Trouble in Paradise

She murmured a greeting but didn’t look up as Griff opened the flue of the fireplace and started stacking cherry logs on the andirons. He glanced back at her, perhaps unconsciously expecting her to join him. It was past nine. It had been a long day away from her, in which he found himself frequently anticipating her smile, her lazy laughter, those private moments they shared in an evening.

She turned the page, but didn’t look up. He struck a match and stayed crouched by the hearth until the flames were shooting up the chimney, then retreated to the kitchen to heat up a little cider. Mulled cider on a crisp evening with a hot little yellow fire glowing… Griff walked back into the living room with the two mugs; Susan murmured a protest when he set one down next to her, but didn’t move.

Both amused and exasperated, Griff replaced the pillow under her head with his lap, rearranged her just a little so he knew her head and shoulders were comfortable, and watched her turn another page.

She was engrossed in Tough Love, a popular seller in the bookstore among parents of adolescents. The book’s basic message was that a show of discipline was a show of love, that it was perfectly all right for a parent to say no, and that exercising control was probably tougher on the parent than it was on the child… It sounded so right…for a parent. But Susan was a stepparent.

With Tiger, tough love wasn’t the issue. Balls were the issue-as in foot, base and basket. Susan was a hiker and a canoer and a swimmer. Hand her a ball and she was lost. Griff found it very funny that she lacked depth perception; so did she. What difference did it really make? But it had made a difference last weekend when Tiger had totally given up playing with her because she couldn’t catch a single ball.

But how could she say no to Barbara? The philosophy in the book was very appealing, but the writers weren’t dealing with the stereotype of the Wicked Stepmother. Sheila gave Barbara no rules, and now Susan was supposed to jump in and convince Barbara that she was acting out of love? It wasn’t just the spangled T-shirt. It was the sass she handed Susan behind Griff’s back; it was worrying about whom the child was socializing with…

“Susan.”

She tilted her head back, looking up at her husband gravely. “Listen. Do you have some sort of organized philosophy about the discipline of children?”

“God in heaven.”

He confiscated the book, set down his glass of cider for the second time and turned off the lamp over their heads. “We need to have a little talk,” he informed her.

“Griff-”

He hauled her up just that little bit farther so she was sitting on his lap, a captive audience. “I think it’s time I took you away from here.”

“Away from here?”

“Honey, as much as I love them, I do not need to talk about my children every minute of the day. I just might even be interested in hearing what you did every minute of the day. Imagine that?” His mouth teased at her lower lip when she started to protest. “We’re about to put the children on hold. And the house. And our work. And drop back five for a little solid time together. Capisce? ”

He was the only Norwegian she knew who flaunted his sole Italian word. She answered in French, since that seemed to be the kind of kiss he was looking for.

Chapter 7

Susan dipped her paddle into the water once, then twice, finally lifting the dripping oar to let it rest across the gunwales of the canoe. Griff was leaning back against the bow, facing her, his legs stretched out and his ankles crossed, a hat tipped lazily over his forehead to block out the rays of the still-potent sun. The canoe made no sound as it traveled through the still, clear waters.

They’d been following the narrow stream all day. Like the lace of a spider’s web, the maze of rushing water pivoted and curled in endless, intricate patterns. As they rounded a bend, Susan saw the trees that regally crowded the back of the stream. Birch and elm, aspen, maple and locust, all arched for the sky, their leaves seemingly painted in brilliant fall colors. The late-afternoon sun glinted on apricot and scarlet, gold and russet. Not a leaf stirred, not a sound troubled the forest.

A mile farther upstream and another quarter-turn, suddenly huge boulders crowded the shoreline, as though a giant had whimsically stashed his marbles in this private niche of northern Minnesota. Certainly no one would intrude on his treasures here. At a single splash of the canoe paddle, a dozen ducks would flutter skyward in alarm, honking and squawking at the first hint of an intruder.

One more mile, one more turn, and the stream widened slightly, its current growing swifter. Vertical cliffs jutted sharply up from the banks. A sharp eye could see a cave or the thin diamond spill of a waterfall, both possessively concealed by nature among foliage and rock.

“Tired?” Griff murmured.

“Impossible.”

“Hungry, then?”

Susan was starving, but when she didn’t answer, Griff raised his head to look at her, his eyes as warm as that lazy late sun. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever known who’s as greedy for this country as I am. You realize that you refused to stop for lunch?”

“I refused? You had the paddle at noon.”

“You took over when I wanted to go ashore on that island.”

“You were fed,” Susan protested.

“Granola bars. Baby food.”

The canoe rocked precariously when Susan tipped off his hat with her toe; then she had to pick up the paddle again or risk running into the stream bank. They both fell silent, listening to the sudden mournful cry of a loon in the distance. Night was coming; the bird announced it.

Primitive wilderness, some called these boundary waters of the north. More water than land, thousands of acres completely inaccessible by car. A moose had made them laugh that morning; such a regal, magnificent half ton of a beast, chomping on a mouthful of dripping weeds. Squirrels and foxes and beavers had posed on the stream bank all day, too astonished at the sight of human intruders to be afraid. White-tailed deer had lapped thirstily at the crystal waters, bolting if the paddle made a splash.

Griff reached out toward her, and with a grin Susan handed him the paddle and watched him settle down to work. They didn’t need words. Being alone with Griff had intensified that private communication they had, that feeling of love that didn’t need explanations. His children had nothing to do with it, nor did her working life or his.

“Hear it?” Griff murmured.

The whispered gush of the rapids was a distance away, but Susan couldn’t mistake it. Already Griff was carefully shifting to a kneeling position. Sunlight glinted on his muscled forearms as he claimed a more definite grip on the paddle. “Susan…”

“Take it, Griff.” All day they’d been searching for white water, a whim of Susan’s. She’d always wanted to shoot a rapids. Shivering suddenly, she took up the second paddle. Their food and sleeping bags were sealed in plastic, well protected from a dunking. Adrenaline streaked through her blood as Griff sure-stroked silently, faster and faster, toward yet another bend in the stream.

Suddenly, ahead she could see whipped-cream foam on the water and the fast rush of silver around golden rocks in the sun.

“Susan! Hold on!”

But she already knew. The canoe lurched as it grazed a hidden rock and then surged forward in a downstream rush. The roar of fast water filled her ears; blinding sunlight flashed and faded among the tree limbs on the shore. White water splashed into the canoe, soaking both of them. Susan was freezing, gasping cold. Griff didn’t have to tell her that the whispering sounds they’d heard a moment ago had been deceptive. One clumsy stroke and the canoe would capsize. One wrong move and they could crash into solid rock…

Danger sent excitement through her nerve endings. Excitement, but not fear. Griff was with her. Her hands