Even after the long drive, Anne was full of energy, which was why she
had stopped at her parents in the first place. "It was perfect," she
said. "Just what I needed."
"Sit down and tell me all about it," the older woman ordered, and Anne
had. Almost. She didn't mention Mitch. He played no role in her real
life. She didn't even know his last name.
At first she gave little thought to the idea of returning to Vermont in
November. The new semester had begun, and she was up to her ears in
translation work. Friends still hovered, but she had more patience for
it now. In turn, they sensed her calmer state and began to ease up.
She still refused to date. But she was excited enough about one
professor's project to agree to sign on as a part-time assistant.
Assured of steady work to off-balance incidental work, she faced the
fall and winter seasons with confidence.
But Jeff was gone, and the holidays approached. These would be her first
without him.
When she first heard low whispers in the back of her mind, she ignored
them. After Halloween, though, they became a murmur. Go to Vermont go to
Vermont go to Vermont, they said.
But how could she?
That first time had been an accident. Sharing the cottage with Mitch had
been a makeshift solution to an unexpected problem. If she went this
time, there would be nothing unexpected about it.
But Mitch was right. The closer Thanksgiving came, the more she dreaded
it. She could use a boost, indeed, before facing them alone. Recalling
with pleasure the land, the air, and the cottage, she figured that
whether he showed up or not the week would be good.
This time her parents raised no objection. As a precaution, she made a
reservation at an inn thirty miles from the house. It was the nearest
one, but would assure her a place to stay if Mitch either didn't want
her or wasn't there.
She didn't have a key, because she hadn't called the rental agent. What
would she have said? Is Mitch going up this weekend? No, I don't know
his last name, but we spent the week together there last time.
Embarrassing!
She made the sharp turn off the highway onto the rutted road that lead
up the hill to the house. The ruts were harder now, more jolting in the
cold of a raw November than they had been in September. In that instant
her thoughts jolted, too, up and down, in and out. She shouldn't have
come she had to come. What did she hope to accomplish-why did she have to
hope to accomplish anything? What if Mitch wasn't there-what if he was?
She had deliberately waited until Saturday morning to leave the city. If
Mitch had driven up on Friday night, like last time, she would reach the
cottage just when he was waking up.
Her heartbeat quickened when she rounded the final curve and saw his
sporty blue Honda parked in front of the house. It stood out clearly in
the dusky November day, a bright and promising robin's egg in a dried
twig nest. Her pulse pounded as she pulled in behind it, slid out of her
car, and, pulling her navy pea coat closed, approached the door.
All was winter silent, such that the heels of her leather boots sounded
abnormally loud on the flagstone walk. The grass bordering the walk was
aged and dying, the lilac forlornly naked. But Anne felt alive as she
knocked on the door.
When there was no answer, she imagined him in the kitchen, and knocked
harder.
Still, silence.
But his car was there. She wondered if he had broken habit and gone for
an earlier hike. She tried the doorknob, but it didn't budge. Finally,
she banged on the door with a full fist.
It opened then, and she knew he'd been asleep. He was bleary-eyed,
unshaven, mussed of hair, and rumpled-looking in an old shirt, tails
hanging low over wrinkled jeans. He was as tall and lean as she
remembered, though not quite as enthusiastic as she had hoped.
She swallowed down unsureness and a quiver. "Hi, Mitch."
"Where in the hell have you been?" he bellowed. "I was thinking of
sending the troops out."
If not for his gruffness, Anne might have hugged him. Only then did she
realize how much she had wanted to see him. "I'm sorry. I didn't leave
the city until this morning."
"Why not? You knew I'd be arriving yesterday."
"No, I didn't."
Though his eyes were a deep, deep green, he continued to scowl. "I'm
beginning to wonder if you're more trouble than you're worth!"
"Thanks a lot," she said, offended, and suddenly she remembered every
little annoying thing about him. "I could say the same about you. I
think I'll leave." Spinning on a heel, she took a single step before he
caught her.
"No!" His voice softened. "Don't go." When she looked back, his eyes
were gentler. "Come in. Please."
She had no choice when he drew her in. Not that she wanted one. Struck
by his height and good looks, she was very glad she'd come, and suddenly
shy.
For a minute, he seemed unsure. He studied her eyes, searching. Then he
let out a sigh and drew her close for a hug. She returned it as though
it was the most natural thing in the world.
His lips moved against her hair. "It's good to see you, Anne."
She smiled against his chest. "Same here, Mitch."
He drew back and framed her face. Tipping it, he kissed her softly. His
mouth played, lightly, sensually. His tongue made the moment even
sweeter.
When he drew back this time, his eyes smoldered. His voice was thick.
"How about making coffee while I get cleaned up? You look a damned sight
better than I do right now."
"You don't look so bad."
"Get the coffee? Please? I'll get your bags later." Putting her from
him, he strode off.
Anne tossed her coat on a chair. She made coffee strong, and eggs
scrambled moist. When the food was hot on the table, she went to the
window. The backyard looked bare. A dull apple or two clinging
stubbornly to lonely branches. The firs stood out, towering over trees
that were deleafed. They swayed gallantly in gusts of wind that sent
shivers through the tall grass below.
But the chill was out there, and Anne was in here. She was warm and
content.
"You're looking well," Mitch said from the door. "A little pale, but
better than last time." He was groomed meticulously now and looking
devastatingly fresh in an opermecked wool shirt and clean denims.
"There wasn't much in the fridge," she said. "I hope the eggs are
enough."
He took a chair and helped himself from the platter. "I thought we'd go
marketing today. Unless," he shot her a look over the rim of his coffee
cup, "you brought groceries."
"Not this time. I wasn't sure I'd be staying here. I made reservations
at an inn in Woodstock just in case."
He sat back. "Were you afraid I'd attack you again?"
"No," she said with care. "I wasn't sure you'd be here. It was tentative
when you mentioned it, and since I had no way of contacting you in
between-"
"You could have called Miles Cooper," he suggested lightly.
She looked him in the eye. "No, I couldn't. So there was no comfortable
way of my learning your plans."
"Did that bother you?"
"No." She didn't look away. "I don't want to cope with identities yet."
"Then we agree on that. No more said."
"No more said." She felt proud of herself, if a little wistful, as she
watched him eat.
When he finished, he ran a napkin over his mouth. Then he balled it up
in his fist. "You can phone from the village later and cancel those
reservations. But I think you should know that there are two conditions
to your staying here."
Conditions? She arched a brow.
He leaned way back this time, until the chair was on its rear legs.
"First, we eat together."
She had no problem with that. It pleased her, actually. She smiled her
agreement.
"Second," he said, "I sleep downstairs."
Her smile vanished. "Uh, I ... don't think so. I'm not ready for ...
that."
His eyes laughed. "I'm told that I'm a good lover. But hey," he
relented, all teasing gone, "I'm not ready for ... that, either. Maybe
soon. But not yet. You aren't the only one dealing with ghosts."
Startled by that thought, she gathered up the empty dishes and went to
the sink.
He was close behind her. "You're a beautiful woman."
"Last time, I was 'plain' and 'scrawny."'
"Last time, I was wet and tired." Strong hands slid around her middle
and drew her back against his body. His forearms brushed the underside
of her breasts. Her heart thudded in response.
When he turned her to face him, her lips parted. He kissed her then,
possessive but gentle, and she responded with a fervor she had forgotten
was possible. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she opened her mouth,
and he moved right in. After her mouth he kissed her cheeks and her
eyelids. Then, hotly, he sought out her tongue.
They weren't ready for this emotionally, but there was no problem
physically. Mitch was rock-hard against her. His hands moved restlessly
on her back, her waist, her hips. They found her breasts and explored in
detail, and Anne was every bit as active. She touched him everywhere to
make sure he was real, and he was, real and ready. While their mouths
tangled hungrily, her fingers spread over his thigh and moved upward,
upward and inward.
With a strangled sound, Mitch pulled away.
Anne felt instant loss, then acute embarrassment. Mitch's ragged
breathing was small solace for her aggressiveness. "That shouldn't have
happened," she said in a faltering whisper.
He made a sputtering sound and pushed a hand through his hair. "Yeah,
but it did. Damn it, this was a crazy idea!"
She averted her eyes and tried to edge away from the sink, but he had
her pinned there. Holding her chin, he forced her face up. His voice was
rough as sand. "You try my patience, Annie. One part of me aches to pick
you up in my arms and carry you out to that bed, but the last thing I
need right now is to bear you calling for another man in the throes of
passion. You're still mourning your husband. Your clothes, your hair,
your eyes all tell me that. And I have a past, too. The last thing you
need is to hear me call out another woman's name."
Anne's eyes filled with tears. When she pushed at him, he let her go.
She went to the window, wrapped her arms around herself, and looked out.
"Why do you lead me on?"
There was silence, then a begrudging, "I can't seem to help myself.
What's your excuse?" When she didn't answer, he approached her and
goaded, "Hmm? Are you that frustrated?"
She spun around and sent the flat of her hand against his cheek. He
caught it on the rebound and had her arm behind her, drawing her hard
against him, in an instant.
"Don't ever do that again!" he muttered and, as suddenly as he'd seized
her, let her go. He took long steps toward the door before stopping
short.
Anne was stunned, short of breath, wondering what was coming next.
One lithe stride brought him back. To her astonishment he framed her
face with his hands, placed a hard kiss on her lips, then walked off
again.
"What was that for?" she cried.
"Moist eggs and strong black coffee." He half-turned at the door. "I
have a couple of things to do. Find something to keep you busy for an
hour, then we'll leave for the village."
It wasn't a question, and he didn't wait for an answer. That was what
kept Anne busy while she unpacked her bags in the attic bedroom. She
brooded. She agonized. She wondered why she had come and why she ever
wanted his kiss. Mitch whoever-he-was was stubborn and selfcentered. He
was the exact opposite of gentle, caring, generous-to-a-fault Jeff.
But Jeff was dead.
An art teacher had once told her that a painting was successful when it
evoked a reaction, be it positive or negative. For Anne, the months
since Jeff's death had been devoid of reaction, until Mitch.
So where did she go from there? Into bed with the man at the very first
chance?
Unsettled by that thought, she exchanged her city skirt for a sweater
and jeans, grabbed her heavy parka, and ran down the stairs. She needed
fresh air and a long walk.
She barely got out the back door when she spotted Mitch in the yard
splitting logs for the fire. Bundled in a sheepskin jacket with its
collar raised, he didn't see her. Time and again he raised the ax and
struck, time and again splitting each new log with a single sweep of the
blade, and all with his right arm. She wondered how the left had been
injured. It was none of her business. Still she wondered.
She joined him in the yard and sat quietly on a pile of logs while he
finished his work, then as quietly helped carry the wood into the house
and stack it by the fireplace. Shortly after that, they left for the
village.
In the confines of the car, he was more imposing than ever. His hands
were strong on the wheel, his thigh strong when he braked. In profile,
his hair was a thick silver-blond, his eyes alert, his nose, lips, and
chin classically chiseled. Everything about him spoke of command, of a
man with a mind of his own. But she knew that already.
They bought food. They drove home. They did fine right through dinner,
sticking to general topics like politics, the economy, and the oncoming
winter in the mountains. They disagreed on some things, but could listen
to the other's point of view.
They didn't run into trouble until the last of the peach melba
disappeared. Then he asked, "Why did you decide to come up here this
