else dragging it all out into the open again—do you understand?'

  `Is she dead?'

  The question hung in the air between them. Like two stones, his eyes stared at her dispassionately. He said with a clarity and lack of emotion that must have been deliberate, 'I have no idea whether she is alive or dead.'

  As appalled as he had meant her to be, Joanna watched in silence as he got out of the car, slammed the door, and strode across the courtyard to the wide front door. Unlocking it, he disappeared inside without a backward look.

  She was shaking, horribly near tears. She had to get out of here before she began to cry like a baby. Round the oval rose garden and down the lane again, along the highway to the farmhouse: the journey seemed to take for ever. She parked the car by the house, from pure habit gave Misty an absentminded pat on the nose, and went inside. The basin and the roll of bandage were still sitting on the pine table. Sinking into a chair, Joanna rested her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands.

  When Joanna got up fifteen minutes later, she had done some very hard thinking, and it had all led to one inevitable conclusion: she must leave Stephen Moore alone, somehow forget that he even existed. Over and over again he had ordered her to do just that, and she had blithely ignored him, convinced that somehow she could help him, bring him back to life, make him whole again. Just call me Pollyanna, she thought bitterly. But after today she could no longer ignore his strictures. His sorrows were not her sorrows, his private demons nothing to do with her. And her own growing conviction that he was the one man she had been waiting for all her life she must somehow subdue. Thank God she had shared it with no one else.

  Listlessly she got up from the table and began to tidy

  the kitchen, her quite automatic actions unfortunately leaving her mind free. She was just an ordinary girl, she knew. She had had loving parents, a happy childhood, an older brother to adore; she had spent two years at a technological institute in Halifax, but apart from that she had lived all her life on the Island and had been content to do so. It didn't add up to very much. Ordinary really was the word to describe it. But Stephen Moore was not like that. His sophistication, self-confidence, and formidable intelligence were so integral a part of him that he took them for granted; he was different from her, not even remotely a part of her world, and the sooner she faced up to that the better. He was introverted where she was outgoing, cold where she was passionate, detached where she was involved. He was not for her. . . .

  She realised she was still scrubbing at the same patch on the counter long after it was spotless. With an actual effort of will she forced all thought of Stephen to the very back of her mind and began to plan her day. John would probably be home for dinner—but would he bring Stephen with him? Oh, damn . . . she was going to have to do better than that. She would make a big pot of fish chowder for supper, with cheese biscuits and a deep dish apple pie, all of John's favourites; he would probably be feeling depressed after leaving Sally. She would clean his room and run the vacuum over the rest of the house. And she'd pick some forsythia and pussy willows to brighten up the hall. What she was not going to do was sit around and mope all day.

  A praiseworthy ambition, and one she did her best to fulfil. Although she could still feel the after-effects of her bout of illness, which coupled with emotional strain had a tendency to slow her down, by the time the boys came home the house looked clean and tidy, and the chowder was simmering< on the stove. She fed them about six, cleaned up the dishes, changed into a flared moss-green skirt and tailored blouse, and sat down to wait. It was

  nearly nine when she heard the sound of tyres in the driveway. Protestingly, the boys had gone to bed half an hour earlier. Now she heard the thud of footsteps racing down the stairs. `Dad's home!' Mark yelled, but it was Brian who beat him into the kitchen and was the first to catapult into his father's arms. John hugged both his sons, attempting to answer all their excited questions, then producing letters from their mother. Only then did he give Joanna a hug, kissing her on the cheek. 'I hear you were ill on Saturday,' he said pointedly. 'Did you know you were coming down with something before I left?'

  Her smile was demure. 'How can you suggest such a thing?'

  `You knew I wouldn't have gone if I'd realised you were ill.'

  `Right on.'

  He gave her a little shake. 'You're hopeless, Jo! You still look a bit peaked.'

  Very much aware of Stephen standing silently listening, she changed the subject. 'How's Sally?'

  His face brightened. 'Much better than I'd expected. She's up walking a couple of times a day—she uses one of those metal supports, but at least she can do it. I had a long chat with the surgeon, and he thinks she may be how in three weeks.'

  `Oh John, that would be wonderful! I do hope so.'

  `So do I,' said John, a masterly understatement if Joanna had ever heard one. `Do I smell chowder? I'm starving—we didn't stop to eat because we were later than we'd expected. Pull up a chair, Stephen.'

  `I won't —

  `Yes, you will,' John interrupted ruthlessly. 'The least we can do is feed you after all you've done for us.'

  Quickly Joanna laid two places at the table, and John and Stephen began to eat, the boys listening wide-eyed as their father filled in the details of his weekend and gave them more news of their mother. Then he shooed

  them upstairs. 'Clean your teeth. I'll be right up.' Turning to Stephen, he said, 'I want to spend a few minutes with them before they go to sleep—Sally had messages for both of them. By all means stay if you want to, Stephen. But in case you leave before I come down ...' He held out his hand, his face very grave. It meant a lot to me and Sally that we could see each other this weekend—thanks. That's really all I can say.'

  The two men clasped hands and then John left the room. Stephen bent to pick up his jacket. 'Thank you for the meal, Joanna.'

  She had expected him to rush out of the door the moment John was gone. But instead he stood there holding his jacket, looking down at her as though he expected her to say something. It seemed a very long time since the morning and his precipitate leaving of her. She said uncertainly, 'Did you have a good flight?'

  `It was fine, no problems. The reason we were so late was because I went to the hospital from the airport—I didn't want to turn around and fly straight back.'

  `Oh ... did you meet Sally?'

  `Yes. I liked her. Although I couldn't place the absolute trust in another person that they do in each other.'

  In silence Joanna began to pick up the dirty dishes, stacking them on the counter. Earlier today she had made a vow to herself, and this was the first testing point No more arguments with him, no more involvement. Avoiding looking in his direction, wishing he would leave, she rinsed off the bowls.

  `Could you?'

  Back to him, she said with calculated un interest, 'I suppose I could if I loved the person.' She turned the taps on full blast, hoping that would give him the hint.

  `Here, why don't I help you with those? John's right, you do still look tired.'

  `I can manage, thank you.'

  `I'm sure you can.' There was an odd note in his voice. 'But that's not the point.'

  `The point is that I'd rather do them alone,' she replied tersely.

  As if she had not spoken, he put his jacket down and picked up a dish towel. 'They do love each other, don't they?' he said slowly, as though thinking aloud. 'On the way up on Saturday John looked like a kid on his way to a Christmas party. Then today, when it was time to leave the hospital, I went out of the room so they could be alone to say goodbye. John came out looking like he'd just had a limb amputated. He chain smoked all the way to the airport before he said a word to me. What if something happened to one of them, Joanna? The other would never survive.'

  `You're wrong.' She immersed her hands in the suds and began to wash the dishes with frenetic energy. `How so?'

  Her hands stilled as she turned to face him. 'Look, Stephen, I wish you'd just go home and keep out of my life. This morning you couldn't wait to be rid of me, and now you won't leave me alone.' She added jaggedly, 'How am I supposed to know what to say or do? You keep changing the rules.'

  `This morning I was—upset.'

  `So you do have emotions.'

  `You know damn well I do!'

  Danger in the edge to his voice. . . . 'Then act upon them,' she said recklessly, forgetting all her fine resolutions.

  `I did that once, Joanna. And it was a total and unmitigated disaster from which I've never fully escaped.'

  `Your marriage, you mean?'

  `That, and other things. Now answer my question—what would happen if either John or Sally were to die?'

  `The one who was left would manage somehow. Would do more than that—in time would be grateful for all they had shared together, glad to have had it.' She hesitated, knowing she was putting into words a

  deeply felt but never before expressed conviction. `There's risk in nearly everything, and no guarantees anywhere. So does one never love anyone in case something should happen to that person? That's no way to live—you might as well be dead yourself.'

  `And do you really believe marriages can last?'

  `Of course they can. But they don't just happen—both partners have to give a lot of themselves. It's when you see a couple like John and Sally that you know it's worth it. What's between them is virtually indestructible.'

  With a strange gentleness in his voice, he said, 'I hope you never get disillusioned, Jo.'

  She looked at him, her green eyes troubled. 'As you have been.'

  `Some day, maybe, I'll tell you about it.' As if he could not help himself, he reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder, where it lay, warm and heavy.

  She felt the contact through every nerve in her body and unconsciously she swayed towards him. 'Have you ever told anyone?'

  `Never.' With the ball of his thumb he was stroking her flesh through the thin material of her shirt, a hypnotic caress that made her ache for more. His eyes trained on her face, he said heavily, 'You seem so honest and true, Joanna, so real—but then so did she.'

  `W,hat was her name?'

  `Laura. She was the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.'

  A stab of pure jealousy ripped through the girl, for there was a note in his voice she had never heard before. Suddenly hating the conversation, she pulled away, so that his hands fell to his side. Turning away, head down bent, she whispered, 'What do you want of me, Stephen?'

  `I wish to God I knew, Joanna. On the one hand I'm pulled to you—God, how I'm pulled to you! Yet on the other hand, there's a voice in me screaming a warning,

  saying you got caught once, don't do it again.' She felt his fingers stroking the nape of her neck where the chestnut curls clustered, and trembled at his touch. `When I'm as near to you as this, I hardly hear the voice,' he said deliberately.

  She knew she had only to turn her head and he would kiss her, knew it in her bones. And she, who had never been afraid of a man in her life, was afraid to do so, for intuitively she sensed that while Stephen could bring her happiness such as she had never dreamed of, he could also cause her to suffer, suffer terribly. Because she had never learned to prevaricate, she muttered, 'I'm afraid of you.'

  The fingers stilled, then were gone. She sensed, rather than saw, him move away from her. 'That's probably very wise of you,' he said drily, and she knew their brief intimacy was over. Forcing herself not to think, she finished washing the cutlery as quickly as she could; when John came back downstairs the kitchen was tidy and Stephen had just left, his curt goodnight still echoing in her ears.

  `You'd better go to bed, Sis,' said John, concerned. `You look beat.'

  `I am, I guess. I'm glad you got away, though.'

  He grinned boyishly. `Me, too . . . what shift are you on tomorrow?'

  `Three, to eleven all this week. So I'll sleep at the apartment and come out here a couple of mornings to do some baking and cleaning.'

  `All right—but don't overdo it, Jo. The boys will survive on cookies bought at the store for once.'

  `I'm sure they would ... I suppose I'm trying as much as possible to do all the things Sally does.'

  `I know you are, Jo—you're a dear. Off to bed with you, now. And I'll get the boys off to school tomorrow while you sleep in—that's an order!' As he slapped her on the bottom, she fled, laughing. At least John appreciated her. That, and the boys' affection, she

  'could count on. As for Stephen, her relationship with him was like the sand on the beach, she thought fancifully, always shifting, never the same two days in a row. A house built on sand. . . .

  CHAPTER SIX

  MAY had slipped imperceptibly into June. The sun's warmth was more convincing, while the first delicate green leaves were unfurling from the buds on the trees. At the farm the tulips and daffodils paraded their vivid hues, and the heifers gambolled in the fields, intoxicated by the fresh green grass and the vagrant breezes that blew from the blossom-laden orchards. Joanna spent three mornings at the farm during the week, for she had never been able to resist the apple blossoms; the orchard was like a sea of pink, the air sweetly scented and pregnant with the buzzing of bees. Yet somehow this year the magic was not quite the same. All the time she was there she was naggingly conscious of Stephen's proximity, so near and yet so far. She did not see him all week. It was almost as if he knew when she would be there and was staying away.

  On the Tuesday afternoon when she had been at work, his horse Rajah had finally been delivered, to be housed in the stall next to Star's. The first chance she got: Joanna went up to inspect him. As she had expected, he was a magnificent creature, a black stallion two hands higher than Star, glossy of coat and proud of mien. She was careful to give Star her full share of attention, but she had brought an extra carrot for the stallion. He took it from her delicately, his lips velvet-soft on her palm, and despite his fiery temperament she was sure there was not a vicious bone in his body. She wondered, without much hope, if she would ever be given the chance to ride him

  On Saturday she switched back to the early shift, and on Saturday evening, rather against her better judgement, she had agreed to go out with Drew; she had seen

  little of him lately, since he spent the mornings at the hospital and the afternoons at his private practice, so their schedules had not coincided. It seemed like an effort to get ready; she could not help realising how different she would feel were she preparing for a date with Stephen. Not that she had ever formally gone out with him, she thought miserably. No chance of that.

  They went to the seven o'clock showing of a film that had received a couple of awards. Mistakenly, Joanna decided, for she found the plot and the dialogue equally unconvincing, although the photography was magnificent. On the way to their usual restaurant she and Drew argued amicably about it, and once there ordered a drink while they were waiting for their meal. 'So what have you been up to lately, Joanna?' Drew asked. 'You don't look to me as though you're fully over that bout of 'flu you had last week.'

  She felt a flash of irritation. She was tired of people telling her she looked tired. 'Nothing much, really. Same old routine.' Absently she rearranged the cutlery in a straight row, lining up the tines of the forks.

  `What's wrong?'

  Suddenly ashamed of herself, she gave him her full attention. 'I don't know, Drew—spring fever, maybe.' She smiled ruefully. 'Have you got the cure for that?'

  He, grinned back. 'It's not in the medical books. I've said it before and I'll say it again—I'll be damn glad when Sally's back home and you can get the benefit of your time off. You're doing too much, honey.'

  Not for the first time it occurred to her that 'honey' was not one of her favourite endearments. 'It's not that, Drew—I'm glad to be able to help out.'

  `Then what is it?' He hesitated, his handsome face looking uncharacteristically unsure of itself. 'You've mentioned this new neighbour once or twice. Stephen, is that his name? Is it something to do with him?'

  The sudden drop of her lashes to hide her expression

  was a dead giveaway. To give herself time, she murmured, 'Why do you ask that?'

  `Because you're not yourself, Joanna.' There was unusual forcefulness in his voice.

  She raised her eyes. They had been friends for a long time, she and Drew, and he deserved the truth. 'You're right, it is to do with him. Everything seems to have changed since he arrived, yet if you were to ask me why, I don't know if I could answer. I'm not in love with him—how could I be? And he's certainly not in love with me. But he disturbs me. He's different from anyone else I've ever met, and he makes me feel different.' The waiter came with their entree, and she paused until he had gone. 'I know that probably doesn't make much sense to you, Drew—it doesn't make much sense to me either. But it's all I can tell you.'

  `I see,' he said heavily. 'I was afraid it might be something like that.'

  She abandoned any pretence of interest in her food. `Afraid?'

  `There's no chance you could be even a bit in love with me, is there, Joanna?'

  `Oh, Drew. ..

  `I can tell by your face that there isn't.' He made an attempt at a smile 'Don't look so worried. I should have said something a month or more ago, but I thought you needed more time, and then things got so hellish busy at the hospital.' In one of his rare flashes of humour he added, 'The classic doctor's excuse.'

  `You mean . ..?'

  `I was working up to asking you to marry me.'

  She reached across the table and rested her hand on his. 'That's sweet of you, Drew, really it is. But I can't ... you know that, don't you? There's no gentle way of saying it, but I'm just not in love with you. That's got nothing to do with Stephen—it's simply the way it is.'

  `Do you think it will change?'

  She could not be less than honest. 'No, I don't.'

  Rather aimlessly he picked up his fork and poked at his food. 'Then that's that.'

 

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