negligence. I agreed at first because I was as angry as they were and we
were all so helpless. Now I'd rather put the whole thing behind me."
Mitch was silent for a time. "And the nightmare?" he asked quietly. His
arms were exquisitely tender as they held her to his chest.
She took a shuddering breath. "I dreamed I was on that plane with Jeff
when it crashed, but that I wasn't injured and had to stand by and watch
while he burned to death. There were no doctors, no medics, nothing but
flames and smoke and debris and people's screams." She buried her face
in his chest. "It was awful."
He spoke softly against her hair. "I know, honey, I know. But it was
only a dream." His nearness comforted her. "Only a dream," he repeated
and said it on and off, between gentle rocking, until she fell back to
sleep.
Mitch seemed preoccupied. She sensed it from time to time and guessed
that he had work on his mind. On the last night before she was to leave,
though, she looked up to find him brooding at the flames in the hearth.
He was sitting on the floor by her chair, with his legs stretched toward
the warmth.
She touched his shoulder. "Is something wrong?"
Snatched from some distant place, he jerked his head around. "Hmm?"
"You look bothered by something. I'm back to normal, and you haven't
begun to fight with me." She gave him a teasing smile. His smile was
oddly sad. "I seem to have lost my taste for the fight."
"This must have been a boring week for you."
"I haven't minded. It's been restful."
"Too restful. Tomorrow is my last morning here. Will you go walking with
me, or do I sneak out alone?"
He looked back at the fire. "I'll go with you."
She had expected an argument, something to the tune of You're not well
enough for a walk. When he said nothing, she knew something was
definitely wrong.
But he wasn't the only one who had lost his taste for the fight. She
didn't want anything to mar their last night. So she let it go. With the
snowfall still fresh on the deserted mountain, the sight greeting them
the following morning was one of blinding splendor. The sky was a deep
blue, the air cold and still. Days of warm sun and freezing temperatures
had created a crust of ice. The crunch underfoot echoed as they made
their way across the hillside. Bits of the brook that weren't frozen ran
through crystalline palaces of branches and weeds. The only other signs
of life were those frozen in the snow, the tracks of the snowshoe rabbit
or the packed path of the deer.
It was a scene of rare beauty, all the more beautiful for the week-long
wait to see it. But time was short. Too soon, afternoon arrived and the
moment of parting.
"Are you sure you won't stay the weekend?" Mitch asked. "You shouldn't
be driving so far yet." Her car was packed. They stood beside it.
His wistfulness added to Anne's regret. "I wish I could. But I promised
my folks I'd attend a hospital benefit with them tomorrow night. I can't
let them down."
He wrapped an arm around her. "Even if you're letting me down?" His eyes
dropped to her lips. Seconds later he kissed them. It was a gentle
caress, sweet torture to Anne's reawakening body. She wound her arms
around his neck and felt him tighten in response. She was well now. Her
departure was imminent. If ever there was a time for ardor, this was it.
The kiss deepened and the fire grew hotter. With a wildness borne of
desperation, he thrust his tongue deeper into her mouth, and Anne reeled
at the sensation. She would have happily returned to the house, to that
same bedroom, that same large bed if he'd asked just then. But he
didn't.
With a shaky breath, he drew back. He took her hand, pressed something
in it, and closed her fingers. "I want you to take this. It's a key to
the place. I have a few hectic weeks ahead, but I'll be up again at the
end of March. If you want to come at any time, I want you to."
Anne was deeply touched, but that wasn't the only reason her eyes filled
with tears. Frightened that she would make a fool of herself, she
whispered a soft thanks against his cheek in a final hug, pulled away,
and got into her car. She headed down the sanded road without a look
behind. Parting was getting harder and harder.
March in Vermont was the time of unlocking, that period during which the
frozen ground gradually yielded one frigid layer after another to the
power of an ever-stronger sun, when the brooks and ponds, rivers and
lakes lost their ice to the rush of the downstream current. It was a
time of the loud thrashing of formidably cold waters against their
banks. It was a time of mud.
Anne hadn't expected that when she left New York. Taking Mitch up on his
offer and using his key, she arrived several days in advance of him. The
excitement was in being there, in these hills, in Mitch's house. Nothing
could have kept her away longer.
"You're going again?" her mother had asked in surprise.
Anne was prepared for the question. She had done her homework. "It's
maple-sugaring time. I wouldn't miss it for the world."
Her father had remarked, "I wouldn't be surprised if you turned around
and bought that place. Pretty soon you'll be spending more time there
than you do here."
It was an exaggeration, of course. Still, Ann blushed. The cottage
already had an owner, a hale and hearty one, who appeared to be in no
way interested in selling. Fortunately her parents had never learned of
the stranded car or the pneumonia fiasco, and they still knew absolutely
nothing about Mitch.
Anne was starting to feel guilty about that. She had always been close
to her parents. They had been understanding and solicitous during her
grief It occurred to her that they would want to know when she was
happy.
For she was happy. Knowing that Mitch would be with her in Vermont, she
could face just about anything else that arose. His giving her the key
was a significant gesture. Now she had a steady tie to the place.
Since returning this last time, she had changed. For one thing, she had
finally been able to pack up Jeff's things. For another, she was smiling
more, laughing more, eating more. For a third, she was going out more
with old friends.
Strange. For so much of the last year her apartment had been her private
retreat, her sanctuary when she couldn't face the world. Lately, though,
it was nearly as lonely as it had been in the dreadful days following
the crash.
She missed Mitch. The longing grew with each day that passed, until her
only refuge was in work and the company of others. Even then, he was
never far from her mind.
Now, with mud streaks covering the bottom half of her once-bright yellow
car, she turned onto the familiar private road. Twice her tires began to
spin in the muck; twice she was able to back down and charge forward
around the offending mud hole.
It was early Wednesday afternoon. Mitch wasn't due up until late Friday.
Everything seemed larger, emptier, and more silent without him, but she
wasn't lonely. His mark was in every room of the house, surrounding her
in a promising cloak.
In his absence, she applied herself to menial tasks like dusting,
mopping, scrubbing sinks and the top of the stove. Oh, she had brought
several translations to do, but she didn't touch either. She wasn't in
the mood to concentrate.
During those two days, she did more baking than she had in the past two
years. She baked bread. She baked muffins. She baked cookies. Something
about the rural life was conducive to it.
Same with hiking. Despite the mud, she did it daily. Without a motor
humming, she could better hear sounds of the world emerging from winter.
The first of the geese honked as they flew in formation through a pale
blue sky. The tallest of the tree branches stretched and flexed in the
gusting wind. Squirrels scurried. Woodpeckers pecked. The ground
squished.
The snow was gone, and the woodland hadn't leafed out. But naked boughs
stood straighter, heraking their resurgence. Even the leggy lilacs by
the cabin's front door stood proudly in promise of fragrant blossoms.
Friday night came and went with no sign of Mitch.
Anne was devastated. She had cooked a chicken dinner and opened a bottle
of wine. The house was spotless and polished. She had showered and
dressed in a pair of soft wool slacks and a paisley print blouse, had
brushed her hair to a high luster and draped it over her shoulders.
Though the soft pink glow on her cheeks needed no help, she had
carefully applied a sheen of lavender to her eyelids and a coat of
mascara to her lashes. On the third finger of her right hand was the
exquisite enameled ring he had given her.
Well after midnight, she wrapped the food and cleaned up the kitchen. At
two in the morning, she went to bed, but she barely slept. One ear
listened, always listened for the sound of a car. It never came.
Saturday morning, she was heavy-eyed and disturbed. She went through all
the possible explanations for his failure to appear. He might have been
hung up with business and unable to reach her. He might have forgotten
that she would be waiting. He might have decided not to come at all. Now
that she had a key, she didn't need him to let her in.
The minutes crept by, one after another, after another. By late
afternoon, when there was still no sign of the Honda, Anne was convinced
that she had simply blown the relationship into something it wasn't.
Then came the blare of a horn. She ran from the window seat in the
kitchen to the front door. But it wasn't his horn-she had known that
instantly. While everything about Mitch oozed of charm, this sound
carried the rough edge of a local pickup truck.
"Mrs. Boulton?" barked a gruff voice. The stocky form of a farmer, clad
in heavy wool jacket, baggy overalls, and aged work boots, stepped from
the cab of the truck and strode toward her.
"Yes?" She didn't recognize the man.
"Gut a message for ya. From a fella named Cooper. Phoned the police
station. Sorry for the delay." He handed the crumpled paper into Anne's
outstretched hand, touched a callused hand to his cap's bill, climbed
back in his truck, and was gone.
Nervously she unfolded the paper. The scrawl was nearly illegible.
"Unavoidable delay. Mitch arriving Sunday night. Miles Cooper."
With a tired sigh she cast a glance down the empty road. Another whole
day to wait. Unavoidable delay. She wondered what that meant but it
didn't keep her awake that night. Exhausted from the night before, she
slept deeply.
Sunday brought rain, and a dark, gloomy day. Anne went out for a walk
anyway, did a crossword puzzle, sat at the window for what seemed hours.
By midafternoon, she was champing at the bit. With neither cleaning nor
baking left to do, she did some translating. When she finally heard a
distant car, the dim light of day had long since yielded to night. But
the growing purr was familiar. Without doubt, it was the Honda.
Excited, she opened the front door. It seemed an eternity before he
finally climbed from the car, wrested his bags from the trunk, and
bolted through the rain toward the house. When he brushed past her
without a direct glance, she knew something was wrong.
She closed the door on the rawness of the night, and turned to see him
drop the bags, throw off his overcoat, and head for the fire, all
without a word. Unsure, she sank down on the sofa and waited.
The man reached out to her both physically and emotionally. He wore a
beige sweater and brown corduroy slacks, and looked as strong and fit as
ever. But it was the fatigue, suggested by his bent head and the limp
hand in his pocket, that made the greatest impression on her. She ached
to help, but she feared rebuff. So she remained silent.
For a time, frowning at the fire, Mitch seemed oblivious to her
presence. Needing to make some small gesture, she went quietly to the
kitchen and returned with a mug of strong black coffee.
"Have something hot, Mitch. It was a long drive."
He looked at her so suddenly that she knew his mind had been miles away.
Without a word of either greeting or explanation, he accepted the cup
and returned to his brooding. Again Anne waited, fearing what was wrong,
but needing to be there.
Finally, he put his head back, drew in a great breath, straightened, and
turned. His eyes were tired, his face more drawn than she remembered it.
He drank the last of his coffee and set the mug on the mantel. His smile
was wan, but it was a smile. "You're looking well."
She rested her chin on her knees, which were drawn up and held by her
arms. "I have been, thanks to you. The antibiotic did the trick."
"No more trouble?" When she shook her head, he said, "That's good," and
looked back at the fire.
"What's wrong, Mitch?"
He shot her a dry look. "Don't ask. I wouldn't know where to begin."
"Was it a bad drive up?"
"The usual."
A silence followed.
"I received the message," she tried. "Thanks for sending it."
"I didn't want you waiting."
Or worrying, she added silently, bitterly. His aloofness scared her. It
suggested he hadn't wanted to come at all. Perhaps he even regretted
having given her the key.
"Would you like me to leave, Mitch?"
He looked at her like she was deft. "Of course not. Why do you suggest
that?"
"Because you're two days late, then you walk in here like a zombie and
stare at the fire. It occurs to me that you might just want your house
to yourself"
"If I had wanted that, I'd never have given you a key to the place."
"Why did you? I keep asking myself that, but I can't come up with a good
