by Celia Scott
Polly thought for a minute. She remembered the pleasure she had experienced earlier. The feeling of freedom, of being in a new dimension. Rather to her surprise she discovered that her newly acquired taste for flying had not been extinguished. But she knew this was mainly because she trusted Flint. If he was at the controls she would not experience a moment's fear.
'I'm not put off,' she said, then added, 'but I am hungry. How long before dinner?' because she didn't want to say anything that he might think of as a complimentary, and therefore provocative, remark.
The Boeuf Bourguignon—which was surprisingly good—and the hot coffee, which wasn't, warmed her thoroughly. The sky cleared, and the moon, looking like a silver bubble, shone on the water. A scattering of stars appeared.
Flint collected more wood and built up a fire. 'The time has come, Pollyanna, to tell you how great you are,' he said. 'I can't think of anyone I'd rather be marooned with.'
She was delighted with his good opinion, but she was also cautious, for she was aware of a growing intimacy between them. We're positively domestic! she thought, with the shared meal and my undies hanging on the line. So, all she said was:
'Better not speak to soon. I might have screaming hysterics tomorrow.'
'There you go! Underestimating yourself again!' He slipped an arm around her shoulder and gave her a brief hug. 'You're a plucky girl; none better. Take it from me.'
'Yes—well…' Flustered, she pulled herself to her feet and stumbled towards the clothes-line. 'I wonder if my clothes are dry yet?'
'You won't need them till the morning,' he said, rising and coming towards her. 'You'll sleep much better in just the space blanket.'
'Oh—yes…' Polly clutched the foil sheet tightly over her breasts.
He stood in front of her and gently tilted her chin so that she was looking up into his eyes which were as dark as blue diamonds in the shadowed night.
'Do you have any idea how pretty you are, Pollyanna?' he whispered. 'Like a lovely silver statue in the moonlight.'
He bent his head and kissed her gently on the mouth. At the touch of his lips the stars swung out of their places and back again, leaving her dizzy and breathless.
He drew away, and the surprise on her face was mirrored in his.
Wordlessly he lifted her in his arms and carried her back to the fire, and when they were sitting against the life-raft he kissed her again, but this time his mouth was demanding, searching.
Her own lips parted and her heart turned over with desire. Without thought or caution now, she put her arms round his neck to draw him closer and the slippery edges of the foil slid open exposing one silky breast. A tide of feeling crept up in her, strong and fierce. But it did not frighten her. It filled her with a strange, deep joy, and when Flint's hand found her round breast she pressed closer to him in an ecstasy of passionate abandon.
Tenderly he pulled the foil sheet up over her shoulders so that her breasts were covered. 'You are beautiful, Pollyanna,' he said huskily, 'but I mustn't. It wouldn't be fair.'
A flood of shame swept over her. Of course it wouldn't be fair! She had forgotten Sable. She had forgotten everything! She had only been conscious of the taste of his lips and his deft caresses. One kiss in the moonlight and she had behaved like a wayward trollop! His for the taking. It had been up to Flint to remind her—to remind them both—that he was committed to another woman.
So much for Marjorie's theory that men—all men— would take whatever advantage they could. Flint McGregor appeared to be made from different clay.
'There's a little hollow under the tree,' he said, 'it 'should be fairly comfortable for you to sleep in. I'll make you a pillow of spruce.'
His voice was controlled, but she had no notion of the effort this cost him. She's a child! thought Flint. An innocent child quivering on the edge of womanhood. God, it would have been so easy to betray that innocence. But I can't take advantage of that. I must take time to awaken her, so that when she says "yes", she will fully understand herself—and me—and what she's saying "yes" to.
He smiled ironically in the dark as he broke off another frond of spruce. I can't figure myself out, he thought. I'm turning into a regular Sir Galahad. Any other girl and we'd have been very cosy by now! But she's different, is Polly… as intense as T.N.T.! And special-very, very special.
He finished making the pillow. 'There you are, ma'am,' he said, 'your bed's turned down for the night.'
'Thank you.' She was huddled by the life-raft. A waif in silver.
Offering his hand, he helped her to her feet, then watched her with disturbing steadiness. 'Don't worry about anything, Pollyanna. You need a good night's sleep. You've had quite a day, remember. Things will look different in the morning.'
She nodded. She wanted to ask where he was going to sleep, but was afraid it might sound like a sexual come-on, so she merely said, 'Good night, then,' and lay down in the hollow. The spruce smelt delicious under her head.
She was tired to the point of exhaustion, but she didn't sleep right away. Her mind kept skidding back to the moment when Flint had held her in his arms, and she had lost track of time and place, and her own identity.
I must be utterly depraved to have behaved like that with Flint, she thought miserably. After all, it's Dexter I'm mad about. Flint's just my boss. And if I react that way when Flint kisses me, how will I react if Dexter ever makes love to me? And she felt the soft cheek that was pillowed on her hand burn scarlet in the darkness.
She heard Flint moving quietly to a place at the other end of the lean-to, and, turning on her side, saw him lay his long body down on the rock. He had put his shirt on again, and was using his yellow jacket as a pillow. He looked extremely uncomfortable.
Hastily she suppressed the thought that it would be nice to be curled beside him, cradled together on her bed of spruce.
When sleep finally claimed her she slept heavily and without dreaming and came to at dawn. The sun was rising and the sky was smudged with delicate bands of soft, creamy pink. She looked at the place where Flint had been sleeping. It was empty. Then she noticed that a piece of paper, torn from the log book, was by her head. It was anchored by a small bar of soap. Sitting up, she read Flint's note.
"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. I've gone off to explore the terrain. Just had a bath in the lake and I've left you the soap. The water's great! I'll give a whistle when I come back and wait five minutes to give you time to dress. F."
She climbed stiffly to her feet. Her bones ached from the hard ground, and her skin felt gritty. The unruffled surface of the lake was shrouded with floating veils of silver mist. It beckoned enticingly. But she wouldn't risk staying too long in the still, dark water. She didn't want Flint to find her stark naked, splashing about in the shallows. He might think she had delayed getting dressed in order to titillate him, so, grabbing the soap, she hurried to the water's edge, unwrapping her blanket as she went.
She spent the minimum amount of time in the water— which was a shame, for it was cool and delicious, coloured a dark amber and soft as silk. But she was driven by the desire to eradicate any image he might have of her as a seductress, so she pulled on her clothes over her wet body. One of her knees poked through a ragged hole in her jeans, and her ribbon was missing.
She was gathering more driftwood for their fire by the time Flint's piercing whistle floated into the still morning. When he finally joined her, she was shocked at how tired he looked, his usually brilliant eyes dull, and the skin beneath them smudged with fatigue. The lines of his face seemed to have been etched deeper.
The maternal instinct in her got the better of her enforced reserve, and she put her hand on his bare arm. 'I'll make the coffee,' she said firmly, 'you sit down and try to relax. Is there anything to eat?'
'Bossy, bossy!' he muttered, but he did as she said without any argument. 'There's the shrimp, but I don't think I can face that for breakfast. Apart from that, there's plenty of glop.'
'Glop?' Her hazel eyes
widened. 'What on earth's that? It sounds revolting!'
He smiled his lopsided smile. 'It's a mixture of rolled oats, raisins and nuts. Delicious!'
'Then glop it is,' she said, 'and hot coffee. Now you sit still. You look done-in.'
He lay back on the rocks, which were already getting warm from the sun, and watched her as she bustled about, filling the pan with water, measuring coffee into the collapsible plastic mugs.
'What a motherly little soul you are,' he remarked when she handed him his share of the oatmeal mixture, insisting that he have most of the raisins because they were good for energy.
Since Polly had heard her mother say the same thing as a criticism she bridled, and said gruffly, 'It's the way I was born. I can't help it.'
He looked at her wearily. 'No need to get defensive. I meant it as a compliment. Being motherly is a special kind of caring, I think, and it takes a special kind of talent.'
'Does it?' Thoughtfully Polly chewed on a peanut. 'I never thought of it like that.'
'Well, start!' His voice was rough with fatigue. 'I realise I'm knocking my head against a brick wall. You've been brainwashed. But, for the record, it's my opinion that the woman who is endowed with the gift of creating and running a home has the greatest talent of all. A talent for loving. And I think you have that, Polly. Just look what you've done to the farm.'
'I've only cooked a few meals,' she said.
'And served them with style. And seen that there are fresh wild flowers on the table, and an arrangement of dried grasses in front of the fireplace in the kitchen…
'Oh, that!'
'Yes, that! And the silver bowl in the dining-room shining and filled with fresh fruit, and nice little soaps in the bathrooms and all that stuff. Mabel didn't do it. She's good at keeping the place clean, but she doesn't know anything about the little touches that make a house a home. You do.'
She licked her fingers. 'I didn't think you'd noticed; you never said anything.'
'I noticed. And appreciated it. But I knew you'd do your usual trick of dismissing it as "nothing" if I mentioned it, so what was the use?'
'I'm going to stop doing that,' she told him. 'It's a bad habit and I intend to break it.'
'About time!' Flint stroked the dark coppery growth on his face. 'My chin feels like a cheese grater,' he said, yawning prodigiously. 'I think I'll lie down and grab forty winks under your tree. I'm bushed. Would you spread my jacket out on the beach? It'll make it easier for them to spot us.'
He fell asleep almost at once, and when she had found a prominent spot for the yellow jacket, and washed and re-packed their mugs, she sat on a rock and paddled her feet in the lake. She had meant what she had said about disciplining herself not to constantly sell herself short. The past couple of weeks had taught her that she had value. She, Polly Slater, the girl with no talent, had coped with a new job and different surroundings without turning a hair. She had conquered her shyness and made new friends, and she felt useful and needed.
If only she could erase the memory of her scandalous behaviour with Flint last night she would feel completely at ease with herself. It was all very well to have… what had he called it? A talent for loving. That didn't mean she had to abandon herself every time a man kissed her! She still burned at the thought, but no matter how hard she fought it the recollection of his lips on hers still gave her a thrill of pleasure.
It was about this time she heard the sound of a plane. Flint woke in a second and came running down to the water's edge, picking up his jacket and waving it about his head to attract attention. But this activity was unnecessary. They had been spotted.
The plane circled low and dropped a canister with a red streamer attached to it. It fell into the bush behind them.
'What are they doing?' Polly asked.
'They're trying to establish our identity. Come on!' he grabbed her hand. 'Come and help me find it.'
It was only a matter of minutes before they had spotted the streamer caught in a bush and Flint had pulled the canister free. Inside were matches, food, a first-aid kit, flares, and a note which read, 'If you are Angus McGregor and passenger, fire a red flare.'
'What are they sending letters for?' wailed Polly indignantly, 'Why don't they rescue us and be done with it?'
'They're just being tactful,' he explained as they hurried back to the beach. 'We might not want to be rescued!' There was a wicked gleam in his eyes as he readied the flare. 'What do you say, Pollyanna?' he teased, holding up a match. 'Shall I send the flare—or not?'
But Polly refused to enter into this erotic game. 'Don't be ridiculous,' she snapped. 'Send off the damn flare before they lose interest and go.'
With a grin he lit it, and they both watched the plane dip its wings in acknowledgement before flying off.
By the time they had cleaned up their camp they heard a rasping buzz and soon the bright yellow rescue helicopter was hovering above them, for the terrain made it impossible for it to land. Two Sea Air Rescue technicians wearing orange coveralls were lowered down on a winch affair that she later learned was called a Sky Genie.
'Welcome to our island,' Flint greeted them genially. 'We've had a great time, but we're really happy to see you guys, aren't we, Pollyanna?'
She nodded weakly. 'How—how do we—get up there?' She indicated the aircraft hovering above.
'No problem, lady,' the techs assured her. 'They'll winch us up, and one of us comes along for the ride, too.'
'Think of it as a swing in a playground,' Flint urged quietly. 'After all you've been through this should be a piece of cake.'
But it wasn't quite that easy, and when she had been strapped in to the harness she froze with fear, looking down in dismay at the tilting ground below.
Then she saw Flint standing beneath her, giving her the 'thumbs up' sign, and when the flight engineer helped her into the helicopter, no one would have guessed that she had not been riding in Sky Genies all her life. Except Flint—but that was okay because he was her friend, and she could tell by his expression that he was proud of her.
Back on the mainland, they went through the required routine of a medical examination and a report was given to the police and Department of Transport.
The pilot, who knew Flint (it seemed to Polly that everybody knew Flint), agreed to fly them all the way back to Toronto, to save them having to arrange for transportation from the mainland.
'A lot of folks will be real glad you guys have been found,' the pilot said, and she gathered that their disappearance had created quite a stir, so she wasn't surprised when they dropped down on to the landing pad to see a group of people waiting for them. What did surprise her was the number of news photographers, and the sight of a television crew. She knew Flint was well known in his field, but she had no idea he rated this kind of attention.
Neither, apparently, did he, for she heard him say, 'What the hell?' under his breath.
'What's all this in aid of?' he asked the pilot.
'You had some pretty famous people worried,' the man grinned. 'They made a lot of noise!'
They climbed down on to the ground and the photographers surged forward, the reporters with them, pens at the ready. Polly caught sight of Marjorie, white-faced and without her usual cigarette. 'Mom!' she called, and hurried towards her. With an unusual display of affection, Marjorie hugged her close. Then she broke loose.
'What the hell happened?' she snorted to cover her emotion.
'Engine failure… Flint was marvellous,' said Polly, anticipating her mother's criticism.
'Looks like it,' growled Marjorie. 'What did he fly before? Kites?'
Before Polly could jump to his defence the photographers descended, begging them to hug again so they could take pictures.
'Get lost!' snapped Marjorie, taking Polly's hand and dragging her towards the small building that served as a lounge for the helicopter station. 'Take pictures of the movie star. He likes that kind of thing.'
'Movie star!' exclaimed Polly. She began to
understand why the press was here in full force. 'Is Dexter responsible for all this fuss?' Then she saw him. He stood waiting by a TV camera, Sable just behind him.
'Sweetie!' he called, and she saw him give a nod to the cameraman. He held out his arms. She had the impression that she was expected to run into them, and that was the moment was being filmed for publicity purposes.
'Hi, Dexter,' she replied, stubbornly standing where she was. 'What are you doing her?'
The famous star looked momentarily put out, then he smiled broadly and came up to her, embracing her fondly before turning to the camera.
'Thanks, Mr. Grant,' said the cameraman. 'That'll look great on the six o'clock new.' He left to go to Flint who was still on the landing pad.
Sable came up and kissed Polly on the cheek. 'You had us all worried for a while there, Polly,' she said. 'Welcome back. There's hot coffee in the lounge. I guess we could all use a cup.'
'We can go home as soon as you like,' Marjorie said pointedly to Polly as they went into the building. 'I've got the day off.'
'First there's to be a short press conference,' Dexter told them. 'We want to know about this poor baby's ordeal first hand.' Sable went to a table at the far side of the room and started pouring coffee into styrofoam cups.
Remembering her manners, Polly began to introduce Dexter to her mother, but he forestalled her.
'I've already met your mother, sweetie. When I heard Flint's plane had gone down, and remembered that you were with him, I called on your mother and introduced myself.' He smiled brilliantly at Marjorie, who threw him a look of intense dislike. 'I figured she'd need a bit of moral support.'
He led the women to a group of chairs. Sable joined them, carrying a tin tray of coffee which she put down on the low table, first clearing a space among the clutter of ash-trays and dog-eared magazines. 'I wasn't too worried, really,' she said, handing Polly a cup of coffee. 'I knew you'd be all right with Flint.'
Polly took the cup gratefully. Now that she was safely oh land again she was beginning to feel wobbly. She smiled up at Sable. 'Flint was wonderful,' she concurred, 'you must be very proud of him.'
