourke, after all." But Christy knew how cleverly Ryan masked pain. There were times when she caught the depth of feeling behind his cavalier actions. She saw it when he spoke of the tragic death of the girl he planned to marry. He carried scars of guilt like her own over Davy. Their common anguish gave an insight that Mark could never comprehend. She glanced now at Mark. His face was taut and a little pale as he spoke to the small circle of people around him. What stress he must have endured the past few weeks! She ached to touch him, to say some word that would comfort or show support. But she was not sure that was what he wanted from her. He always seemed so self-contained. He caught her look of concern and returned to her side. She laid her hand on his arm. "I'm saying a prayer a minute." "Better double that." "Chin up, it says in the book." "I may need a prop when this is over." "Ready and waiting," Christy said. He suddenly noticed her pearl earrings. She'd put them on for luck this morning. Their eyes caught and held, and the way his briefly glinted she felt certain that he recalled the night he gave them to her. Without a word he pulled her arm through his and wove their fingers together. A feeling of strength flowed between them. This will not happen again, she thought. Tomorrow the reserve will return. But now he needs me. The sensation was one to cherish. Mark's attorney strode over to join them. "There's a delay," he said. "Will you come with me, Mark? The plaintiff and his attorney wish to meet with us. Mrs. Brandon, you may as well go get yourself a cup of coffee. No need to return before eleven o'clock." Eleven o'clock! There was no way Ryan would have time to testify now unless he decided not to?,o. Well, they must not allow him to do that. She walked dispiritedly down the hall to the stairway and met Ryan running up two at a time. He grabbed her in a bear hug and set her down against the railing. The wide grin on his face told it all. "Get those worry lines off your face. Everything's okay!" he cried. "I tried to get in touch last night, but no one home. The university called and postponed the interview until Saturday. Something about a representative from the Travener estate who couldn't make it until then." Her eyes filled with tears of relief. "Oh, Ryan!" "The luck of the Irish," he said. "I hope it rubs off on Mark." "Don't worry, darlin'. I'm in top form after that good news. I could even take on Goliath this morning." His elation didn't erase her concern for Mark. "I'm counting on you, Ryan," she said gravely and explained the delay. They went to the cafe across the street and ordered coffee and sweet rolls. Ryan talked as exuberantly about Rockledge as if he were already in charge. He spread out a paper napkin and sketched an outline of the buildings, designating how each would be used. He had prepared a large detailed chart illustrating his ideas to take with him, he said. She visualized Ryan presenting it to the committee. He would be completely in charge, and if he didn't impress them with his background and creative ideas, he surely would overwhelm them with his enthusiasm. She listened with admiration, amusement and no little apprehension. Top talent from all over the United States would compete for this position. Suppose he didn't win it? How would a man like Ryan, accustomed as he was to success, accept rejection if that should happen? For that matter, she could ask the same question about

Mark if the trial went against him. Mark entered the coffee shop then and walked straight to their table. He didn't smile, but his eyes seemed to reach out for her in a way that made her breath catch. "It's over," he said, pulled out a chair and sat down. The relief on his face was as tangible as sunlight. "Over?" Christy and Ryan chorused incredulously. "Yes. The plaintiff settled out of court. His lawyer approached ours yesterday with an offer, but the terms weren't finalized until this morning." "Is that good?" Christy asked. "Saved our lives. Boggs finally asked only for doctor bills and a token amount for pain and suffering. Our insurance man is ecstatic." Christy felt anesthetized, as if the release from anxiety elevated her into a kind of euphoria. Ryan did not quite hide an I-told-you-so grin. "Great! I knew that Boggs was a fraud, all bluff. What made him change his mind?" "I'm not sure," Mark said. "Maybe his attorney pointed out that he didn't have a strong case. Or it might have been the fact that the trial date was moved up sooner with a different judge than expected. Apparently Boggs appeared before this same judge a few weeks ago for drunk driving." "I still can't believe it," Christy said. Mark rose. "I'll call a taxi for you, O'Rourke. Do you still have enough time to make that flight to Los Angeles?" "Not a chance," Ryan said cheerfully. "But not to worry." He made explanations and the men shook hands. "I guess you know how much your cooperation meant to us," Mark said. "If this case had come to trial, I believe we'd have lost without you." Ryan grasped both hands above his head in a victory gesture. "Just call me indispensable." "Good luck on your interview tomorrow," Christy said and thought how inadequately the ordinary phrase conveyed her high hopes for him. His brashness gave way to the earnest expression that appeared at any mention of Rockledge. "Thanks," he said. "And if you two have any giant-size old miracles sitting around gathering dust, I'd appreciate your shining 'em up and sending them along with me." They parted then. Ryan went back to his school, and Mark drove Christy home. "Speaking of miracles, I could use a few of those recycled phenomena myself if I'm to get through the next couple of months." "I suppose your work piled up while you got sidetracked on the lawsuit?" She encouraged him to unburden himself about his problems, but he only nodded. Mark seemed hounded by pressure. Still, it wasn't pressure itself, but the way one reacted to it that affected a person in the long run. What went on inside that wavy auburn head? She wished she knew. She longed for the rare communication that passed between them this morning when he noticed the earrings. At that moment a special feeling moved between them. She recalled it with a strong pang of tenderness, then felt despair at its transience. Too many realities hassled it. Too many priorities breathed on it. Their particular alliance allowed no space for it to flourish. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

IT WASN'T THAT Ryan had an angel sitting on his shoulder, or that he owned any special attribute that counted as luck, Christy mused as she caught up on her housework. He simply made it a point to stay ahead of the crowd when it came to identifying an opportunity. Take Alicia Salisbury, for instance, the stunning woman Christy had met in Ryan's office just an hour ago. Consumed with curiosity at the outcome of his interview last Saturday, she took Carol and walked down to school at noon early the following week when Miss Pitkin normally took her lunch hour. Christy felt she'd rather face a

squad of armed guards than one chilling glance from Ryan's protective secretary. To her relief Harriet's chair was empty, and Ryan came out of his inner office with an unusually striking woman. Dressed in an Ultrasuede black pantsuit and a fox-fur jacket, the auburn-haired young woman hardly looked the usual school parent. Ryan made introductions, then explained: "Miss Salisbury is taking on some public-relations work for Rockledge, and I'm assisting her with a few northern California contacts. Wait around if you are in no hurry. I'll return in a minute. I'm just going to walk Alicia out to her car." Alicia? So he was on a first-name basis with the public-relations person already. Ryan certainly worked fast. The interview occurred only three days ago. Did that mean he'd got the job? Surely the appointment hadn't been announced so soon. The few minutes' wait extended to almost a half hour, and Christy sent the impatient Carol outside to play on the swings. When Ryan strode in at last, he seemed to ignore her at first. He picked up a pad, made some notations, then stared at them without moving. Christy fidgeted. "Ryan, remember me? I'm your nosy friend who is absolutely dying to hear about everything that happened in L.A." He came over to lean across the counter from her. "Sorry, darlin'. My mind was up with a construction crew at Rockledge." "That's obvious. But how did your interview go?" "On a scale of one to ten, I'd award myself a solid ten," he said immodestly. "But who knows? The committee won't announce its choice until sometime in June. Until then I must twiddle my thumbs and wait." "But Ryan, if you are working with their public-relations people at this point, things look mighty favorable." "Oh, that was my idea. I still can't get over seeing Alicia after allthese years. I told you about her. Remember Alicia Travener, Ida Travener's granddaughter? We were classmates in college. You know my weakness for redheads. She's just been through a devastating divorce and is anxious to get her teeth into something demanding. Tickled pink when her grandmother asked her to take on the job." "You mean she was on the selection committee?" "Oh, no. Apparently Mrs. Travener wanted a personal representative sitting in on my interview. I was lucky to draw Alicia. What a coincidence!" No coincidence, Christy thought, but she'd never tell him. She gave silent thanks for an aunt like Martha. "So you renewed your acquaintance?" "Sure did. We had a ball talking over old times. She lives in Berkeley now, so I invited her to come up and offered to introduce her to some of the VIPS in the area, symphony conductors, a couple of the local college presidents and some heads of music and drama departments whom I know. I'm going to drive her up to Rockledge next weekend and explain all my innovative ideas on the spot." Alicia Salisbury wasted no time and to her credit, Christy thought. "I hope this proves a good omen, but don't tell Miss Pitkin. She might put a hex on that glamorous lady." Ryan didn't say anything for a few seconds. "No chance. She resigned," he said abruptly. "What?" Christy could hardly believe the news. Ryan frowned. "Very odd, actually. I recall that you had an intuitive feeling about her. Last Friday afternoon I found the long-lost letter to Sierra University, along with your note, both sealed in a manila envelope in my personal file. When I confronted her with them, she went completely to pieces. Monday her resignation was on my desk, said she was needed to care for an elderly relative. Now why would Pitkin pull a trick like that?" "She adored you, Ryan. You can't blame her for going to any length to keep you here.' * "But why didn't she just burn up the letters? Why leave them where I'd find them?" Christy couldn't answer. She felt sudden compassion for the woman. Moreover,

who could predict the actions of the lonely Miss Pitkins of the world? Harriet Pitkin wanted Ryan to find that envelope. It carried the poignant message she could not bring herself to verbalize. "I love you. I can't let you go," it said and laid naked her dream that such an admission would awake similar emotions in Ryan. Ryan muttered something about how he couldn't imagine a woman of incomparable loyalty behaving in such an irrational manner, then changed the subject. "I'd like to get the quartet going again," he said. "I think the Schumann went well at the banquet. The only improvement would be to have you on piano, darlin'." Christy wanted it so much she could feel her fingers tingle at the prospect, but the timing wasn't right. She wanted to be available if Mark showed any need for her. "Thanks, but not now," she said. "Well, I'll drop some music by one of these days. Maybe you'll change your mind." She and Carol walked home then, detouring to pick up Robbie to come play for the afternoon. Now Christy looked out the window to check on the children on the grassy hillside immediately below. They were building a fort out of a stack of firewood. Since meeting at Carol's birthday party, they frequently played together. Christy wondered at the quiet way they worked. With few words exchanged and a system of body movements or perhaps some extrasensory perception, they seemed to achieve perfect communication. Every time Christy met Carol's distant blue eyes, she longed for the gift herself. But it was natural for children to feel threatened by stepparents, the books said. Well, it was getting more and more difficult to remember that. She often felt thin-skinned and rubbed raw, but she determined not to show it. Beyond the dandelion-spangled hill the city's checkerboard panorama glistened in the afternoon sunlight. In the distance a chemical plant flung a filmy white scarf skyward, and next to the plant was the rental center where Mark worked in his office. Not only did he work there all day, but now, most evenings, as well, except for the occasions when they entertained clients. Then they both slipped into the habitual facade they practiced for such affairs. During the short time Mark had managed the San Felipe headquarters, he had developed eighteen new franchises in the western states, far outdistancing Western Rental Services, their newest competitor. No wonder he'd been elected Businessman of the Year. Probably Sam Douglas would crow about his husband-and-wife-team theory for developing small businesses, but Christy knew Mark would have succeeded in any circumstances, perhaps even more without the turmoil she had added to his life. He spent hours with each new dealer, figuring amounts and varieties of equipment suitable for the particular area in terms of industrial, agricultural or home-owner needs. Then he set up the bookkeeping method appropriate for the particular office and sent an experienced consultant to work with the new owner during his opening weeks, and finally followed with his own visit to each plant. Now he had the additional work of preparing estimates for the Australian investors. As Christy watched him pore over the numerous brochures and pamphlets from the far continent, it seemed to her that he hungered with a kind of desperation for that new horizon. One evening Christy watched as he prepared to return to the office. She felt touched by the weary slope of his shoulders. "Why don't you work here, Mark? Isn't it tedious to make so many trips? I'll not play the piano. Carol and I will fade into the woodwork. I promise." He shuffled through the recent accumulation of Australian folders on the coffee table and put most of them into his briefcase. "I'd prefer to stay here, of course, but since Carol arrived, I have moved everything down to the office. It's easier to work where everything is at hand." He seemed to consider a moment. "I guess it isn't fair to leave Carol with you every night.

Why don't you get a sitter and go back to your drama group?" Christy shook her head. "They won't start another show until school's out. Anyway, I told them I wouldn't be available as long as Carol is with us." His eyebrows lifted. "Oh? Somehow I thought a new show was in the offing. I gather O'Rourke comes around rather frequently." His tone implied something more than he said. She wondered how she always got put on the defensive. Carol adored Ryan's little visits, and of course, it was she who shared the information with her father. "Ryan does stop by for a few minutes occasionally on his way home from school," she said. "He and Carol have struck up quite a friendship. He's very good with children. After all, that's what he's trained for. I'm afraid I haven't managed too well, and Ryan has really been helpful." Mark frowned as if dissecting vague antagonisms. "I see," he said evenly. "Well, let's not overdo it." Overdo what, she thought. There it was again, some petty quality that thrust itself between them, altering the atmosphere and even the words they exchanged. Still, it was natural for Mark to feel guilt over the small amount of time he was able to spend with his little daughter, so resentment over sharing his father role with Ryan would follow. Obviously Mark was not jealous over her own friendship with Ryan. She looked at a pictorial folder of Australian cities left on the table. It was like a shout in the room. Did it represent a place for him to make a fresh start with Darcy and Carol? "By the way," Mark said as he prepared to leave. "Sam Douglas will arrive on Friday. We're going to spend the weekend going over machinery-cost estimates for the Australian bid." "Invite him to dinner, of course," Christy said. Mark suddenly looked embarrassed. "We can go out. I hear that new restaurant at the Giacometti Winery is good." "And not use the Super Sam System on the founder himself? Oh, no, Mark, we can't do that to Mr. Douglas." "I know how he enjoys a home-cooked meal, if it isn't too much for you," he said stiffly. "No problem. I feel like an old pro now. And don't worry, I'll not get too involved with my usual gourmet folderol." He fumbled with his briefcase and seemed too preoccupied to acknowledge the gibe about her cooking. "By the way, please don't mention our Australian plans to anyone. If Western Rental hears about it, they would stop at nothing to get in on the deal. The scuttlebutt is they're looking for a foreign market to bolster their shaky financial status." "Well, of course. Whom would I tell? I know very little about it, anyway." It was no impudent boast that she felt confident in inviting the chief himself for dinner. She'd earned her assurance during the past months of frequent entertaining. On the other hand, it would have been more truthful to follow Mark's suggestion. Why should they pretend for Sam Douglas's benefit? Wouldn't it be kinder to foreshadow the future with some painful realities? Nevertheless, she gave a lot of thought to the dinner and planned a menu that would survive late arrivals, as well as one that included some of Mark's favorite dishes. She laughed a little at the lists and memorandums she left around for herself, as well as the detailed schedule she'd written to organize her time. You're not trying to pass a bar examination, old girl, she chided. Oh, yes, you are, she acknowledged and knew how fiercely she desired Sam's and Mark's approval. BY MIDAPTERNOON of the day Sam Douglas was to arrive, the house was spotless and dinner preparations had gone flawlessly. She looked around with satisfaction. The crystal gleamed on a pale yellow cloth, and a bouquet of marguerites formed a sunny centerpiece. The room seemed almost to purr like a contented cat.

Carol, just up from a nap, came over to stare at the table. "Who's coming?" she asked fretfully. Christy took in the petulance on the small face. "My goodness, you look like the brownie that put soap in the soup. Don't you feel well?" "My head hurts," she said and felt it as if to make sure. "Who's coming?" she repeated. "Mr. Douglas. He's the president of your daddy's company. You met him a long time ago. We want everything to be extra nice for his visit. I know you'll help keep things tidy." Think positive. Carol's mouth drooped. "Why can't Mr. O'Rourke come?" "Because your daddy has invited Mr. Douglas, and it will be his first visit to our house." Christy felt apprehensive. A contrary child she did not need at this point. Carol's stubborn little chin seemed to challenge Christy's tolerance. "Then, can Robbie come to dinner?" "Not this time," Christy said firmly. "Your daddy and Mr. Douglas have important business to discuss." Carol squeezed a tear and seemed suddenly to shrink into an abused waif. Christy supposed children could sense tension and reacted according to their own special set of genes. "Why don't you go outside and play in the sandbox? Maybe the fresh air will make your head feel better," Christy said kindly and felt Carol's forehead. It seemed no warmer than normal after nap time. "There's no one to play with. I want to go to the park," Carol whined. "I don't have time to take you to the park, and you may not go alone because I care about your safety. We'll go tomorrow." Carol stamped a foot. "You don't like me! My mommy would let Robbie and Mr. O'Rourke come to the party." Christy calculated the remaining chores. "I have time to read you a story, then you can paint some pictures for your daddy and Mr. Douglas. I think that would make a nice surprise for them." It was true that Mark's daughter showed talent. When Christy first discovered it, she bought an easel and helped Carol mix the calcimine paint. The child had a natural feeling for color, and her drawings were often imaginative. Carol pulled at her lower lip and debated for a moment, then went rather sullenly to choose a book. Apparently Darcy had neglected this facet of her daughter's life, but Christy cherished the story time as a kind of link, albeit fragile, that allowed the only genuine rapport they shared. Carol would sit next to her, almost touching, and listen with an expression of intense and dazzled interest. When the tale was over, she still wanted to discuss it, to look at the pictures again, to poke and prod at it as if it were a tantalizing package. Christy's morale soared during these sessions, but afterward some cooling process seemed to set in, and Carol went off to put the book away with insulting speed. Much later, Christy was to wonder what wretched fate caused Carol to select the story of a witch who caused hated persons and objects to disappear simply by painting a heavy black line around them. Christy read the story, her mind preoccupied with dinner preparations. Today Carol listened without comment, then obediently went to her room to paint. Christy felt relieved that the little girl seemed almost herself once more. Patience, she reminded herself. Everyone gets moody. Ryan had explained it one night at rehearsal after an actor blew a scene. "When the biorhythmic cycle is disturbed, one's poise takes a dive," he'd lectured. She scurried to form rolls from the plump ball of yeast dough, then set them in a warm place to rise. Mark had mentioned Sam's penchant for homemade bread. Then she spooned marinade over beef kabobs skewered alternately with tomatoes, mushrooms and peppers. With a pitcher of martinis placed in the refrigerator, she was ready at last in exact accord with her schedule.

Meanwhile Robbie had come to play, and Christy smiled at the zest with which Carol told him the witch story. They went outside to the sandbox, and Christy hurried to shower and dress. With time to spare, she longed to snatch a few minutes' rest. The way her back ached she needed to get off her feet for a while. Drowsily she heard childish laughter ricochet musically around the patio beneath her window and was vaguely aware of the numerous times the back door slammed. How marvelous that they played so well together, she mused. She must have dozed then. Later she woke with a start. Her watch showed six o'clock. The men might arrive at any moment. Robbie had gone home, and Carol stood watching her from the doorway. Christy hurried her into the tub. "My goodness, your hands are dirty! What have you been doing?" Carol held up grubby fingers to be soaped. "We played Black-Line Witch." "Well, did you make anything disappear?" Carol gave her an unfocused look. "I don't know yet." Christy buttoned her into the new pink dress purchased recently and brushed her fine flyaway hair into the pony tail style that suited her so well. Amazing how a little grooming could turn a dandelion-gone-to-seed into a rosebud. You aren't your mother's daughter, Christy thought. Darcy would exude dash and pizzazz barefoot in a rummage-sale castoff. "You look very nice," Christy said. "Would you like to welcome the gentlemen when they arrive?" "Okay," she said without enthusiasm. The two went downstairs together, and as they passed the dining-room table, Christy stopped, rigid with shock. A heavy border of charcoal and sand edged the table. Ashes spattered the yellow cloth, while the carpet clearly showed the trail from the patio barbecue. "It didn't disappear," Carol said so quietly Christy barely heard. "Oh, no!" Christy wailed. "Why did you do it? You've ruined everything!" Carol stared at Christy's distraught face and burst into tears. "You wouldn't let any of my friends come," she cried and backed away as if Christy might strike her. Christy could not remember when she felt so furious. Leave serious punishment to the natural parent, the books said. Well, forget the books. "If you're not old enough to know the difference between a fairy tale and spoiling our table, then you're not old enough to eat dinner with us." Christy grabbed the sobbing child by the arm and propelled her none too gently to her room. "Take off your party dress and go to bed this minute!" she snapped and closed the door. She hurried to pile the spattered silver, china and crystal onto a tray, then wadded the ruined cloth and tossed it onto the kitchen counter. She'd barely finished vacuuming the carpet when Mark and Sam arrived. Somehow she managed to greet them with reasonable composure. Sam took in Christy's expanding figure made more obvious by the new maternity dress. "Mark, you lucky devil!" he cried and clapped Mark on the back. Mark's mouth twisted in a way that did not compliment the strong planes of his face. His gaze passed obscurely over her, and the only word she could" think of was despair. Sam kissed her on the cheek, then held her at arm's length. "A girl's never more beautiful than when she's pregnant," he sang, sharping badly. His neat white goatee and black string tie made him look like an earlier breed of Southern gentleman, Christy thought. And although his manner was blustery and frequently despotic, his courtly attitude toward her never failed to make her feel feminine and precious. Sam's voluble cliches concerning her condition, plus the martinis, carried her through the first few minutes. Thank God most amenities came automatically. She noted Mark's puzzled expression as she brought out some brown fiber mats and set the table with their everyday earthenware. What happened to her usual elegant table, he no doubt wondered, and what was she doing arranging the centerpiece at this late hour?

She returned to the kitchen to start the broiler for the kabobs as the telephone rang. She stepped into the adjacent hallway to answer. "May I speak with Mark, please?" a feminine voice asked. The woman pronounced Mark's name with ease as if she'd rehearsed the soft r for years. The quality was painfully familiar. Christy called Mark, then closed the kitchen door and leaned brazenly against it to eavesdrop, feeling thoroughly contemptible. "Darcy? Yes, of course, I've been expecting your call," he said. "No, not this weekend. Sam and I have some work to wrap up. Tahoe Inn?" There followed a long silence. "That's probably best. I'll see you then. Goodbye." He went back to resume his conversation with Sam. Christy took in a few deep breaths but oddly could not smell the broiling meat, and the whistling teakettle seemed to shoot its steam noiselessly into the room. She suddenly saw Mark as a totally new person. Which of the Marks she lived with was the real one, she wondered. She tried hard to reconcile this new aspect of his character with the man she knew. Oh, stop it, she told herself. There was not a thing in the contract about faithful husbands or wives, either, for that matter. They'd not considered that kind of commitment. Anyway, now that they slept apart, she'd no right to expect fidelity. But such reasoning didn't stop the panic that slowly paralyzed her. It took several minutes for her hands to stop trembling enough so she could serve the meal. For once she was glad for Sam's outrageous stream of compliments, which allowed a little time to control her emotions. "Where's Carol?" Mark asked as they drew up their chairs. "She wasn't herself, so I sent her to bed." Leave it at that, Christy pleaded silently. 4'She's ill?" "I don't think so. Just peevish after her nap." "Well, that isn't drastic enough to keep her in bed. I'll go get her." "Mark, please!" Christy cried, and both men looked at her sharply. "Actually Carol misbehaved, and I felt she ought to be punished," She felt fresh indignation in spite of her desire to underplay the situation. Mark frowned. "Isn't that a little heavy? After all, this is a special occasion with Sam here. I'd wanted them to get better acquainted." She read him loud and clear. You've picked a fine time to cause a scene, he seemed to say. Sam continued to devour his dinner not in the least perturbed by the argument. "Oh, what the hell, let her join us." He caught Christy's glance. "Okay, sweetheart?" Christy nodded dumbly. She hadn't handled the situation well and would protest no longer. She toyed with her food but could barely swallow it. Even the fragrant rolls, whose lightness Sam extolled with glowing rhetoric, stuck like a lump of clay in her throat. As they finished the lemon-cream pie, Mark went up for Carol but returned at once. "She's not in her bed," Mark said anxiously. "Where could she have gone?" Christy leaped up. "She must be hiding. I took her to her room barely an hour ago." She raced upstairs and looked in all the closets, then under the beds while the men searched the yard. In a few minutes they gathered in the living room, and Christy sank into a chair, nauseous with worry. Could the child have been kidnapped under one's very nose? When could it have happened? Mark moved tensely to the telephone. "We'd better call the police. She must have run away!" Christy put her head in her hands and tried to think. "Let me call Robbie's house first. They played together this afternoon." Sam ran toward the door. "Toss me your keys, Mark. I'll cruise the neighborhood. She can't have gone far." Mark stood next to Christy as she dialed the number. They waited through interminable rings. "There's no answer," she said bleakly and hung up. Mark faced her. His eyes accused and condemned. "What the devil happened to

make her run away?" She looked at him helplessly and could only shake her head. He picked up the phone book and flipped through the pages to find the number of the police department. A peal of childish laughter slid down a scale, and Ryan walked in with Carol clinging to his hand. "Anyone missing a little pink princess?" he asked and wore his principal's face as he handed her over to Mark. "I was speaking at a P.T.A. meeting at the school when I spotted her in the auditorium. It was a while before I realized she was alone. I brought her home as soon as I could get away." "Thanks. We appreciate your concern," Mark said formally and scooped her up in his arms. She clung to him and looked up to gauge his expression. "Don't be mad, daddy. I was lonesome all by myself." "That was a foolish thing to do, Carol. You had us all worried. We were ready to call the police," Mark said. Sam returned then, and Mark introduced him to Ryan. "All's well that ends well," Sam declared heartily. "Sit down O'Rourke. Mark will fix us a drink, and we can all relax." His invitation barely covered Mark's cool hospitality. Sam launched into a detailed account of the time he ran away from home at age ten. Carol sat enthralled. She clearly felt a peer of adventurers. Sam and Ryan chatted companionably, two artful men with a sense of proportion concerning such mundane domestic crises, Christy observed. Mark served the drinks, then sat down to pull Carol into his lap. He kept his voice confidential against the rest of the conversation. "You must have been very naughty for Christy to punish you. What did you do?" "We did some black magic, but it didn't work," she said softly and averted her head. Mark must have realized that Christy had heard. Why all this fuss over a little childish make-believe, he seemed to ask. Carol hopped off her father's lap in an obvious bid to change the subject. "I painted some pictures for you, daddy." She ran to fetch them and piled several on the floor before him. Ryan got up to look over Mark's shoulder. "Very nice," he said. "You bet your life," Sam agreed. "If I could draw like that, I'd hang out a shingle!" It showed a boy flying a kite. One could see the movement of a kite tugged by wind, and there was a hint of perspective. Mark looked through the rest of the drawings, and Carol suddenly reached over, grabbed one and wadded it into a ball. "That one is no good!" she cried. Mark pried it from Carol's tight little fist and smoothed out the wrinkles. "On the contrary, I like this one best of all." He held it up for everyone to see. Christy gasped. The portrait was unmistakably she. In sparse rather bold lines, Carol had caught Christy's profile, the swing of her hair painted a reasonable copper, and even the curly lashes around her brown eyes. Christy felt as if she'd been cut with a scalpel without benefit of anesthesia. Around the head Carol had painted a heavy black line. Mark glanced at Christy. He seemed ready to anticipate her praise, but she was too stunned to comment. Carol looked fearfully at Christy. "I want to go to bed now. I'm sleepy." The child did look tired, and her eyes seemed dull, even though her color remained high. Christy rose. "Never mind," Mark said. "I'll take care of her." He couldn't have humiliated her more if he'd sworn at her. She saw Ryan watching her. He gave her a solemn wink. "I'll be off," he said. "Thanks for the drink. Good meeting you, Sam." She walked with Ryan to the door, then outside on the porch. "You needn't be so devastated," he said. "You've come a long way with Carol,

and Mark will see that as soon as he gets his head on straight. Consider tonight a minor setback - par for the course, as your friend Sam might say." "I hope you're right," she said with an aching throat. His reassurance was something to cling to after this long dreadful evening. For an instant she remembered the comfort of Ryan's embrace. One felt the need for faith and trust such as Ryan had unremittingly offered. She looked up at him, and the warmth in his eyes seemed to give that to her now. He jerked a thumb toward the living room. "Big plans afoot, eh, what with the head chief himself here? Don't tell me Mark is in line for a promotion? Like to Sydney?" Christy gasped. What did he know? She looked at him without flinching. "I'll swear on a stack of Bibles as high as the moon, I'll not be going to Australia." He grinned. "Good. I don't want to lose you, dar-lin'." The glow from the streetlight touched his broad shoulders and gave a splendid sheen to his beard. He walked quickly to his car and at the curb turned and waved. Christy went back to the kitchen and began to load the dishwasher. Sam and Mark seemed deeply engrossed in figuring their cost estimates. She heard fragments of their talk and put things away in the refrigerator with mechanical movements as if she were turning some bolt on an assembly line. Later Sam popped his head in the door to say good-night. "Wonderful dinner, Christy. I wonder if you know what it means for an old bachelor like me to spend an evening in your happy home?" Christy saw him to the door and gave him a wordless hug. Mark shifted his weight uneasily, then drove Sam to his hotel a few blocks away. Christy was still in the kitchen when he returned. "Can't this wait until tomorrow? It's time you were in bed," he said. She stacked the clean dishes back in the cupboard. "I'm almost finished." He pitched in to help and seemed to make an unnecessary clatter in order to cover the strain between them. "Your dinner was excellent," he said at last. "I'm glad you liked it." "And as usual we had the ubiquitous Ryan O'Rourke. What is there about that guy?" "You know he and Carol are good friends, and you can hardly blame him for bringing her home. She wanted him to come for dinner. I'm afraid that's what set off the whole disaster." Marked banged the dishwasher door shut. "Well, since he has become an intimate member of the family, I hope you have remembered not to mention the Australian venture." "I haven't mentioned a word of this to Ryan," she said quietly. She could not recall a single slip she might have made, and she was certain Carol had not even been aware of the business. Then she recalled Ryan's parting remarks. "Oh, no!" she cried. Mark grabbed her shoulders. "What do you mean?" "As Ryan left, he asked if you were in line for a promotion to Sydney. Sam must have mentioned your upcoming Australian visitors. I'm sure it doesn't mean a thing." Mark's fingers dug more deeply into her shoulders. "And what did you say?" She met his eyes squarely. "I said I would swear on a stack of Bibles as high as the moon that I wasn't going to Australia." He drew back as if she'd slapped him and began to wipe off the counter. "What's this?" he asked after a painful silence and unfolded the smudged tablecloth she had tossed there hours ago. Ashes and charcoal spilled on the floor with a couple of wilted marguerites. Christy ran for the broom and dustpan. "Lord, don't tell me this had something to do with the black magic that went on here today?" he said. "Well, yes." Christy kept her eyes on the dustpan. "It was rather devastating at the time. Robbie and Carol completely outlined the table with

this stuff, and I only discovered it just before you and Sam arrived. I overreacted, I suppose, and didn't realize it would all turn out so badly. "Good Lord! Why didn't you explain? What that kid needed was a good paddling." "As a matter of fact, I thought so, too, but I didn't want to get into a big hassle with Sam arriving any minute." "Then I came along and made matters worse. I'm sorry I acted so rotten. What a mess! Forgive me?" "It was a mess, all right. I was furious. Something always seems to go wrong between Carol and me, but believe me, I do try." "I know you do. I see you working at it as hard as you do everything else, and I appreciate it. So what the hell keeps us at swords' point all the time? Some damn evil angel?" She pulled away quickly to hide her feelings and, as there seemed no point in further conversation, went upstairs. She checked Carol before going to bed. The child turned restlessly, and her breathing seemed quick and shallow. Apparently the runaway experience had affected her more than it appeared. It wasn't until much later, though, that Christy's subconscious dredged up the source of Mark's final allusion. Irony never comes in small doses, she thought. If Mark had recalled the entire quotation, he would have never used it. "There is no evil angel but Love," Shakespeare had written. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CAROL CAME DOWN to breakfast late the next morning, her narrow shoulders hunched under the flowered pajamas as if she were cold in spite of the flushed appearance of her face. "I'm thirsty," she said fretfully. "I don't wonder," Christy said as she felt Carol's hot forehead. Then she saw the telltale scatter of pink blisters on the child's arms, with a few more beginning to show on her face. "We're popping you back into bed right now. Have you ever had the measles?" That was one disease she didn't want to get now. "I don't think so. Do measles hurt?" "It depends. You might be uncomfortable for a while." She settled Carol in bed with a glass of orange juice, then telephoned Mark, but he had not yet reached the office. She watched the clock impatiently. While she waited, she went to call Sarah, Robbie's mother. Carol's headache and peevish behavior yesterday indicated prime communicable time when the children played together. Geoff answered. "It has to be chicken pox," he said after her explanation. "And is my face red! I completely forgot to warn you. The boys came down with it the day after Carol's birthday party. When was that? Three weeks ago? The exact incubation period! But they had an unusually light case, no fever to speak of, and if we hadn't discovered a few blisters on their arms, we'd never have known. What about you, Christy, have you had it?" "When I was very young." "Good. It sometimes causes shingles in adults. Gad, I surely apologize for not letting you know. Ordinarily it isn't serious except for the itching. You probably won't need to call the doctor unless her temperature gets high, 102° or more. I'll bring over some lotion on my way to the office. Is she badly broken out?" "Not yet, but she's feverish." "Well, keep her in bed until her temperature goes down. I hope she gets by as easily as Robbie and Kent. They didn't slow down an iota, darn it! In fact, we all went to our place at Tahoe the following weekend. Incidentally how did you like the show?" "The show?" "Yes, at the North Shore Inn. Quite a coincidence we were all there on the

same night. Couldn't miss that redheaded beacon of Mark's even though he was on the far side of the room. We tried to find you afterward, but there was too much of a crowd. I say," he chuckled. "We assumed that was you with him, or was it some other sexy dame?" "Very funny, Geoff," she said in a strangled tone. "Just kidding, honest. Don't know a single couple more high-minded than you two. I'll drop the calamine off in a few minutes." "Thanks. I'd appreciate that." Christy hung up the receiver and tried to cope with the roaring in her ears. It was humiliating to discover how naive she had been. Now that she thought about it, Mark's numerous out-of-town trips could accommodate any number of meetings with Darcy. It jolted her more than she cared to admit to find that the arrangements she'd overheard last night were not the first. But the duplicity was so unlike the Mark she'd known she could hardly accept it. In her own mind a contract meant an agreement to sweat out a situation in spite of setbacks or discouragement; it meant remaining dependable regardless of crisis or temptation. And it meant not having to worry about the other person's integrity. In essence, it all came down to trust. Where had they gone wrong? Suddenly insight blazed in her mind as clear and complete as the fugue she'd written for Karen's ballet. She cared about Mark. She wanted him to have all the qualities she loved: integrity, concern, trust. They hadn't gone wrong. She had gone wrong. She'd let her guard down. This contract was for a limited time, time for each to accomplish a specific goal. She only rationalized when she told herself she resented his lack of integrity. What she really resented was his interest in Darcy. "Admit it, you're jealous," she said aloud. The thought shocked her. Well, she must bury the truth deep enough to enable her to continue this charade. Somehow she plodded through the day and was grateful for the diversion of innumerable trips up and down stairs to tend to Carol's needs. By evening, Carol's temperature, as well as her spirits, had almost completely returned to normal, and it seemed likely that she, too, would have a light case. Mark didn't return to the office after dinner but sat upstairs with Carol while Christy finished the dishes. Suddenly she stood absolutely still. Something was happening to her, something amazing, a kind of pressure, a gentle twisting as if the baby performed a slow-motion pirouette. Her heart beat fast, arid she waited breathlessly to see if the action would happen again. "Oh, baby mine, welcome aboard!" she cried and rushed to share the marvel with Mark, then abruptly stopped. Would her husband and stepdaughter truly want to hear about this miracle? Somehow she doubted it. More likely they'd be annoyed at the intrusion, and the news would only make them uncomfortable. But she had no right to feel bitter. After all, it seemed the greater kindness not to tell them. It wasn't fair to involve them in emotional ties with a baby who would never belong to them. But the reasoning didn't make her feel any better. Later Mark came downstairs and set to work on his Australian portfolio. "I can't imagine how much work you've put in on that. Aren't you almost finished?" Christy asked. He looked at her, or rather it seemed he looked through her, then nodded. I can't trust you with any more information about this deal. Was that what he thought? The words hung between them even though he did not speak. So he still believed she somehow had broken her promise. She wanted to shake him, to tell him how stubborn and unreasonable he acted. But no, everyone knew her as the tranquil Christy Brandon. Yes indeed. Christy the plodder, the Milquetoast! She flashed him a small wintry smile and went up to bed. His suspicions concerning her honesty were almost too much to bear. They threaded the days that followed like a rasping tune she couldn't get out of her head.

MAY PASSED INTO MID-JUNE, but the constraint still persisted like a chronic illness. Tension was fed by a brittle word lightly spoken or one that suddenly held a double meaning, by silence when there should have been talk or by no smile at all when there should have been one. Fortunately the days were too full now to allow many private moments. The completed bids had been sent off to Australia several weeks ago, and a delegation of investors was to arrive at last. Tomorrow was the big day, and all was in readiness. Christy had visited Mark's office yesterday after his rather surprising invitation. Dreams, she observed, could be fashioned with maps keyed in colors, architectural renderings on easels, graphs, and folders of impeccably typed projections. So as not to disturb the splendid gallery Mark brought home a set of manuals to print and assemble for the coming San Diego convention. Sam had arrived a day early from his Los Angeles office for the Australian conference and insisted on helping Mark with the manuals. Christy wondered a little at the executive head of Douglas Enterprises running the copy machine as zestfully as any office boy, but perhaps such busy-work provided a safety valve to relieve the tension of waiting for the conference. She could understand the feeling. Months ago Mark had explained that Douglas Enterprises stood to make millions in machinery sales, while of course, Mark, as director, would fulfill his dream of setting up a network of franchises in a foreign field. Considering Sam's gregarious nature, however, she expected any alternative to a lonely hotel room proved a superior choice for him. As for herself, she clung to his gusty affection as balm for her sagging morale. Meanwhile the copier clicked on and on in a kind of gleeful perpetual motion as it spewed out mountains of print. Christy looked around in despair. Furniture had been shoved out of place to accommodate the assembly line, and every surface in the dining and living rooms held stacks of pages ready to sort and staple. To complicate matters, Aunt Martha had called late last night. "Surprise, darling! Would you believe I'm in San Francisco on my way to spend a month at my friend Elsa's place, on the lake, you know? I'd adore seeing you and Mark for a day or two. Is it convenient for you to put me up?" "Of course! We'd love it!" Christy cried and choked up a little at the sound of her aunt's voice. Martha refused to be picked up in San Francisco. No indeed, she wanted to try out that new helicopter service to San Felipe. She'd probably arrive tomorrow around three o'clock. Christy hung up and knew how much she'd missed her aunt's extravagant warmth and strength. On the other hand, the call filled her with mixed feelings. Sam's and Mark's clutter made the thought of a houseguest downright appalling, and she didn't even want to think about the fuss Aunt Martha would make over her pregnancy. Most worrisome of all, her aunt's talented nose would smell out the troubled atmosphere in the Brandon household in short order. SHE ROSE EARLY the next morning to get a head start on her work, but she felt defeated before she began. The air had a thick feeling that promised a hot spell. She threw open the windows and stood for a moment as her trained ear caught a bird singing notes from a diminished-seventh chord. Ordinarily the song would have intrigued her, but today the repetition nagged her excessively. The house hadn't been vacuumed for several days. It still looked like a paper factory. The men had promised to finish the manuals this morning, but she wondered. Sam arrived as they finished breakfast, swung the giggling Carol so high she touched her hands on the ceiling, planted a fatherly kiss on Christy's cheek and sniffed ecstatically at the aroma of freshly baked cinnamon rolls. "If I could find me a gal who could make rolls like these, I'd have married her yesterday!" Christy put a couple on a plate for him. "Flattery will get you somewhere,

my friend, but not for long if you and Mark don't clean up your mess. Remember, Aunt Martha arrives today, and I do have a little pride left in my housekeeping, gentlemen." She accented the word and looked at them sternly. "Martha, eh?" Sam said. "Oh, she won't mind a snow job like this on a hot day." He laughed heartily at his feeble joke, then noticed Christy's harried expression. "Don't worry, honey bunch. By noon we'll have this place slicker than a hound after a flea bath. Right, Mark?" "I certainly plan on it," Mark said without looking up. His broad shoulders showed up well in the blue knit T-shirt, and his coppery hair already curled damply around his forehead. He was easily the handsomest man she had ever known. Amazing how adoration affected one's judgment, she thought wryly. Mark caught her glance, and she looked away quickly with a vague smile, but something made her feel more like crying. Sam cleared away the materials that littered her piano. "Didn't mean to keep you away from your music, Christy." "It's okay. I'm not working on anything special right now." Mark looked up. "What about O'Rourke's summer musical?" "No. Don't you remember? I said I planned not to participate in the San Felipe Players this summer." "Oh?" His inflection could have meant anything, and Christy preferred not to dwell on its interpretations. Instead she set her mind to organize her morning. After she completed the housework, she must shop for groceries and then look for a couple of cool maternity dresses. She'd neglected her wardrobe far too long. And of course, she must do something about the sleeping arrangements. The only solution seemed to bring Carol in with her and give Carol's bed to Aunt Martha. Her face burned at the thought of her aunt's likely discovery that Mark slept on the sofa. She'd barely hung fresh towels in the bath when Sarah, Geoff s wife, came to the door. Robbie and Kent stood round eyed and frightened at her side. "Could you possibly look after the boys today?" Sarah asked. "My parents were in an automobile accident in San Francisco. I must go at once!" Christy looked with compassion at Sarah's pale distraught face and felt the familiar stab of pain that always returned at the association of her own tragedy. "Of course. Go ahead. Don't worry about a thing." Christy took the boys upstairs to play with Carol. With the callous unconcern of young children they quickly greeted the occasion as an unexpected lark and began a game of Hide and Seek. Moments later her eyes widened as an employee from the rental center arrived with a folding bed. Mark directed him up to Carol's room. "For Martha," he explained after the man left. "Guess you'll have to put up with me during Martha's stay. We can't disillusion her at this point, can we?" He didn't wait for an answer but returned to his work. Christy coaxed the children out of their hiding places and got them involved constructing skyscrapers with Carol's Leggo blocks, then went to make up Martha's bed. She'd no more than tucked in the spread when unearthly screeches from the children brought her on the run. Arms spread wide, they slid down the banisters, three jet planes breaking the sound barrier. Sam was on the telephone, so Christy hushed them, grabbed her kitchen timer and hustled them all outside. "If you'll play nicely in the sandbox until this bell rings, there'll be Popsicles for lunch," she bribed and set the timer for half an hour; then she ran back inside, determined to double her speed. In the doorway she stopped abruptly at the sound of Mark's angry voice. "Why do they want to go to L.A. first? Didn't they give a reason? Tomorrow's date has been firm for weeks. I don't like the sound of this, at all!" "The damned Aussies probably took a notion to visit Disneyland first. They're coming back to meet with us the first of the week," Sam answered. "First of the week!" Mark cried. "But that throws everything off! Don't they

realize that? What about the tour of the Washington and Oregon plants? We have the flight schedule set up, plane reservations, the works! That's some way of doing business." Christy's heart began a heavy dismayed thumping. Something had gone wrong with Mark's conference with the Australians. She knew that headquarters for Western Rental were located in Los Angeles. For the hundredth time she wondered if she had unwittingly given Ryan a clue that he might have passed on to someone connected with Western. From the beginning she was certain she'd never mentioned Mark's hopes to anyone, but, oh, Lord, she wasn't sure of anything anymore. The men spent the rest of the morning on the telephone, their cleanup abruptly halted. Christy set out sandwiches and lemonade for lunch. Sam and the children kept up a lively patter, creating a cordon of gaiety around Mark's aloof silence. He didn't even notice when Robbie, then Carol in quick succession, spilled their lemonade, effectively flooding the table, as well as her freshly waxed floor. She mopped up the puddle, then wiped her own damp face with a handkerchief. The temperature had climbed into the nineties, and the house felt stifling. She saw Sam watching her. "Say, sweetheart," he said. "It's too hot to cook tonight what with Martha coming and all. I've already made reservations to take the German party to Chateau Auvergne for dinner, and I want you, Mark and Martha to join us." "Oh, Sam bless you. That will be marvelous!" Christy said with a profound sense of relief and knew her afternoon's work would be cut in half. "As a matter of fact, I've a capital thought," Sam continued. He leaned back and clasped his hands as if to appreciate his idea to the fullest. Christy knew exactly what was coming. "It's nice to get these foreigners into an honest-to- gosh American home, you know. Why not have them here for a few drink first? I'll host the liquor, and maybe you could set out a little something to nibble on, say, maybe a few of Martha's great stuffed mushrooms?" Dismay shot through Christy. Stuffed mushrooms! Did Sam have any conception of the time it took to prepare that perverse hors d'oeuvre? Up to now in her relatively short span of entertaining, stuffed mushrooms spelled poison. Oh, Sam, she thought, what do you think I am - Wonder Woman? Do I dare refuse, she wondered. She'd had it with the heat; it had sapped all her energy, and her back ached intolerably. How could she possibly manage to get the house in order and the food prepared for the cocktail hour? Something must have finally caught Mark's attention. At least, he looked on as if curious to see how she'd handle Sam's latest challenge. Christy assessed his thoughts. No way would she allow him to catch her faulting her duty. She beamed at Sam as if along with the heat, the energetic children and the state of the house, he'd just handed her an unexpected bonus. "We'll be delighted, won't we Mark?" she purred. "Of course," he said and looked amused for the first time today. She deposited the children in front of the upstairs TV hoping they would watch at least an hour of Saturday-afternoon "Sesame Street" reruns, then raced to answer the doorbell again. The place had turned into Grand Central Station! This time it was Ryan. He looked cool in beach shorts and white terry top. "Hey," he said after they all exchanged greetings. "All this activity is downright revolting on a hot day like this. I'm on the way to my beach cottage. Care to join me and cool off for a while? Invitation is wide open." His gesture included the men, but his eyes rested on Christy. "Thanks, but we're pretty involved. Company is arriving, as well," Mark answered quickly. Ryan handed Christy a folder. "I'll not interrupt, then. Just wanted to drop this music off to you. Sorry I didn't get to it earlier. We'll talk about it when you have more time." He grinned at the men. "Can't let this girl get out of practice, can we?" He left then and sprinted down the walk as if it were a cool frosty morning.

What music, she wondered and caught Mark's knowing glance. So you and Ryan have something cooking this summer, after all, he might as well have said. She remembered now. After the chamber-music group's program at the winery weeks ago, Ryan mentioned he would drop off some music so that she might consider joining them for future performances. She spread out the music on her piano rack so that Mark could not miss the titles: Beethoven's Piano Quintet opus 16 and Mozart's Quintet k452. Surely Mark could see that such music had no relation to a frothy summer musical. Anyway, she wouldn't dignify his suspicions with further protest. The men returned to their cleanup, but as they stopped to discuss some point of business or talk on the telephone, their pace seemed maddeningly slow. Christy trailed them as close as she dared with dust cloth and vacuum, meanwhile thinking about the cocktail party. She had a tasty almond clam dip that took only minutes, or would the German gentlemen prefer herring in sour cream? She could get that at the delicatessen, then she would delegate the stuffed mushrooms to Aunt Martha if she arrived in time. Otherwise she wouldn't touch them with a ten-foot pole. Heavens, Sam's cliches were getting contagious. As she adjusted the draperies against the afternoon sun, she saw a taxi pull up to the curb. Aunt Martha! At least an hour early! Dear God, Christy thought. How I must look! She knew perspiration beaded her face, and she still had on that same old housedress. She opened the door and fell into Aunt Martha's embrace, then felt herself held out at arm's length. "Darlings! Why didn't you tell me?" She hugged Christy again. Throat aching, Christy clung almost with desperation. Mark's eyes looked distant, even a little hard. "We seem to recall that you enjoy surprises, Martha," he said smoothly and bent to receive her kiss. Sam came over and kissed Martha soundly on the cheek. "Well, if it isn't my best girl! How lucky can I get!" "Sam, you old tycoon. What are you doing here cluttering up the place?" They laughed heartily, two old friends who never fooled one another for a minute. Then they turned the conversation to the baby, and Christy braced herself for the endless raves and wondered if her face might set forever in the plastic smile she forced. After another round of greetings and introductions with the children, Martha retired to her room for a little rest, and Christy sat down in the steaming kitchen to make out a shopping list. Already the day seemed forty-eight hours long, and it was only half over. She would think of only one thing at a time, and perhaps she'd muddle through. Familiar shrieks from the stairway suddenly rent her nerves. Apparently the children were sliding down the banister again. Mark strode into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and took out a beer. "Don't tell me you invited those little monsters for the entire day?" Christy continued to write. If he didn't like their shenanigans, why didn't he do something about it? "I told you it was an emergency. Sarah would have done the same for us." "A rather one-sided bargain, and ye gods, what timing!" "Yes, isn't it?" He gulped the beer and watched her write. "Another list? Christy and her security blanket! We can cope with anything if we make a list, can't we?" Christy looked up sharply. Something must be getting to him. Well, a few things were getting to her, too. "You bet I like to make lists," she snapped. "I function better when I plan ahead." "You know, you wouldn't get so uptight if you didn't let people walk over you," he said. She felt her body tighten. "Thanks for the advice. I'll file it for future study when I have the time." "Well, dammit, why can't you learn to keep things simple?" "Simple, he says!" she cried. "You and Sam have the house littered like the city dump. I'm supposed to make it presentable for the cocktail party, not to mention preparing the food, with about half the time I need! Oh, don't bother

to rub it in. I'm sure Darcy could manage with one hand tied behind her back!" His eyes narrowed in a stony face. "What's the matter, my girl? Is the stud fee getting too high for this little arrangement?" Christy gasped. Surely she'd not heard that. Mark never spoke crudely, but the words hung between them in the ghastly silence. He wants out now, she thought, curious that she had been so blind. She sat terrified. Her heart pounded so hard he surely must hear it. She rested an elbow on the table and leaned her cheek against one hand, then kept her eyes down and pretended to concentrate on her list. Her knuckles gleamed white at the hold on her pencil. If she gripped hard enough, perhaps she could control the sobs rising in her throat. Suddenly he reached forward and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Good Lord, Christy, I didn't mean that! What can I say? I've had a rotten morning, and I'm taking it out on you. Can you forgive me?" Christy didn't know if the anguish in his voice was real or imagined. She gave no indication that she heard. Anyway, the hurt went so deep her lips couldn't form an answer even if she thought of one. His hand reached for the list. "Have yoli finished?" he asked quietly. She nodded and kept h"r head down. "I'll take care of it," he said and left. Apparently he took the children with him because the house became unusually silent. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

BY SEVEN O'CLOCK THAT EVENING Sam's "little something to nibble on" rested temptingly on several platters in the kitchen. The living room appeared immaculate with not even a paper clip to hint of its recent chaos. Sam insisted on ordering flowers for the occasion. Apparently the florist excelled in funeral arrangements, Christy decided as she placed the oversized spray of white gladioli in front of the fireplace and set the stiff bouquet of stalk and iris on the coffee table. Still, they added a certain flair to the room, and considering the present state of affairs, they weren't all that inappropriate, she thought wryly. An hour ago the boys' grateful mother took home all three children with an invitation for Carol to spend the night. Now a fan from the rental center set the air in a pleasant cooling motion. All was in readiness. Miracles were not confined to antediluvian phenomena, after all. Christy, showered and refreshed, wore the new hostess gown she'd found time to purchase late this afternoon. Amazing how clothes affected one's state of mind. Tonight the awkwardness she'd felt all day in the ill-fitting housedress vanished. Now she felt elegant, even beautiful, in the cream-and-apricot silk, which floated with soft grace in the currents made by the fan. A glance in the hall mirror assured her again that the gown complimented her auburn hair and the new softness of her ivory complexion. She looked every inch the gracious hostess. She'd willed herself to look the part, but inside she moved warily in the dark aura of Mark's rejection. If only she'd held fast to her original goal, the I-told-you-so's would not now corrode her days. Remaining emotionally uninvolved would have given her a sense of freedom in the relationship. There would have been no wounds, no acrimony. But her reason had failed to apply the brakes. The men had been gone since midafternoon to meet with the German delegation. Douglas Enterprises provided a natural focus for such touring business groups. In addition to the rental-franchise chain in the western states and the cattle-breeding ranches in Texas, there were two electronic manufacturing plants in Ohio. The office in San Felipe, set up with displays for the truant Australians, became a bonus for the unexpected German visitors. Everyone arrived at once. Sam and Martha, ebullient in their favorite roles, plied the four Germans with drinks and animated chatter. Miss Annaliese Strub, the attractive young secretary from the consulate who had chauffeured her

compatriots from San Francisco, moved in the background with the unobtrusive assurance of the perfect secretary, but Christy noted that the girl's slightly slanted green eyes glittered with excitement. She soon attached herself to Mark. And why not? He was easily the most attractive man present. He looked sharp in his white linen jacket with navy slacks, but his body, usually held with such quiet confidence had an electric quality tonight. His gestures were frequent and nervous, and he seemed to laugh too readily at Miss Strub's apparently amusing chatter. Only once did he acknowledge Christy's presence. When she offered him a tray of canapes, she saw such an odd intense expression behind his eyes that she wondered if he might say something personal, a few magic words that would help close the emotional gap that had widened so painfully. But he only sampled a morsel from her tray. "Very nice," he murmured and turned to say something to one of the guests, effectively dismissing her as if she'd been nothing more than a mildly distracting intrusion. She ached to touch his hand, to try to bring him back, but she had the feeling if she reached out, he would vanish. Later, Sam caught her watching Mark from across the room. Sam grinned and gave her an exaggerated wink. She hoped her face had not revealed too much. Three of the Germans spoke with heavy accents, but the fourth, a distinguished-looking gentleman, older than the others, spoke English fluently. Christy offered him some cheese. "Mr. Strauss, did I understand your first name was Richard? Would you be a descendant of your famous countryman of that name?" His eyes lit up as if he'd found an oasis in a desert. "No, only an admirer. I take it you are a musician, Mrs. Brandon?" It seemed Mr. Strauss had been an oboist in his youth and remained an avid music lover. They discussed their shared interest with animation, from the neglected Italian baroque composers to the prepared music of the avant-garde. "Of course, I really relate to the Romantics, Schubert in particular. Does that tune me out of your generation, Mrs. Brandon?" "But of course not. Schubert is never out-of-date," Christy said warmly. Once during a little break in the conversation, she was astounded to hear Mark speaking slow but precise German. A feeling of desolation swept through her. How many facets would she never know about this man? Mr. Strauss suddenly held up his hand for attention. "I propose Mrs. Brandon play for us." The others spoke up politely to join the invitation. She wanted to refuse. It wasn't likely Mr. Strauss's companions shared his zest for music. They'd more likely prefer to continue their business talk. But she shunned the extra attention that would result from a coaxing match and rose at once. As she went to her piano, Miss Strub moved again to Mark's side and slipped an arm through his, leaned close and whispered something in his ear. He flashed her a brilliant smile, and she settled back with a self-satisfied air. Christy felt sudden unreasoned anger, intense and bitter. If that's a patronizing smile you wear, Miss Strub, here's a little number for you, and it isn't the Minuet in G. Christy took the dazzling Chopin Revolution- ary Etude at a murderous pace. Adrenaline flowed freely as she exhibited stunning technique in the deliberately chosen showpiece. At the conclusion Miss Strub looked a little stunned, a far more satisfying accolade than the chorus of bravos that followed. Her anger dissipated, she would have preferred to follow the fiery piece with the Chopin E-flat Nocturne, but the music held too many poignant memories. It was the piece she'd performed for Mark the first night he made love to her. She took a deep breath. "Thank you," she said gravely. "And now I'd like to play some Schubert especially for Mr. Strauss." But it wasn't Herr Strauss for whom she performed the moving A-flat Musical. She allowed herself a brief glance at Mark and let the music come from her heart. When she lifted her hands after the final shimmering chord, there followed a spontaneous hush, the authentic tribute

that acknowledges true communication between artist and audience. All except Mark, she noted bleakly. His face seemed frozen into blankness as if his thoughts rested in some distant province. Or was he merely bored? She accepted the enthusiastic compliments and went to the kitchen to replenish the hors d'oeuvres. Aunt Martha followed. "Let me do that," she said. "You look awfully pale. Do you feel all right?" "Just a bit worn out with this hot spell," Christy murmured and continued to arrange the food. Sam poured another round of drinks, and Christy held her head high as she passed the hors d'oeuvres once again. By the time Sam suggested they leave for the restaurant, Christy knew for the baby's sake and her own she must get off her feet as soon as possible. She effectively pleaded her condition, shook hands with the guests and wished them well, and knew she didn't imagine Miss Strub's look of relief as that attractive young woman walked with Mark out to the company station wagon. Someone had moved the fan into the bedroom. Gratefully she let the stir of air cool her body as she undressed. Then she stretched out on the bed, her thoughts with the dinner party. By now the group would be driving up the long winding road that led to the winery. She visualized the vineyards in the rosy dusk, spraying their luxuriant green rows over the hillsides. Sam had mentioned that the restaurant with its turrets and stone exterior was reminiscent of an old-world castle. The scene might well provide a touch of nostalgia for the Germans, she thought. Her mind turned to the attractive secretary. Poor Miss Strub. All evening she'd unknowingly provided a nifty fetish for Christy's poison darts. Oh, yes, poor Miss Strub. At this very moment the green-eyed Annaliese enjoyed dinner with Mark while Christy had sent herself off to bed. She fell asleep at last to the rhythmic whir of the fan, mildly amused at herself as she imagined a slim and glamorous Christy in the candlelit restaurant with an attentive Mark at her side. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHRISTY AWOKE the next morning with an irksome start. Heavens! It was almost ten o'clock". What would Aunt Martha think? She recalled sleepily that Mark had left several hours ago. "Don't get up," he said. "I'm going out of town today. I'll get breakfast on the road. Probably return tomorrow afternoon. If anyone needs to get in touch, here's the number." He gave the information quickly as if he wanted to be done with it and left the card on the dresser. She wondered now if this was the rendezvous with Darcy she'd overheard him plan on the telephone. She felt certain of it. She figured the date for earlier this month, but with all the furor over the delayed conference, he probably changed it. She dressed automatically while her mind prodded the actuality, worried it, shoved it around and then struggled to find at least one reason why she should let it concern her. A familiar ache started at the base of her neck. She wanted to crawl back into bed and let her mind go blank. Instead, she must appear before Aunt Martha in a few moments as the happy young wife, passionately concerned with pregnancy, the price of eggs and what to fix for dinner. She picked up the card and studied the telephone number. She had no idea how much territory the area code included. Of course, she could check the code map in the telephone book. Yes, she could if she were a miserable sneak. She reached for the book. Okay, Christy, so you're a miserable sneak. Area code'916 covered a substantial area including Mitchelburg, where a new franchise center recently opened, and where a follow-up visit by Mark at this time would be perfectly logical. Her finger moved over the map. Tahoe also shared the code, and Darcy appeared in some supper club there every night. She dialed the number before she had time to reconsider.

Moments later a pleasant male voice answered. "Tahoe Inn. May I help you?" She eased the receiver back into its cradle and tried to wipe out the sense of inevitability that overcame her. Voices from the kitchen tugged her back to duty, and she hurried downstairs. Carol and Aunt Martha were cutting out gingerbread men, giggling as they twisted arms and legs into outrageous contortions. "Good morning, you two. I overslept and I'm so sorry." Aunt Martha wiped her hands and poured a cup of coffee for Christy. "Well, you should have stayed in bed until noon. My word, I can't believe all the entertaining you're expected to do around here, besides keeping this place up!" She waved her arms expansively as if the small town house equaled at least a twenty-room mansion. "And you pregnant with no help! Believe me, I told those men a thing or two last night. Hasn't Mark ever heard of an expense account, for heaven's sake?" Christy smiled at her aunt's tirade. "And haven't you heard about Sam's Super Sales theory? Relax, Aunt Martha. I don't mind the entertaining. I've actually come to enjoy it since I gave up trying to match your gourmet affairs." Aunt Martha did not stop frowning as she studied Christy's face. "Nevertheless, something's not right. You need a rest. Why, you've not gained a pound, and those shadows under your eyes make you look like a candidate for a sanitarium. Gracious, child, with all the hormones perking during pregnancy, you should positively glow." "Oh, come Aunt Martha, I've gained ten pounds! It's just the heat that makes me look this way." "Well, young lady, I've already talked it over with Mark and Carol, and I'm taking Carol with me to the lake for a month. I want you to speak to that doctor of yours at your very next appointment. Mark my words, you need iron or something!" Or something, likely. Something she could anchor to, something that would bring focus to the gray muddle her life had become. Carol had switched her attention from the cookies to the conversation. 4 'What does pregnancy mean?" she asked. The question unnerved Christy. How should she answer? I'm going to become a mother? A lie! Her throat became so constricted she couldn't speak. She tore a piece of toast into bits and tried to get hold of herself. Aunt Martha glanced at her sharply, then turned to Carol. "It means, my pet, that you are going to have a little brother or sister one of these days." "A little brother," Carol asserted with equanimity in the way of the very young and the very old who took surprise as a matter of course. "I'll help take care of him, won't I, Christy?" Christy nodded unsteadily and began to clear the table. "Have you talked to Beth recently? I suppose she knows about the baby?" Aunt Martha asked. "Well, I've been so busy that it's been almost a month since I've written. Ordinarily we write or chat on the phone every other week or so. I haven't mentioned the baby yet. I was afraid she might feel upset, knowing I can have a child and she can't. I'd like to wait a while longer." "Nonsense. She'll be delighted. It will give her a new lease on life." "I hope so," Christy said, swallowing hard, and left them to finish baking their cookies while she went upstairs to tidy her room. She felt grateful that Carol was to vacation with Aunt Martha. Perhaps after the month ended, she'd go back to Darcy, and the incident would fade. Carol needed no more disappointing emotional entanglements. WHEN MARK ARRIVED HOME the next day, he was in a buoyant mood. He hugged Carol and gave her a silver-and-turquoise bracelet. He kept up a lively banter with Aunt Martha and complimented Christy outrageously on the shrimp Louis she'd prepared for dinner. She could understand, of course. A night in the

arms of the beautiful Darcy could restore his sense of well-being. To add to his good spirits, the Australians would arrive tomorrow at last for the long-awaited conference. But Christy moved on a different level. She felt as if she hovered like a watchful spirit who monitored her body as it moved like a robot, spoke the correct words and smiled at the proper time. Mark left early the next morning to meet the Australians' plane in San Francisco, his mood still exuberant. "I hope everything goes well," she said with a forced smile but knew he didn't need her good wishes. He'd arrange things, she thought. No holds barred. Later as she and Aunt Martha made ready to take Carol shopping for some play clothes appropriate for the lake, Christy heard a commotion at the front door. "Darlin's here!" Carol cried. Ponytail bobbing, she tugged at Ryan's hand and pumped it excitedly as she drew him into the room. "Hey, princess, you're violating my patent with that darlin' stuff." He gave her a broad wink and turned to Christy. "And how's our pregnant girl?" Carol tilted up her head. "I know what pregunant means," she declared. Ryan tweaked her ponytail. "Well, do you now? That makes you healthy, wealthy and wise, right?" Aunt Martha came down, and Christy made introductions. "Good heavens, I'm finally getting to meet Superman. I know all about you, you know," Aunt Martha said. "Good. Then, of course, you're on my side," Ryan answered. Christy watched, amused, as Ryan deepened his voice, coated his words with a lilting accent and in approximately five minutes charmed Aunt Martha completely. "Ryan, we've missed you," Christy said with a knowing inflection when she finally got a word in the conversation. He made a face. "Come now, you know how plural pronouns offend me. What about you, singular?" Christy laughed. "You never change, Ryan. Thank goodness." Ryan thumped himself on the chest. "The Rock of Gibraltar, that's me!" "Not only ungrammatical, but untrue. You're a chip straight off the old Blarney stone. Incidentally I thought you were staying out at Sea House this summer?" "True. I spent a couple of weeks after school ended, lying mindlessly in the sun, ogling sea gulls, sandpipers and bikinis. But now it's wrap-up time so that I can start my new job." Christy looked up sharply. He grinned. "Yes, I just received the call an hour ago. You're looking at the new director of Rockledge!" Christy's eyes misted. "I can't tell you how glad I am for you. I've willed it to turn out this way from the very beginning." "And it worked! You're my good-luck charm, darlin'." "Ryan's a director," Carol cried and clapped her hands. Ryan looked them over appreciatively. "Say, you three look mighty dressed up. Am I interrupting something?" Christy explained the shopping excursion. "Well, then, I've a great idea, ladies. I'm in the mood for celebrating. May I take you all to lunch? We'll go to the Hamilton House where we can shop, as well as dine." "A man after my own heart," Aunt Martha cried and, with a graceful twirl of her pleated skirt and trailing an essence of perfume, she bustled out to get her handbag. Christy smiled. No stage was too small for Aunt Martha's sense of drama. The Hamilton House had been a three-story Victorian mansion near the center of town restored by an enterprising couple who turned the first floor into a restaurant and opened small shops on the others. Ryan's invitation couldn't have come at a more timely moment. Perhaps for a little while she could stop thinking about Mark and Darcy.

Carol sat beside Ryan as they drove to the restaurant, and the two chatted as always with instant camaraderie. From the back seat with Aunt Martha, Christy listened and fixed her gaze on Ryan's handsome blond head. She knew quite well how much she would miss this warm caring man. If she'd met him first, well, it could have been easy to fall in love with him. But Ryan loved everyone. Like Aunt Martha, he found something in each person that fascinated him. "No people are uninteresting. Their fate is like the chronicles of planets," Yevtushenko wrote in his poem, and it described Ryan's perspective to a T. But she was not sure that kind of love included the commitment, the intimacy and faithfulness for which she yearned and needed. The noontime crowd filled the restaurant, and the hostess said there would be at least an hour's wait for a table. So they went to browse the shops first. Carol clutched her coin purse, wide-eyed at the choices, while Aunt Martha, an inveterate shopper, declared the place an absolute find. Ryan trailed the three females for a while with amused tolerance, bought Carol a furry bean-bag guinea pig, then shifted his weight impatiently as Aunt Martha and Carol looked at bathing suits. "Shopping isn't my thing," he said finally. "Martha, you and Carol finish buying out the place and meet us in the foyer in a half hour. Christy and I are going to have a drink." The crowd had thinned a bit, and they managed to find chairs in a far corner of the bar. The place was air-conditioned and blessedly cool, and on a nearby table an ice sculpture of a breaking wave lapped against a spray of white lilacs. Christy gave herself up to the healing atmosphere and Ryan's solicitous attention. Ryan, her dear friend who never failed her, who made her feel cherished, a person of value. She started to order a margarita and abruptly changed to a wine cooler. Mark had introduced her to margaritas, and they held too many painful memories of their first happy days together. Christy lifted her drink and toasted Ryan's success. "And here's to your dreams. May they all be realized!" His eyes gleamed. Even as she spoke, she suspected his mind seethed with eager plans. "Thanks, darlin'. I don't deny I'm champing at the bit. I'm not on the payroll for another month, but I want to get things rolling immediately. I meet next week with the board of directors." "And Alicia?" "We'll work together for the rest of the summer." "I liked her very much when I met her." "She is a beautiful person - in many ways like you, Christy, but...." "But?" He smiled, but not quickly enough to cover the wistful expression in his clear blue eyes. "As you know, in my entire life I've never been lucky in love," he said. "Alicia has a lot of pain to get over. I have a few hurts myself. We'll just take it a day at a time." A day at a time. Maybe that would work for her, too. A pattern of success? She hoped so. Ryan toasted her with his daiquiri, then frankly scanned her figure. "Are you sure you didn't swallow a peach pit, my girl? I thought babies were very much up front by now." She took a sip of her drink before answering. "I'm barely six months. It's probably the way I'm built." He frowned slightly but changed the subject. "I sense improved rapport with Carol. What did I tell you?" "It's Aunt Martha's influence. They took to each other right off. I must say Carol asks me to fix her hair and help her dress now. She wouldn't even let me touch her for a long time. Perhaps that's a plus for progress." "Positively!" His eyes narrowed. "What about all those other cobwebs in the corner? Got those swept away yet?"

She wilted. Don't spoil this, she begged silently. Tears glazed her eyes, and she bit her lip. He reached across the table and took her hands in his. "So Mark is still wearing blinders." Not Mark, she thought. She was the one who wore blinders. How else would she have plunged herself into such a hopeless situation? There was no way she could win. She was as terrified as if she'd been shoved on the concert stage without knowing one note of the music. A hearty familiar laugh exploded at the other end of the bar, and Christy looked up quickly to recognize Sam Douglas's broad back. He gestured grandly to a small group of men around him. Mark stood in their midst facing her. She met his deep blue eyes, and they looked through her, cold as a winter freeze. Only a lift of his brow indicated he recognized her. She pulled her hands from Ryan's warm clasp. What Mark must think! With every breath she despised the look of duplicity and wished by some miracle that Martha and Carol would walk in that instant to join them. You fool, why all this panic, she asked herself. You're perfectly innocent Anyway, you should realize by now that Mark doesn 't give a damn what you do. She managed to keep her voice steady as she asked Ryan about his Sea House, then fixed her eyes on his face in a kind of desperate attention. Once she stole a swift glance at Mark and caught the rusty curl of his hair, his wide shoulders in the well-tailored business suit, the assurance of his stance, and drilled every detail into her memory so that it both intoxicated and panicked her. Eventually Sam's party disappeared with their drinks into an adjacent sheltered alcove. Christy rose. "I'm hungry," she lied. "Isn't it time to meet our shoppers?" To Christy's relief, all through lunch Carol and Aunt Martha babbled about their purchases and their trip to the lake. Christy barely touched the icy fruit salad as she willed Mark to come into the dining room. Meanwhile she hoped the intuitive Ryan would not detect her inner turmoil. Later he took them home with a promise to invite them all to Sea House as soon as Carol and Martha returned from their vacation. MARK DIDN'T COME HOME for dinner that evening, nor did he call. Wrapping up the Australian contract consumed a good many hours apparently. Martha finished packing, and she and Carol retired early so they would be fresh for tomorrow's journey. Christy puttered around the house, pulled out a few wilted flowers from a bouquet and rearranged it, thumbed through a magazine and finally settled in a chair to work on the infant afghan Aunt Martha had taught her how to crochet. The baby seemed unusually active tonight. She supposed she would never get over the wonder and mystery at feeling that assertive little being tend to its daily exercise. One could get so preoccupied with the whole phenomenon! No wonder every pregnant woman felt as if she were having the world's first baby. It was almost midnight when Mark finally arrived. He nodded briefly at her and went to the liquor cabinet and poured a brandy. She caught her breath when she saw him full in the light, eyes bloodshot, face scowling so horrendously he must hold enough fury to fire off a rocket. Oh, Lord, something must have gone wrong. What if she and Ryan had spoiled Mark's grand chance, after all? "Can I get you something? A sandwich? Some coffee?" she asked carefully. Her words might have glanced off a deaf and indifferent wall. Moments later he stared at her as if he only then noticed her. Go away, Christy. Don't bother me, his look implied. He downed the brandy, poured another, then settled in a chair and picked up a newspaper. He fixed his attention so rigidly Christy knew he didn't read it. "I hope you're not drinking all that brandy on an empty stomach?" she said. He flung down his paper. "Dammit, leave me alone. I ate at the airport." Christy's eyes widened as she watched him recede again into some private maelstrom. The silence crept over and around them as if to obliterate her, but she felt compelled to break through.

"Something has happened, Mark. Can't you talk about it?" He loosened his tie and jerked it off. "Well, if you must know, the deal is off, down the drain!" She swallowed hard and forced herself to ask the dread question. "I hope it wasn't anything I might have said to... to anyone." He looked at her as if he viewed her through a microscope and felt repelled by what he saw. "Don't worry. You and your Ryan had nothing to do with it. The decision was made to award the director's position to the son of the largest investor, the young fellow I met for dinner at the country club a while back. No experience, but a nice guy just out of college. They like my plan just fine with some minor alterations - such as using me for the consultant. I'd have no part of the real action. Thanks, but no thanks. I pulled out completely." "Oh, Mark, how unfair! All that work! Months down the drain!" His mouth twisted. "Well, for God's sake, you needn' t hold a requiem mass!" She tried to assess the retort as a safety valve released against his disappointment, but it hurt that he wouldn't accept her sympathy. "It's been a frustrating year, hasn't it?" "Well, my dear, it will soon be over, and the sooner the better for you, I gather. Incidentally that was a cozy little scene I witnessed at the Hamilton House today." Her hackles rose. "Ryan took us all to lunch, Carol, Aunt Martha and me," she said stiffly. "A mighty refreshing change, I might add. Ryan and I had a drink while Aunt Martha and Carol finished their shopping. I find it a rather innocent excursion compared to your weekend with Darcy." He glared at her fiercely. "Darcy and I have certain priorities that have nothing to do with you." "I accept that, so why should you object to my friendship with Ryan, and I do mean friendship. After all, we didn't include any specifics regarding such relationships in our marriage contract." "Don't you mean our contract for disaster?" he snapped. She felt sick and swung away so he couldn't see her face. The room was silent except for the delicate whir of the electric clock as it marked their wounding words. "Yes, I guess you could say that," she said huskily. "Right from the very start." "Oh, it's not your fault. I accept the blame," he added quickly. "Unfortunately I didn't come to my senses in time." She looked at him with sudden insight. "Meaning, I suppose, that you should have left my bed a lot sooner, even if you visited it at all?" "Precisely." "Very interesting. I hadn't imagined you'd resort to fraud." "Fraud! What the hell are you talking about?" "You got what you wanted, didn't you?" she cried. He didn't answer for a moment, and the pause became a chasm between them. "No, my dear, I did not get what I wanted," he said finally. "So the Australian deal bombed; that basically wasn't the issue. What about my part of the bargain? If that's what you planned, I'd say I've been had! Used!" She started to walk from the room. He reached out and grabbed her, then whirled her around to face him. "Oh, no, you don't!" "You're hurting me!" she cried and tried to pull away. "Damn it! Listen to me. It's a lot more my fault than yours that I went along with that insane scheme of yours. And it's a hell of a sure thing it was my fault that you got pregnant right off. This whole deal has been driving me up the wall for months. Neither of us thought through what it really meant to give up a child. As a matter of fact, when the reality finally hit me, I made the decision not to go through with it. God knows, I went over all your arguments a hundred times, but the only conclusion I could reach was to break my word. I was all set to tell you." "Oh, you were. When?"

"You probably won't believe it, but on the very night I learned you were pregnant." He released her, and it seemed as if he'd withdrawn every ounce of her strength. Apparently some memory tugged briefly at his expression, then disappeared like a candle flame suddenly extinguished. "I admit I had a special concern of my own," he continued. "But it didn't work out, and when I faced up to the real issue, I realized I did not want to give up my child." Our child, she thought bleakly. "So if I hadn't conceived so soon, you would have dissolved the contract by now, annulled the marriage?" "As matters have turned out, don't you believe that would have been best?" The odd gentleness of his tone did not blur the sting of his meaning. She sat down. Mark was right, of course. Long before she felt the baby move, she knew she'd entangled herself in a monstrous dilemma. "Don't play God," Mark had warned. The advice haunted her throughout the days of their marriage. "Well?" he insisted when she didn't reply. She shook her head. "I've been in such a turmoil, I hardly know what to believe." "What makes you think it's been any different for me?" He stood with fists clenched, mouth obdurate. "So what do you want from me?" she cried. "An orgy of self-analysis? Ashes and sackcloth?" Did he think he had a corner on all the unhappiness in their arrangement? "Okay, I'll say it. The contract has torn up our lives. I was a fool to propose it!" He turned away from her, his fists still clenched. "I agree," he said, and she couldn't tell whether he sounded angry or bitter. "To be perfectly honest, it would have been better if we'd never met." So he spoke out at last. She'd known it for a long time, but the hearing made it infinitely harder to bear. She turned away, and the roaring in her ears grew so loud that she didn't know when he left the room. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE NEXT MORNING Christy rose while Mark still slept. She dressed quickly and tiptoed downstairs. Coward, she chided herself. You can't face making conversation after last night's scene so you scurry for a buffer. She plugged in the coffeepot and stirred the batter for French toast, and to her relief a half hour later everyone came down to breakfast at once. She caught the fresh scent of Mark's after-shave as he sat down across from her and wondered why it almost moved her to tears. Aunt Martha plunged into a detailed description of what to expect on today's plane ride for Carol, who had never flown. Carol hung on every word, hardly eating a bite of her cereal. Mark added an occasional comment and frequently looked at his watch. "I'll be leaving this morning, too," he said. Christy tried not to show surprise. "Oh, a change of plans?" Mark pushed back his chair. "Not really. I've neglected preparations for the San Diego convention because of work here, so thought I'd go down a couple of days early, hole up and get things in order." Aunt Martha looked sharply from Mark to Christy. "Good heavens, we're all taking off like a flock of geese! What time does your plane leave, Mark? Maybe we can all go to the airport together?" "Oh, yes, daddy, let's!" Carol cried. "That wouldn't work, I'm afraid," Mark said crisply. "I have to go to the office first and pick up the seminar materials, so I'll just use the copter service to the airport. Someone will run me over." End of subject. Period. Christy felt the explanation was more for her benefit than Carol's. She wondered if he would even say goodbye. Honest dialogue had ceased between them. Only the bridge of hurtful words remained, and they'd already crossed that too many times. How would they get through the next few months? Christy suspected Mark had already discovered the means in the out-of-town trips.

A few minutes later he paused at the door and set down his suitcases. "It's great of you to treat Carol to this vacation, Martha." He kissed her on the cheek. "I'm sure Christy can use the rest." Aunt Martha bustled discreetly upstairs then, no doubt thinking to give him a private leave-taking with his family, Christy thought wryly. Mark lifted Carol in his arms. "Have fun, punkin. I'll miss you." He nuzzled her cheek, then looked across at Christy, who clutched a dish towel as if she needed it to survive and fixed her eyes on some vague spot above his head. "Have a good trip," she said and forced her hands to remain quiet. He set Carol down, took a step toward her and looked as if he were about to speak, then instead, abruptly picked up his suitcases. "Take care," he said gruffly and left. They might have met once before by chance. She felt as if a torch went out, a curtain closed. The roar of his car seemed unusually loud as he backed out of the driveway, but maybe it was her imagination. No one else seemed to take notice. Christy tried to keep her mind blank as she checked Carol's suitcase. This was no time for self-pity. If only she could anesthetize her feelings. Later, as the three drove to the airport, she had the odd sensation that landmarks popped into place like colors slides from a projector with no linkage at all: Marin's oak-covered hills, the patchwork quilt of Sausalito houseboats, then the view from the Golden Gate Bridge. Today myriad sailboats whitecapped the blue water. Meanwhile, Aunt Martha chattered with unceasing zeal. Thank God for the cloud cover of garrulous aunts. At last they took the off ramp into the airport. By the time they checked luggage and walked the long concourse to the waiting room, it was almost departure time. Christy heard Carol whispering to Aunt Martha. "Now, Aunt Martha, now?" she persisted. "No, darling, we have about five minutes yet until we board the plane." "No, not that. You know!" "Well, of course. My goodness, I almost forgot!" Martha opened her handbag. "I didn't forget," Carol said and hovered impatiently as Martha rummaged in her purse and finally pulled out a small box. Carol took it and shyly put it in Christy's hand. "I bought you a present when we went shopping yesterday." Christy felt so surprised at Carol's unusual gesture that she stared speechless at the gift. Carol pushed it more firmly into Christy's hands. "Hurry up, don't you want to open it?" Christy lifted the lid and pulled away tissue to reveal a blue rattle shaped like a tiny player piano. Soft tinkling notes sounded as she shook it. "It's for our baby brother!" Carol cried. "Oh, Carol." Christy's throat suddenly constricted, and tears welled over. Carol stared in dismay. "Don't you like it?" she asked. Christy flung her arms around the child and hugged her close. "Of course, I do, darling. It's a beautiful gift." This time Carol did not pull away. She nestled her head against Christy's shoulder and held quiet. There was no return hug, nor even a kiss, but Christy didn't expect that. Carol's acceptance of her embrace had been miracle enough. WHEN CHRISTY RETURNED HOME, the silence seemed almost as awesome as thunder. Mark was gone. Still, something of him remained. On an end table a magazine lay folded just as he left it. She could recall the exact way his hair curled at the back of his neck as he bent to read. She hurried to the kitchen and cleaned the refrigerator as if her life depended on accomplishing the chore in exactly ten minutes. Then she checked and watered all the houseplants. The time moved sluggishly, but she told herself she ought to feel grateful for the petty tasks. They acted as a scaf- fold, albeit fragile, on which to hang her desolation, and served as a discipline to make her move and act. Otherwise she wondered if she might not succumb to some inner panic that urged her simply to curl up and cease to function. She walked around the house, moved a chair, slapped a book into place and

ran an aggressive glissando across the piano keys to relieve the silence. You're acting paranoid, she accused. What's new about loneliness? You've lived alone with Mark almost from the start. But she couldn't handle loneliness, she admitted at last. Loneliness could kill one's spirit. She'd wrestled with the idea all her life. She supposed she'd confused it with solitude, something quite different. Yes, she needed intimacy, the intimacy of shared conversation and shared confidence; solitary self-sufficiency was not enough. She needed the intimacy of mutual caring and human touch. Touch nourished a physical need in a way that could not be duplicated. When they'd first met, Mark had shown her that truth. She thought of the times she'd pulled away when he touched her, rebuffing his most casual gestures of affection. Still, if she'd responded as she'd felt like doing, where would pride be now? Mark emerged secure; Darcy, Carol and the challenge of work filled his needs, and in that world she and their unborn child were not persons. There were too many ghosts in this house. They confused her thinking. Suddenly she knew where she might escape. Ryan's cottage. He'd offered it several times. Perhaps a week at the seashore would give her a chance to think things out. Every sandpiper inspecting the final wash of a wave, each anemone flowering in a tide pool had a profound sense of who it was. Perhaps they could help her make sense of her own life. Her watch showed four o'clock. Ryan might still be in his office. She hurried down the hill to the school. Doors stood open to air summer paint jobs. She poked her head into several rooms and finally found him in the book depository at the top of a ladder. He descended in quick agile steps. "Christy, dar-lin'!" he cried, dusted his hands on his jeans, moved a pile of books off a chair and motioned her into it. "Welcome to chaos!" "Inventory time?" she asked. "Just trying to get things in order for the new principal." He rummaged through a paper bag on the desk. "I can offer you a Big Mike candy bar, a lukewarm Coke or a slightly used peanut-butter sandwich. End of hospitality gesture." He grinned at her over the untidy remnants. She returned the smile. Ryan's good humor brought unfailing comfort like the warmth of a good wool blanket. "As a matter of fact, the sandwich doesn't sound half-bad. I forgot about lunch." He handed it to her. She unwrapped it, aware of his surveillance. "Something on your mind?" he asked after a few moments. "Not lunch, obviously." She decided to come straight to the point. "I wonder if I could use your Sea House for a week, Ryan. That is, if you have no plans for it? My family all left today for points north and south, and what with the heat, I thought a change of pace would be restful." Don't belabor the excuse, she warned herself, and for heaven's sake, keep it light. Ryan shoved over a pile of books and sat down opposite to her. "And where did Mark go? Off to Australia? I mean, with all those brochures lying around your place, someone must be going there." Christy brushed some crumbs from her lap. Answers could be so simple. "No, that had to do with some figures on rental machinery for an Australian firm. He's at a convention in San Diego." Don't press, Ryan, she pleaded silently. Just answer yes or no. "I mean this as a business proposition, of course. I'd like to rent your place." "You're welcome to Sea House, and I'll take no pay for it. Count it small thanks for past hospitality, if you wish. And if you won't consider me a three-dimensional old snoop, why the sudden urge for seclusion?" "You do have a poky nose, Dr. Freud." She managed an indifferent shrug. "The fact is, I've had company for weeks on end, and I'd like to put my head in figurative slippers for a while." "And in twenty-four hours you'll yearn for your piano and people again. Me, for instance." He grinned engagingly.

"Ryan, you never were subtle, and that magnificently innocent smile of yours doesn't fool me one whit." "Why, Christy, you know very well I haven't a devious bone in my body." "I know, just a lamb in lamb's clothing." "Now where did you find a quotation like that?" "Ibid, I think the name is - some descendant of Confucius. Well, Ryan, how about it, is your cottage free this week?" He turned serious as he took the key off a ring. "When do you want to go?" "To be honest, this very minute. But I've a few things to do at home first. I'll probably drive out sometime tomorrow morning." "I'll call Mrs. Baxter, then. She's a neighbor who looks after the place for me. Her husband will fill the woodbox for you and lay a fire in case you need it." He handed her the key. "Take care, darlin'." Her eyes misted at the recollection of Mark's almost identical parting words this morning. She felt relieved at having kept the conversation on a fairly even keel. She wasn't at all sure how she would have coped if Ryan had prodded her about Mark. Ryan's insights always splintered her defenses. The late-afternoon sun caught dust motes and screened Ryan's head in a golden haze. His could have been the classic aristocratic face on some shining coin. But behind those buccaneer eyes and the flamboyant self-assurance lived the Ryan who cared about people. She leaned over and kissed him. "Thanks for everything, dear friend," she said. She'd imagined that nothing in this world could unhinge Ryan O'Rourke, but the look on his face warned her to leave. Fast. SHE'D BARELY WALKED into the house when the telephone rang. "Christy? Is Mark there?" Today Darcy's modulated voice sounded cool and businesslike. Christy explained Mark's absence in as few words as possible. She had no intention of admitting that Mark had not told her what day he planned to return. "Well, ask him to call as soon as he comes in. It's rather important. I suppose Mark has told you our news," Darcy continued. "I hope it won't be too hard on you, what with the baby coming. Of course, it's not as if the whole idea were sprung on you, so to speak. After all, you've had a while to get used to it." Darcy prattled on, and Christy wasn't sure whether she answered or even said goodbye. Were their plans all wrapped up, then? Mark surely must have explained the contract to Darcy, otherwise she wouldn't have spoken so plainly. Darcy was right. It came as no surprise that they planned to reunite their family. But somehow Christy had hoped Mark would be gallant enough to see the contract through to the end, bitter as it had become. Of course, if she stepped aside now, the legal necessities could be set in motion that much sooner. Did they expect it of her? Well, she wouldn't wait around until they asked. She would drive down to pay an extended visit to Beth and Richard. She had no idea what she'd tell them. Anyway, as soon as the baby came, she'd give it to Beth and Richard and return to New York. Let the tongues wag forever. She made the decision so quickly she felt light-headed, as if propelled by some inner force that took her breath away. She must leave before Mark returned. That gave her at least a week to pack and store her things and put the house in order. She'd write a note to signify the end of the contract, something brief, no redundancies, no sentiment. Just a bare-bones statement. Wasn't that her forte? The situation clamored for a tidy exit. First, she would call Beth and Richard and ask if it were a convenient time to make her visit. She dialed their number and let it ring a half-dozen times before hanging up. They must have gone out to dinner. She'd call later. In the meantime, there was plenty to do. The doorbell rang, offending her as it jerked her momentum to a halt. She opened the door to a grinning Sam Douglas. "Hot damn, I caught you home!" he cried and gave her the usual hearty hug. "Why Sam, I thought you went to San Diego with Mark?" She motioned him in.

He fairly bounced into the room. "Pot perking too pretty here at home. Wait until you hear the big news!" "Well, you'd better tell me, Sam. You look as if you're about to burst. Sherry?" She offered to pour from the carafe on the coffee table as they sat down. "No, thanks. Right now we need a whole case of champagne." He slapped both hands on his knees and leaned forward. "Hang onto your hat, girl. In a couple of months you leave for Germany!" "Germany, Sam? What on earth are you talking about?" "The German investors who visited last week, they've voted to hire Mark to set up a rental franchise throughout West Germany. He'll be the director with a salary that makes that Australian deal look like chicken feed, and a contract with Douglas Enterprises to supply a substantial percentage of the tools and machinery." Christy swayed a little and tried to arrange her face in the reaction Sam expected, to form the words she ought to say. "When did you find out?" she said finally. He chuckled. "Sort of set you on your ear, didn't I? Well, I've known they were considering the deal right along, but I wanted to play it cool after that Australian fiasco. Strauss called an hour ago, wants Mark and me to meet them next month at the Frankfurt office to sign the contract and get things rolling. Mind if I have a brandy?" He went to the liquor cabinet, and poured a glass and lifted it in a toast. "Those fellows seemed mighty impressed with you and Mark. Called you quite a team. And, sweetheart, they said you'd be a special asset in the business." He winked. "You probably helped tilt the decision in Mark's favor. That's what your party did, all right. What did I tell you? The homey touch gets 'em every time!" Christy felt as if she were going to be sick. "Don't tell me Mark's marital status is of concern in this job?" "Hell, no, not any more than for San Felipe. But you'd better believe they consider you a mighty special dividend." An explosive throbbing began inside her head. Had she heard correctly? " 'Any more than for San Felipe,' Sam? Didn't you specify a married man for this job?" He laughed heartily. "Don't tell me Mark used the ploy to hook you? Oh, sure, I admit that up to then I'd had such a policy, but Mark talked me out of it. Guess he decided it was time to teach an old dog new tricks. But you can bet your bottom dollar I was mighty pleased when you came into the picture, Christy." She felt bewildered. Throughout the past months she'd drawn the consolation that at least she'd made it possible for Mark to get the job he wanted so much. But it hadn't been true. A lot must have happened after the night she first met him when he showed such disappointment. Why hadn't he told her about Sam's change of heart! And why had he married her? On the rebound after his painful divorce? To hurt Darcy? It seemed as if the last shreds of her pride had been torn away. She poured a glass of sherry and tried to sip it, but her fingers shook so that she gripped the glass with both hands and held it in her lap instead. Sam continued to chatter, then a little later looked at her expectantly. She realized she hadn't heard a word he'd said. "I'm sorry, Sam. What did you say?" Sam looked puzzled and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I said, let's call Mark and give him the good news." He articulated the words slowly and patiently as if explaining to someone not very bright. Her eyes met his in silent response. Oh, Sam, dear, I'm sorry I can't manage the ecstatic reaction you 've a right to expect. She stared at him helplessly. "Well, shall we?" he insisted. "Yes. No. That is, you're the one to tell him, Sam." She squeezed the glass so hard she wondered that it didn't shatter. She willed him to leave. Please go, Sam. Now.

Sam reached over and touched her arm, his effervescence gone. "Are you all right, Christy, honey?" "Oh, you know pregnant women, utterly unpredictable." She gave a shrug and knocked her glass against the coffee table. It shattered, spilling the golden liquid on the rug. She ran for a towel, grateful for the diversion. "No, I don't know a damn thing about pregnant women," he said as she mopped up the wine. "I wish I did. I've wished it often," he said wistfully. Christy thought of the disillusionment to come and knew how much she hated to hurt him. She gathered the broken glass and wrapped it in a paper while Sam shifted his weight and didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. "Damn it, I'm a bungling old fool to butt in and upset you like this. I should have let Mark give you the news, but hell, he doesn't even know it yet himself." She took in his distress. "Mark thinks of you as a father. You brought off the deal, Sam. You're the one to tell him." "Well, okay," he said doubtfully. "I'll put in a call from the hotel. No, no, don't you get up. I want you to lie down for a while, you hear? You look mighty pale to me. Can I get you an aspirin or something?" "Thanks, Sam. I'll be all right." He started for the door. "And, Christy, I'll give him your love." The final irony, she thought. "Yes, do that," she said with a sob and knew her voice held an edge of hysteria. Sam darted her an astounded look, then left, closing the door carefully as if she were an invalid. She pressed her fingers to her temple. Think, she ordered. Get yourself in gear. Find paper, a pencil. A t least, you can make a list. Pack, she wrote and stared at the word for a full minute. Call Beth. Make plane reservations. Return Ryan's key. Make a note of Darcy's message. Was that all it took to end their relationship? There must be more, but she felt too weary to think of any. She wadded the list and threw it into the wastebasket. She'd make plans later, after she called Richard and Beth. She dialed the number. Beth answered at once, and her voice rang with a special vitality across the distance. "Christy! Darling, you must have E.S.P. I planned to call you in a few minutes. Oh, Chris, the most marvelous thing has happened. I'm going to have twins!" Christy felt as if she'd had a sudden punch in the midsection. "Twins, Beth? What on earth are you saying?" Beth's laugh made a lilting glissando. "Not me, silly. We're adopting. We signed the papers an hour ago. It all happened so fast I'm still in shock." "Tell me," Christy said weakly. "A girl in one of Richard's classes got pregnant. She's very cool about it all, won't even tell the baby's father. She's a premed student with a scholarship to an eastern college and determined to continue her education. She'd already contacted an adoption agency, then the doctor told her she would have twins. It seemed the agency won't guarantee not to separate them. She spilled her problem to Richard after class a couple of days ago, and you can imagine the rest. Oh, God, I can't believe I'm so lucky! I never dared hope, you know, not even once." "When, Beth?" "Would you believe they are due in a couple of months? But multiple births are usually premature. They can arrive anytime. I'm practically delirious!" "Oh, Beth." Christy couldn't keep the sob from her voice. "I know, darling, I'm so happy I've been crying half the time myself. I'll let you know the minute they are born. Maybe you will come down and stay with me for a few weeks? That would be perfect." "Of course, I'll come the moment you need me." Somehow Christy managed a warm goodbye although her lips felt so wooden she could barely form the words. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHRISTY REPLACED THE RECEIVER and felt the Roman-candle explosion of Beth' s message fizzle into a charred shaft. She must pull herself together, come to terms with the person she had now become, a woman unwanted, her gift unsought. Her thoughts fragmented as if she tried to sort out pieces of shattered glass too hazardous to handle. "But I can keep my baby!" she cried aloud as the truth burst upon her, then said it again and wondered at the answer that came to the prayer she never dared to pray. She hugged herself hard as if by doing so she could embrace her child, then walked around as if dazed, allowing the reality to seep into every pore. But heartbreak edged her joy. Was she made of the stuff that enabled one to act as both father and mother? Oh, Mark! Would she ever get over the pain of loving this man who didn't love her? The best of times had been when they were first married, and she'd lain in his arms and pretended they could love each other for the rest of their lives. But morning came and pretending was over. She seemed numbed by a feeling of helplessness that had gone on forever. God, what was she to do now? She paced the room. Once she stopped at her piano and fingered vague chord progressions, but they sounded blatant and profane. Hours later, too spent to climb the stairs to her bedroom, she lay down on the couch, but every nerve remained taut as she tried to deal with the implication of Beth's news. Near dawn she dozed in fitful exhaustion. SHE WOKE THE NEXT MORNING with a start, chilled to the bone. The room seemed dark and cold even though it was almost nine-thirty. Through the window she saw that the fog hung thick and damp. The long heat spell had finally broken. She inhaled the air greedily as if its freshness might heal her bruised mind and aching body, then rubbed the stiffness from an arm and swung her feet heavily to the floor. The mirror reflected swollen eyelids and a wan face. She felt dehydrated, wrung out, with a brain that barely functioned. She showered and dressed in a wool jumper and silk blouse. There was something she must do. Pack? That was it. First she made some coffee and poured a bowl of dry cereal, but the sight of food made her ill. She went to the garage and hauled in some cartons, filled them with her books and music, then labeled them with her name. Already the room looked anonymous. The bookcases yawned like mouths with missing teeth, and her piano, closed and minus music and metronome, was just another piece of furniture. She ought to call the storage van. Later. She had to get away from this house. Here she couldn't think or reason or know what to do. She would go out to Ryan's cottage for a few days, then come back and finish her work. Mark would be in San Diego for at least a week, maybe two. The convention hadn't even started yet. Maybe the vastness of the ocean would help shrink her problems into reasonable perspective. Lord, what a mess she'd made. She'd planned so carefully; she'd been so sure of herself and taken such firm charge of her emotions. But now, after all, she felt only weakness and defeat. And, she admitted, terror. It was almost noon when she packed a bag and found her purse and car keys. The gas gauge showed nearly empty. When she coasted into the service station and stopped, steam poured from the radiator. The attendant opened the hood and peered inside. After a few minutes he came around to her door. "Plenty water, ma'am. Looks like your thermostat conked out. We don't carry none here." She stared at him. His face seemed blurred, out of focus. "We don't carry none," he repeated, showing impatience at her lack of response. His voice sounded faraway, diminished by the drumbeat of Mark's warning: Don't play God! But she had, and now she must face the consequences. Maybe she ought to tell this man. "What shall I do?" she asked finally.

He seemed to size her up, and some protective urge surfaced. "I'll call the downtown garage and see if they'll run one out." She nodded assent. "How long?" "Depends on how busy they are. An hour or two, maybe." She supposed she must have spent the time walking to a market. At least, three hours later when the car was finally repaired, she found a bag of groceries in the back seat. She looked at her watch with dismay. It would take an aeon to drive to the coast unless this fog lifted. She'd counted on arriving in time to take a long walk on the beach. She crept through San Felipe's suburbs and into the country, traveling through a shrouded gray world. Vineyards were out there somewhere, and a few miles farther, dairy farms, but she could not see them. Thick veils of fog flowed against the car almost blinding her. She turned on the wipers and felt a floating sensation. She saw herself drifting aimlessly in the mist, a solitary woman who had come to the end of her resources, without the strength or will to try anymore. The fog swirled and barely rose to provide limited vision under the low ceiling, and she began to race like a homing fox to its hole near the sea. Sheep at the roadside flicked by like phantoms. She glanced at the speedometer. Why hadn't the mechanic repaired it? She certainly was not going seventy miles an hour. Or was she? The brakes screeched as the car took a curve and tilted sickeningly on one side, then the other, skidded and finally righted itself to hurtle up the steep rise of the oncoming hill. At last she caught the scent of salty seawater and heard the moan of some distant foghorn. As she rounded a long curve, the fog lifted abruptly to reveal the ocean, its dark pewter yielding quickly to turquoise. Straight ahead a gull balanced on the wind over a huge bald rock that thrust itself up from the shoreline, rising in two ragged peaks, angry fists threatening the sky. On one, a cormorant hunched motionless, painted on the landscape. As if it were a magnet, the dark rock drew the highway into a convenient viewing area. Christy parked the car and got out. She leaned against the barbed-wire fence and viewed the sheer drop that offered scarcely a foothold. Water thrashed and undulated below in perilous riptides, sending up a continuous hiss that both repelled and fascinated her. She crawled through a stretch of the wire and inched out on the rock in order to see the angry green water pummel and roil in its backwash. Moussorgsky could have set it to music, she thought and felt raw exhilaration compound from the sight and sound of it. Suddenly a wave shot high, spouting up like a geyser and drenched her with icy foam. For a second she wavered, then fell to her knees, gasping with shock, while she watched the rogue wave descend in a raging waterfall. Had she been a foot lower on the rock, she could have been swept into that caldron. My God! What was she doing here? What gray desire, what grim anesthetic had overcome her? Trembling violently, she pulled herself to safety, then stumbled back to the car. Could seasons and events sometimes shape one's acts beyond one's will? She jerked open her suitcase, found a towel and dried herself, then turned on the heater and sat until the warmth penetrated her shivering body and calmed her pounding pulses. Get on with it, she told herself angrily. You're responsible for your own actions, and don't you forget it. She drove again, cautiously now, and counted the beaches. Pebble Creek, Salmon Strand, Abalone Bay. It was a mile beyond Reed's Cove, Ryan had said. She slowed for a throng of bicyclers, their bright backpacks wavering across the road like a fall of confetti, then except for an occasional farmhouse, she seemed to move through a deserted world. A wooded ridge swept down in a broad expanse of sheep-bitten turf to precipitous cliffs that edged the ocean. Remnant fog fingers gave it an impressionistic quality, not quite real. Then as she crested a hill, she saw a cluster of cottages. She could have told which one belonged to Ryan had there been a dozen. Constructed of redwood and glass, it perched on the brink of the cliff with gables that lifted like

wings, an impudent seabird poised for flight. She checked the number and coasted into the driveway. Smoke curled from the chimney. She blessed Ryan for his thoughtfulness in alerting the caretaker and carried her suitcase over the stepping-stones to the doorway. Ice plant bordered the walk, and a wind-sculptured cypress stood at the entrance. She inserted the key, but the caretaker had left the door open. Once inside, she stood on the threshold and took in the character of the spacious room. Fire burned briskly in a huge fieldstone fireplace at the far end, with leather chairs and a sofa nearby. A wall of glass seemed to bring the ocean to the very hearth side, and the rough wood paneling of the walls was hung with watercolors and oils, all seascapes. Near her, several music stands crowded a rather beat-up old spinet, while a cello case leaned affectionately against it. The house exuded peace. If one could find support in environment, she could find it here. And if she were going to fall apart, no one in the world need know how frightened and lost she'd become. She leaned back against the door. Lord, she was tired. A nebulous rustle sounded somewhere in the room. "What took you so long?" asked a masculine voice. A rusty head appeared above one of the chairs, and Mark rose to face her. The splendid blue of his eyes matched the glistening sea behind him, but they held an undefinable expression. He stood unbelievably still. The room began to blur and tilt sideways, but Mark still remained. He was no apparition. But he was supposed to be in San Diego. How did he know she'd come here? "Mark, is it really you?" Her voice sounded husky from the dryness in her throat. "I returned this morning," he said without inflection. "Oh, yes, the German contract. Congratulations." She dug her hands in her pockets as if to ferret out some vestige of poise. "No, not that. You, Christy," he said and strode over to her, moving fast. His words made no sense. We're still poles apart, not even within shouting distance, she thought and looked at him for one long despairing moment. Then suddenly in a motion she could not restrain, she leaned forward and clung to him. "Oh, Mark, hold me. Please, just hold me." His arms went swiftly around her and pressed her so close she could barely breathe. "Do you have any idea how I've longed to hear you say that?" he said and buried his face in her hair. They rocked together while he said her name over and over in a way she'd remember forever. She was past words. All pride had gone and so had control. The sound of her sobs rose to fill the room in anguished crescendos. With each spasm his arms tightened, and she felt their strength reach through her coat deep .inside her. She'd never wept like this before. She'd never given in so completely to her emotions. It couldn't be happening, Christy Brandon standing in this unfamiliar room, crying out all the pain of the past months in the comfort of Mark's arms. She inhaled the warm clean scent of his cheek and grew quiet at last and let the stillness spread around them. "Why did you come?" she asked, but the answer hit her so swiftly it almost gagged the asking. Don't answer that, she almost cried aloud, because she understood now. Mark still honored the contract. He'd returned because he felt duty bound. He offered comfort solely from pity, and, she admitted, because she'd asked for it. She felt empty, as if all feeling had drained away, and she pulled out of his embrace quickly before he could reply. "Sorry, I didn't mean to drown you. Honest. Just some more of my frailties showing." He framed her face in his hands. "And about time. I prefer a few imperfections, you know. But your weakness, my darling, is your exaggerated sense of responsibility." She bowed her head and covered her face. She wished the ringing in her ears would stop. It wasn't fair that her hearing played tricks with such

endearments. He put one hand hard on her shoulder and with the other lifted her chin and forced her to meet his eyes. "Oh, my dear, you still don't understand, do you?" He kissed her. "1 love you. I married you because I was in love with you." His words eddied around her, warring against confusion. Then he pulled her to him. At last she knew the truth, tangible and warm as the arms that now held her. And for a little while they gave in to their hunger, to make up for the wasted months behind them. Only later did she pull back to say "But all this time I thought you loved Darcy, that you planned to go back to her." "What on earth are you saying?" "It seemed so obvious to me. I mean, the way you always looked at her I couldn't help but think you compared us. She is so gorgeous, Mark, so full of warmth and charm, I felt downright drab alongside her. When you made love to me, I felt sure you imagined you still held her in your arms. Then Carol dropped some remarks. There were Darcy's phone calls and all that business at Tahoe. What else could I believe?" He gripped her shoulders. "You believed that! Listen. In the beginning I loved the person I thought Darcy was, but then she got pregnant and the illusion exploded. It was hell. You must have noticed how she rarely lets anything get in her way. Well, she insisted on an abortion, and when I refused to allow it, everything ended between us. Her theatrical agent came later, but by that time I didn't care. Oh, we stuck it out until she got herself launched on an acting career. Darcy has a compulsion to be on stage, center front in full spotlight at all times. That scene gets to you after a while. She has warmth, all right, the kind that sears and devours you. Beauty and charm? She uses them like a calculator to manipulate everyone around her." "I wish you had told me," Christy said but knew it didn't matter now. "How could I when you kept quoting that damned contract?" he said. "Anyway, if your actions were any key, I felt fenced out by barbed wire, a brimstone moat and a chain of snowcapped mountains." She smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder. "That bad? Well, you see, I didn't know how to behave around someone I wasn't supposed to love." He lifted her chin and kissed her again, not gently. A kiss like that meant what it said; a kiss like that could banish the devouring loneliness she'd felt for so long. All the doubts that plagued her melted away, and her arms slipped around his neck. They clung together while she drank in the exquisite feeling of their closeness as if she couldn't get enough of it and wondered if her body could hold the joy that filled it. Just outside, the sea glistened like sapphire, cloud skeins made delicate traceries on the sky, and the rhythmic wash of the breakers sounded all around them. They stood in the little vortex of their radiant world, not wanting to move or speak. It had an intoxicating perfection. At last he released her. He grinned, and it made him look boyish. "Well, now, Mrs. B. isn't it about time you took off your hat and coat and stayed awhile?" She slipped out of her coat and scarf and laid them over a chair. "You're going too fast for me, and I love it. But I'm breathless! You wouldn't have a spare set of brakes around, would you?" '"'Not a chance." He led her to the sofa, then stirred the fire so that it crackled, shot sparks and flamed again. He sat down beside her and laid his hand against her cheek and pushed a wavy lock back over her ear. She covered his hand with hers. "I always loved the way you used to do that," she said. "Well, you had a mighty strange way of showing it, my girl. It hurt like hell the way you stiffened whenever I touched you, the way you never seemed to need me." She nodded. "And the awful way we never said anything to each other except

the price of mushrooms or who was coming to dinner. It was the contract. I felt honor bound. How did I ever talk you into it?" "I'm the one who talked you into this marriage if you recall, and the answer to that, my love, is a tribute to my towering ego. I could see quite well what lay under that prim reserve of yours and felt confident I could break it down in no time at all. I didn't know you had a lion in you." "Well, to take the words from your mouth, you had a mighty strange way of showing it, all those clandestine meetings with Darcy!" "I suspected you believed that, and I let you. Not very admirable of me, I admit. Purely my contemptible nature striking back because of Ryan. Incidentally how do you rate at forgiving?" "Superb." "Darling, Darcy and I were arranging some legal matters. She finally achieved her heart's desire, a contract with some theater group, and she's giving me full custody of Carol." "Oh, Mark, how marvelous!" The words sounded banal considering the way she felt, but at the moment she could only think in superlatives. "And speaking of marvels, I guess I'm thickheaded, but I still don't understand your miraculous appearance." "Good. Be a lamebrain for a minute," he teased. She made a face. "I'm afraid that description is too accurate for comfort." "Join my club," he said wryly. "At least, you had a guardian angel. As a matter of fact, it turned out you owned quite a crew. Sam called last night more or less threatening to sic the National Guard on me, plus the air force and the whole U.S. Army if I didn't come back and look after you. I'm afraid I was so blinded by my own state of mind I was completely insensitive to yours. I thought he was off his rocker until I got home this noon and saw all those boxes stacked in the living room. Sam hadn't the vaguest notion where you'd gone, and I was downright unnerved until I remembered my wife makes lists." He pulled out a crumpled paper. "Pack," he read. "Call Richard and Beth." He paused and reached for her hand. "I know their good news, and I can imagine what went through that head of yours." They didn't say anything for a few moments, but his touch in the silence was as full of comfort as if he had spoken. He went back to the list. "Return Ryan's key." He gave her a lopsided grin. "I'll admit that one had me worried." "You talked to Ryan?" she said, astonished. "Barely." He grimaced. "Ryan did the talking and delivered quite a lecture, I might add. In fact, I got the same theme with variations from Martha and Sam. All except you, Christy. I want to hear you say it." She leaned toward him and met his eyes squarely. "I love you, Mark Brandon," she said and felt surprised at how easy it was to say. "I've loved you almost from the beginning. I'm surprised you never saw it." She took his hand and placed it so that he could feel their baby's soft fluid movements. "Do you know the agony I faced at the thought of giving up our child? I dared not admit it. I couldn't tell you. I'd never imagined such torment." "It was agony for me, too, every time I looked at you," he said quietly. "But you warned me, Mark, quite thoroughly. By the way, how do you rate at forgiving?" "Absolutely fabulous," he said. A tender smile flickered between them, and they embraced with a gentleness that neither forced, nor insisted, but showed only gratitude for each other. Now she knew that she had left behind forever the calculated attitudes, the intellectual tyranny that masked honest communication and made a hell for them both. Behind lay the tragedy of little Davy, something she would have to live with. Ahead lay a new life for them - probably one with problems. Would she like living in Germany? What if she had to give up her music? No matter, she could meet any challenge with Mark at her side. Contentment flowed through her. "We're lucky, you and I, that we can start over," she said. But in the final analysis she knew that luck had little to do

with it. We orchestrate our own problems, she thought, and it's up to us to solve them. People make their own luck. Mark flashed the quick smile that always warmed his voice. "Start over, you say? Yes, let's, and the sooner the better. I seem to recall we had a good thing going before we blew it. But now that we're older and wiser - " he suspended the phrase while his eyes shone provocatively. "I've made a little list," he said. "First off, you play me some Chopin."