the sky was white and wintry. Inside, the room was cozily warm. Norie must have turned on the heater before she'd left him and gone downstairs.
If only she'd stayed in bed, it would have been so much easier to face her. He got up quickly and began to dress. The hall outside was icy as was every other room in the house except his and the kitchen.
Norie was in the kitchen bending over the stove. She looked pretty in her looped earrings and a pale yellow dress that emphasized her slim waist and the curve of her breasts. The sight of her made him remember last night. His heart gave a leap of pure happiness.
He smelled bacon and eggs, freshly brewed coffee and baking biscuits. The wooden table in the middle of the room was set with handmade red place mats and blue china. Everything was so charming, so perfect, and the most perfect thing of all was Norie.
He shut the door, and she turned, and he watched the flush on her cheeks rise in a warm blush of color. Their glances met. He smiled, and she set the spatula down, hesitating, but only briefly, before she stepped joyfully into his open arms.
He kissed her gently, on the brow first, and then her mouth, and she surrendered heedlessly to his lips. He thought, this is how marriage would feel. He would wake up, and she would be there-every day.
'I feel very lazy, very spoiled,' he said. 'Can I do anything?'
'I wanted to spoil you. Did you sleep all right?'
'Perfectly.'
'And your knee?'
'Much better.'
'Everything's almost ready. Nothing fancy.'
'I don't want fancy.' He reached out to touch her cheek.
'The phone's back on,' she said quietly.
Her eyes, meeting his, were intense and thoughtful. She turned back to the eggs, and Grant opened the refrigerator out of old habit just to inspect its contents. Inside, he saw a turkey.
'So you're going to cook a turkey for yourself out here, all alone?'
Her face changed. 'I-I cook Christmas dinner every year.'
'For anybody special?' he demanded, sounding both stiff and disconcerted.
The room grew hushed.
She wouldn't look at him, but he saw the color rise and ebb in her cheeks. She seemed to hesitate. 'If you're asking about another man, there isn't one.'
His stomach tightened. What was she hiding? In some indefinable way, she had erected a barrier. He felt shut out of her life again and angry about it. But what right did he have to say anything?
'How long till breakfast?' His voice came out harsh and loud from the strain of controlling both his curiosity and his temper.
She had turned away and was stirring something on the stove. The spatula was clanging rather too loudly. 'Six or seven minutes.'
'I think I'll walk down to my car.' His words, his manner, were a careful insult.
'Fine.'
At the door he turned. 'Norie… '
She drew a sharp breath. 'Just go.'
He jerked open the screen door and stomped out, his footsteps crunching into ice and shattering the frozen stillness of the morning.
A wan sun shone through the thin white clouds and made the layer of frost on his black Cadillac sparkle. It was going to take a wrecker, all right, to get it out of the ditch. Grant wouldn't know till then if he would be able to drive it or if it would have to be towed. But his mind wasn't really on the car. It was on Norie.
Last night, she'd been sweet and warm and loving. This morning she couldn't wait until he drove himself and his car out of her life.
Why?
Impatiently, he grabbed Norie's rolled-up newspaper and pulled it from her mailbox. Then he headed briskly back to the house.
Six minutes, she had said. He stopped in the middle of the road to think. Okay, so she had managed without him for five years. She was independent and proud. It was stupid to think he could storm into her life and take over in the first forty-eight hours. His gaze wandered over the farm. Not bad. For a woman alone, she had a lot to be proud of.
Sure, the house could stand some paint, but in the sunlight with every window pane glimmering, it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd thought in the darkness the other night. A magnificent spiderweb hung on a low branch. In the frozen sunlight, it seemed to be spun out of crystal gossamer lace. Along a fence a line of bare trees stood out sheer and black. The farm and its isolation appeared peaceful, almost beautiful this morning. He remembered how she liked to grow things. Maybe she was afraid he would want to take her away from all this. Maybe there were people here, friends who mattered as much to her, or more, than he ever could.
Grant felt on edge. He'd never liked going slow, waiting. Hell, they'd already lost seven years.
He started back to the house. He was barging around the back of it when his ankle caught on a handlebar, and he fell against a low shrub. He barely managed to catch himself.
'What the… '
At his feet he saw a tangle of shiny red metal and wire wheels. A tricycle. He pulled the thing out of the hedge and set it upright on all three wheels. For some reason he remembered the clumsily hand-painted cookies. Her little friend must have left it.
He remembered how she'd always loved children, and it seemed a shame that she had to content herself with little friends she had over to paint cookies, a shame that she didn't have any of her own. She would make a wonderful mother; she would be nothing like his own unmaternal, socialite mother. He could give Norie marriage, children.
'Grant!'
He looked up.
She was in the doorway looking soft and lovely and calling him to breakfast.
Over breakfast the barrier between them was still there. But he tried to enjoy himself, anyway. The food was perfect, but he hardly tasted the biscuits and the bacon and the coffee. All that mattered was Norie. He tried to concentrate on her. She was telling him as she had on that first night about her childhood in north Texas, about her parents. Soon she had him talking about himself, telling her how he'd always wanted to know his real father but his mother was ashamed of that early marriage and would never allow it. But all the time Grant was talking, he kept wondering what was wrong.
'So how did you end up here?' he asked at last, switching the conversation back to her.
'The very same day Larry was buried, after I got home to Austin, Mike Yanta, the school superintendent here, called me and offered me a job. It seemed like the perfect solution.'
'And was it?'
'In a way. I love the school, the children, the story hours. I know everybody in town, and everybody knows me.'
'The perfect life.' His voice was unduly grim.
'More or less. For me anyway.'
'But are you fulfilled?'
He wanted just one word from her, one word to show that she cared. But even before she answered, he knew she wouldn't give it.
'Are you?' she whispered.
'I used to think so. I was a success. That's all I considered. Until I met you.'
'I probably make a tenth of your income, but it's all I need.' She was twisting her napkin nervously.
Her
