"Hilda McQuade? With the cats?" Hilda and her husband had a big old house that was made for dogs and children. With no children, Hilda had turned the house into a home for at least a dozen cats.
"Some of those cats are big enough to be baby tigers. I don't think I've ever seen so many cats together in one place in my life."
"Mrs. McDonald says they wanted children, but they couldn't have any. I guess the cats satisfy her maternal urge. Do you like cats? You must, to live there."
"I don't mind, but one or two would be enough. She has nine. But it is nice to wake up and find something warm on my bed."
On Hot Spring Island they had slept together, making a bed of the hearth, curled up in the heat of each other and the fire. The memory was in his eyes.
Without her consent, her eyes responded.
She knew he was going to kiss her long before his lips touched hers. She saw the blue sky behind him, all around him. His face had deep laughter lines around the mouth. Fair hair sprung unruly over his forehead. She reached up to touch it and her eyes closed as their lips touched. They blended together, their mouths melding as if they were one. His hands reached her arms, her back, and then the underside of one round breast through the thin fabric of her blouse. She shuddered and clenched her fingers in his hair.
He moved his hands along her back. She arched to him, wanting to thrust her full breasts against him, but restrained by the seat belt. His hand moved on her back, sliding around to that round protrusion once more. He touched the quivering skin in the deep vee of her blouse. In a moment his hand would slip in, cupping the roundness. She needed the feel of him so badly! She slid her hands to his shoulders, trying to draw him closer.
"This is impossible," he groaned, drawing his hand back, moving away from her. She felt cold, shuddered. "I have to fly this thing."
She stared at him.
He had touched her and she had been plastic in his hands—flaming plastic. Was that really only a kiss? Her body flushed with heady heat, aching. Could she lose control that easily?
Luke adjusted the throttle, beginning their descent to Queen Charlotte. He had kept his head. If he had drawn back a moment later; if he had touched the bare skin of her breast, caressed her—if he had, she would have been begging him not to stop. She would have begged him to land the plane somewhere, anywhere they could be alone.
Right now she could see nothing in Luke's face. He wore a mask that protected his thoughts from her. She gripped her left hand with her right, restraining her hands. She turned away, overwhelmed by her own emotion, by the cool mask on his face.
They circled slowly. A moment ago they had been a hair's breadth away from making love, but now Luke Lucas had his plane in perfect control, was probably going to make a perfect landing. In a moment she would be down there, leaving him. She felt an irrational panic that he would let her walk away; would turn away himself and never see her again.
"Will you teach me to fly?" she asked abruptly.
"Airplanes?" he asked.
She felt her cheeks heat when she realized his meaning.
"Yes, airplanes. Barry said you're a qualified instructor." In a minute they would be landing. She felt a sudden, desperate need to be sure he wouldn't turn into a stranger again when she walked away from the plane. "Do you take students?"
"Not usually. Is your seat belt fastened? We're going in."
"It's fastened."
He turned to the controls, watching the horizon below, circling, looking for any sign of floating logs or other dangers in the water. His face was closed and inscrutable, as if a door had closed between them.
"I'd pay for the lessons," she told him through the intercom.
He didn't answer her until they touched the water. When he spoke, it was the voice of the stranger. "You'd better wait a while. You've been through quite an emotional turmoil. Better take stock, don't go jumping off in all directions without looking."
His words hit her like a slap of cold water on her face.
She had gone too far, presumed too much. His voice had been gentle enough, but cold, as if he had grown tired of listening to her. She fell silent, drawing into herself.
They didn't run up on to the land here, but docked at the same float the Beaver had taken off from. Barry was there, fastening ropes to the tiedowns on the plane, working his way around the wing that extended far out over the wharf. Luke climbed out of his seat and moving back to the door. When he had it open, he turned back, waiting to help her down.
She moved stiffly, avoiding his eyes. "Thank you for the ride."
"Any time." Why did he smile like that, as if he were mocking himself? His hand burned as it touched her arm to help her from the plane. She moved quickly through the door, needing now to get away from him.
"Laurie."
She stepped on to the float, away from his hand.
"Take care," he said softly.
She had to get away before tears spilled onto her cheeks. She managed a smile and a greeting for Barry, then she hurried up the ramp and on to the street. Her eyes blurred and she blinked until the road ahead of her was clear again.
Of course he was right. Flying was an impulse. She wasn't rational right now.
She had to shake herself into some semblance of order. She had a busy day ahead.
She walked the three blocks to the radio station, arriving hours before her usual time. It was too early to do anything constructive about a new place to live, but not too early to make a start on putting together the shows for the day. The early morning disc jockey was in Studio 1 and she waved to him, but didn't take the time to be sociable.
Yesterday John and Laurie had collected more interesting material on the weekend crash than they could use. Laurie sorted through the material that hadn't been imperative enough to make it on yesterday's show. She turned off the sound to the telephone system and put concentrated effort into working. Through the window, she saw Harry pick up the telephone periodically. Once he waved to her, indicating that the telephone was for her.
She shook her head at Harry. It would be Ken, and there was little point talking to him. Surreal that she had been engaged to him yesterday, yet felt totally indifferent today.
When John came in, she had most of her morning's work done. "Early," he commented. "Are you all right?"
She looked at him blankly. "Why shouldn't I be?"
"Last night? A slight scene at the hotel?"
"Oh. I'm fine. I hope I didn't ruin your evening."
"It was interesting. Are you going to make up with him?"
"No."
"Good." He listened to the track she had just finished editing. "I like this. I have a follow-up interview to do on that mine incident you reported last week. With that, and the archaeologists, we should have the shows in the bag."
"I hope so. If Nat doesn't mind, I need some time off today. John, what did you mean—good?"
"If you had married him, in five years I could see you trapped, desperate to escape, and staying because you couldn't tear your children's home apart."
It could have happened. She could have married him, could have had his children—not children of love.
"Why didn't you say something?"
"Would you have listened?"
She would have laughed off any suggestion that Ken was not the man for her. He was what she thought she wanted. A man she liked, who could not stir her too deeply for comfort.
When Nat arrived at nine, Laurie went into his office before he had time to sort through his mail. "I've got my priorities straight," she told him. "I'm taking the job."
"And Ken?"
"I'm not marrying Ken. That's definite. I'm moving out of the McDonald's today. I was in early today and the shows are wrapped up. I'd appreciate it if I could have a few hours off. I'll be on the air, of course, but in between I could get my move organized. Just today..."
"About your engagement. You can't trade a husband for a career. This job is not your life."
She gri
nned. "I don't plan to give up men, just Ken."
He laughed, reassured. "So I'll have a new program director the beginning of July?"
"You will," she agreed.
"You'll be working with the new announcer, so I'll tell Ellen to give you the applications that come in. Short list the ones that look possible and we'll confer."
"And about today?"
"Stay another hour and wrap it up. John can do the live part and play your recordings."
"Thanks. I'll be back for the six o'clock news."
"Take the rest of the day. We'll get Anna in for the news."
Chapter 11
John and Bev helped her move into the house. Some of it was heavy going—like the big old oak bedroom suite that her father donated from the hotel. Despite the donations of furniture, her father was quietly disapproving of her recent actions—the break-up with Ken and her purchase of the old house on the waterfront.
When they were moving furniture in, a tough-looking logger from the next property came over and offered help. With the help of Kurt's muscles, the borrowed truck was empty in no time. Afterwards, they all sat around the kitchen table eating fried chicken take-out and congratulating themselves on a job well done.
"I was up at the hospital today," Bev told her casually.
"Who's sick?"
"No, I had an appointment with the director of nursing. About a job."
John was smiling, Laurie realized. John and Bev? She'd been so wrapped up in her own life that she'd missed something important. "You're staying in Queen Charlotte?"
"I guess so." Bev glanced up at John, bold and shy at the same time. "I start work next week. I gave my notice to Vancouver General this morning."
"Wow!" She hugged both her friends and they left early amid laughter, leaving Laurie alone in her new home. She felt pleased that she'd be seeing a lot of Bev in future, but inexplicably a little sad.
Alone in her house for the first time, she went out to the woodpile and chopped kindling, then started a fire in the living room fireplace. The flames danced, giving life to the shadows on the walls. Outside, the sun sent red streaks into the eastern sky. Laurie thought of Bev and John in each other's arms. She should be happy, pleased with her freedom and her own home—and she was, but she was lonely, too.
If Luke had been at her side, he might feel what she felt—as he had on that lonely cliff in the midst of the storm, as he had a half mile above the earth in the midst of a rescue search—but Luke wasn't anywhere around. She'd spent the week since she last saw him getting ready for her move, living in the McDonald's house, avoiding Ken and his family, leaving early and working late each day.
She was outside a lot the week following her move, chasing stories down on the waterfront as the salmon fleet came in and went out again. In the course of the week she saw most people she knew, but not Luke.
The new house was a joy to her. She spent her evenings redecorating the main bedroom, putting an old sheet over the oak furniture and stripping the wallpaper. Before two weeks were over, she had the bedroom repapered, deep red velvet curtains and a bedspread in the room—another legacy from her father's hotel. When everything was in place and the curtains hung, the room looked ready for anything.
Ready for a man.
Sleeping alone in that big bed would only make a woman more aware of her isolation. She closed the door on it and for two nights she slept alone in a single bed in the spare bedroom, then told herself she was being silly. The next night she lit a fire in the main bedroom to take the loneliness away, then climbed into the big bed.
She snuggled down alone and reminded herself that she absolutely did not want to share a bed with Ken. She had a vision of Luke sharing the room with her, tending to the fire, shadows from the flames playing over his bare torso. When the flames burned bright, he turned to her and walked slowly across the room to join her.
She thumped the pillow and twisted to her side, seeking sleep. Thoughts of Luke were too vivid. Ken had often complained about her lack of passion. She had read love stories where girls were inflamed with the need of a lover; but until Luke Lucas stepped towards her in the pool on Hot Spring Island, she had not believed any man could make her feel a need great enough that nothing else mattered.
She might tell herself that she had been carried away, influenced by the circumstances, but the moment before Luke touched her, she had remembered Ken clearly—and had pushed the memory away. On Hot Spring Island, the earth had moved for her, throwing her off balance, and she had welcomed it.
Given enough time she could grow a shell to protect herself from the temptation of Luke. As for the lonely nights, a cat might be a nice idea. If Luke weren't staying at the McQuades', she drive over to ask if they had a kitten needing a home, but if she were sensible, she wouldn't run the risk of seeing Luke again yet.
On Laurie's second week as a single woman living alone, Nat invited her to Sunday dinner, a cheerful feast eaten amidst Violet's artwork and Nat's scattered magazines that covered every topic from computers to yacht racing. The evening was good therapy and made her realize that Ken had been a part of her life for so long that breaking up with him had abruptly ended her social life.
Time to make some changes.
When Luke finally came to see her one evening, she had just finished her supper dishes. The fire was lit in the living room and the curtains open to the ocean. Laurie was standing at the window when she saw a truck drive in and park just behind her car. Luke got out and let a beautiful German shepherd dog out of the pick-up.
She opened the door. Luke stood beside his truck, smiling a little, holding the leash out to her.
"What's his name?" she asked.
"Max. He's a pure bred. He's just a year old, so he's pretty lively. He's friendly, but he looks serious enough that I don't think anyone is going to take a chance on tangling with him."
"Thank you." It wasn't enough, but she didn't know what else to say. Max nuzzled against her and she hugged him, feeling his warm body against her. "Come in, both of you. Would you like to see the house?"
When Luke stepped inside, she closed the door firmly behind him and stupidly stood staring at him, feeling about fourteen and uncertain.
"The house?" he said gently.
"Of course. This way."
He paused at the living room window. "This is nice. You must spend hours here, watching the ocean."
The dog Max walked to the fireplace and paced a circle on the hearthrug before lying down.
"I light a fire in the evenings and watch the ocean when there's a moon."
Luke stood at the window, turned away to watch the water. He was a silhouette outlined by the sunlight coming in the window—only form, with no detail, as she had seen him that night on Hot Spring Island.
"I've got redecorating plans," she told his back. "The wallpaper is old and it doesn't go with the furniture—but first I'm going to do the kitchen. I'll show you."
She busied herself making coffee while he examined the kitchen and made suggestions for the new cupboards she was talking of having installed.
"And the rest of the house?" he asked.
"Just bedrooms upstairs, and a study downstairs—or it will be a study when I've done with it. It needs a lot, and I don't know where to start. It will all take time, of course." It was a project that might take years, but the house was comfortable, her very own home.
"Shall we have our coffee in the living room? The fire is nice." She wasn't going to show him upstairs, couldn't stand in the doorway of the main bedroom while he looked in at that bed. She led the way firmly to the sofa near the fireplace.
They drank their coffee as the sun set. Luke sat on the sofa; Laurie, crosslegged on the carpet on the other side of the coffee table from him.
"How's Yvette?"
"I flew her back to Prince Rupert and she caught a cruise ship to Alaska."
"She's in Alaska now?"
"If she didn't fall overboard."
"You don't care?"
"We're not buddies, Laurie. We've spent the regulation times together that cousins do—family Christmases, weddings and the like."
Laurie remembered how they had looked in the dining room, the beautiful, tall woman with her hand intimately on Luke's arm.
"She's very beautiful."
"When I was ten, she smashed my model airplane to bits because I wouldn't let her fly it. Anyone who does a thing like that can't possibly be beautiful."
"No," she agreed, crazily pleased. "Tell me—"
"How's Ken?"
"He's told his friends what an unfeeling bitch I am. I've lost some friends—people I thought were friends."
He set his cup down on the table, looking intently at her. "Regrets?" he asked.
"I'm sorry that I hurt him. I'm not sorry it's over."
Luke set his cup on the table. Her hands were circled around her own cup and he took it from her, setting it beside his own.
"Any other regrets?" he asked softly.
Her hand trembled in his. "I don't know," she whispered.
His thumb moved over the back of her hand. She remembered his touch on her hands, her back, and her breasts. She remembered, too, his skin under her palms, the tickle as the hair of his chest curled around her fingers.
If she were on Hot Spring Island again tonight, would she turn away from Luke, walk away from his arms?
"No," she said finally. "I don't regret it."
She pulled her hands away when she realized her words sounded like an invitation, She could not regret the incomparable experience of making love with Luke, but Luke in her bed, here in her home, was something she didn't think she could handle.
He let her hands go, leaned back in the corner of the sofa.
"More coffee?" She didn't wait for an answer, but got to her feet and took his cup.
When she came back, he was reading a book he'd found on the coffee table.
"Have you heard from your father?" she asked.
Luke turned another page in the book. "Yvette must have called him right away. He sent me a telegram demanding I fly down and see him, gave me date and time and flight number."
Storm the Author's Cut Page 12
