The Touch of Love

by Unknown

  She could have telephoned. She had his number, the telephone that would ring at his house on Cortes Island. She had never been to the island, had never seen the little harbor where he had once told her he was building his house. He would be back there by now. At least, he would have left the Beaufort Sea. She had looked on her map when he called, but even now she didn't know if the Beaufort was part of the Arctic Ocean or not. The map wasn't clear and she had not asked. She should know, she thought absently. He worked up there, and he had her life in turmoil.

  She had no idea what she would do if he wasn't home. Leave a note, she told herself sharply, swinging her car onto the ferry at Campbell River. Lord, her life was one long sequence of ferryboats. Ferry from Vancouver to Vancouver Island. The drive up the island to Campbell River, then another ferry to Quadra Island. Scott had picked a spot that was almost as remote as her Queen Charlotte Islands. To get to Cortes, she had discovered she had to go island hopping. From Quadra, she took another small ferry to Cortes Island. His island hideaway was definitely out of the rat race!

  She had no address, just his telephone number and the knowledge that he had property on Gorge harbor. She should have telephoned from Campbell River, where she could get a hotel room if it turned out he wasn't at home. But what the hell would she say? What if he didn't want her here? What if a woman named Caroline answered? God! For all she knew, he might be married to Caroline. He had never said he was single. That was an assumption she had made. She knew so little about him. Incredible, because she felt as if she had known him forever.

  The Gorge? The grizzled old man walking along the gravel road frowned at her. She had driven off the second ferry and stopped to ask the way. He was wearing old, patched overalls and a lumberjack's shirt, and he had not shaved in years. He frowned at her and gestured. Over there. Where else would it be?

  The Gorge. She knew it when she found it. She stopped the car and looked out over the small, enclosed bay, the rock bluff that gave narrow entry to the sea beyond. She could live here, walking out in the morning along the shore, looking up to the green trees, out over the cool, dark water. Neighbors, but not too close. A place for quiet of the heart, and poetry. Songs.

  She shoved the van into gear, frightened by the way her thoughts kept doing that, weaving Scott and his world into her dreams as if he could be nowhere else. She heard the wheels crunch as she pulled back onto the road, and she tried to harden her thoughts.

  Scott was not the only person who lived on the Gorge. She passed several driveways that led to little worlds on the water, too many to go knocking on doors hoping for the right one. She remembered the telephone booth back at the ferry landing and wondered if she should go back, call him after all and hold her breath for the note of welcome-or rejection-in his voice.

  She drove along the road, following the curve of the bay.

  The name was carved on a beautiful, polished piece of cedar hanging at the end of the drive. Alexander. It wasn't an unusual name, but she turned into the drive and stopped when she saw the peak of his roof. Cedar shakes, still glowing reddish in the sunlight. A new roof that had not had time to weather into the beautiful gray of the shake roofing that was so common in older houses in the north.

  She took her foot off the brake and let the van roll forward a few feet.

  His house belonged here among the trees, at the side of the ocean. All cedar, the style reminiscent of traditional log cabins, but with a modern crispness of line. A warm house, rambling along the curve of the hillside. She could see the edge of a big veranda where he must sit to look out over the water. And Scott.

  He had not seen her. He was at the far end of the house, standing in a clearing among the trees. He was faced away from her, but she saw him swing the axe up. She had not realized until that moment that she would know him anywhere, from any angle.

  She had time to leave, to run. She could reverse and quietly crunch her tires back out of his driveway. He would never know she had been here. She could go back to Queen Charlotte and-

  Some things could not be hidden forever. She felt the nervous excitement of needing to know what would be in his eyes when he saw her; the fear that he would see what was in her heart. Love. She looked down and saw that her hands were clenching the wheel. She released the steering wheel but her fingers were trembling. She put the van back in gear and rolled down the short hill, coming to rest right behind his shiny, black truck.

  She stared at it, remembering Scott in her home, their two vehicles sharing a driveway. He had complained about her drive. His was straighter. Perhaps he did everything more logically, more rationally than she did, cleaned out his driveways and took precautions against dangers and risks.

  Risks.

  He swung the axe again. On the block, a piece of wood split cleanly, the two parts dropping neatly to the ground. He bent to pick up a piece of wood from the ground and throw it neatly onto the pile. Then the second piece.

  When he turned towards the driveway she could see nothing in his face, certainly not welcome. She scrambled out of the van, afraid that he would come to her window and tell her to go back. She told herself there was no reason for him to send her away, not when he had called from the Arctic to talk about nothing much, as if he wanted only to hear her voice.

  He was wearing old jeans and a T-shirt from a hotel in Tuktoyaktuk. She stared at it, concentrating on the weird spelling of the Eskimo word as he came closer. Anything to avoid staring up at his face, his eyes.

  Do they wear T-shirts in Tuktoyaktuk? she asked nervously. I thought it would be all fur parkas up there.

  He stopped walking, just out of her reach. Summer sun gets up to Tuk for a bit. His voice was not smiling, nor his body, all muscles and hardness through the dusty jeans and the shirt. She looked up and his eyes were hard, too, with none of the welcome she had hoped to see. So the telephone calls had been for Robbie, not for her.

  I wasn't sure if I could find this place. All I knew was Gorge harbor, on Cortes Island. She shifted from one foot to the other, the heels of her sandals sinking into soft soil. She looked down and realized she was standing on new grass.

  I don't imagine you had much trouble. At least I was home.

  Did you call me again? I was in LA. Had he? Or had he come, knocking on her locked door? She wished she had not come today, because this was not a man she could open up and talk to. Not the same man who had walked into her house with a baby, who had called and chatted about icebreakers over satellite telephone.

  He pushed back a damp lock of sandy brown hair that had been clinging to his forehead. She bit her lip and wondered how to change this from a tense, uneasy staring match into something friendlier.

  It's a warm day for chopping wood, isn't it?

  He shrugged.

  She caught herself before she gnawed on her lip. She pushed her hands into the deep pockets of her red, cotton skirt and wondered if he thought she looked too garish dressed in red, wondered if he thought she looked nice at all. She had put on fresh lipstick on the ferry, had brushed her hair although it was already smooth waves and healthy shine.

  He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, pulling the fabric tight. What do you want, Melody?

  Her eyes followed the stretch of the denim, then jerked back to his face. She knew her color was high. Had he noticed her looking? If so, there was nothing in his face. No smile, no warm teasing light in his hazel eyes.

  Where was the sense that she could read his thoughts, that they could speak without words? She looked away to the warm cedar of his home, the water beyond rippled by a late-afternoon breeze.

  Can I come in? She hated the note of pleading that somehow seeped into her voice.

  He shrugged and turned away towards the house.

  She struggled over a lump in her throat and managed to make her own voice impatient. If you don't want me to be here, I'll go back. She might as well, she realized, because she hadn't the courage to tell him.

  He turned to stare at her. Ho
w do you plan to get back? Swim?

  The ferry. She had to look away. Lord, this was terrible! I think I'd better go. Now.

  He didn't say anything to that at first, but she couldn't seem to move. Then, finally, he said gently, Melody, the last ferry's gone five minutes ago, and he turned and led the way up onto his front veranda.

  Go ahead, he said, stopping to take his boots off on the veranda. Go on inside.

  She would have liked to stay on the veranda for a moment, to look out over his rocky beach and the small harbor, but his impatient voice made her nervous. She followed his gesture and found herself in a big, open room, hardly furnished except for an easy chair and a sofa. And two walls filled with books.

  The room did not seem bare. Here, as outside, he had used the warm cedar that grew so plentifully on the coast. The floor was some kind of hardwood, she thought, glowing and beautiful. The fireplace was the most modern thing in the room, styled to look traditional, but with glass doors that allowed light and heat to flow into the room, while controlling the airflow for efficient heating.

  Do you like it?

  She swung around. He was just inside the doorway. He looked more approachable to her without shoes. Yes, she said, not smiling because he wasn't. For a second she thought he was anxious for her answer, but decided it was just that he was not very happy to have her here. She turned away, moving to the picture framed over the fire. Ice fields? she asked. Somehow, with the fire and this room, they don't seem all that cold. He didn't answer and she moved to look at the titles on his shelves. I thought you said your house was only half-finished.

  This half, he answered, moving to the fire. She felt a blast of heat and heard the crackling as he opened the glass doors and bent to feed in more wood. The living room and the kitchen are mostly done, except I've got to go shopping for some furniture one of these days. If you want to see bare walls, framing and joists, there's the back half, and upstairs.

  Oh. She would have been happy to have a tour, but he had not spoken as if it were really an invitation.

  He stood up and she jerked back to the books. It was not getting better. She wished painfully that she had not come. She watched as he pushed his hair back, releasing a small chip of wood that had been caught in the waves.

  Look, can you fend for yourself here while I get cleaned up?

  Yes. She made an abrupt gesture. Of course I can. Go ahead.

  He frowned and seemed about to say something, then nodded and walked out of the room towards the back of the house. The unfinished part, he had said, but she heard the sound of water running a moment later. A shower, she thought, so it wasn't only the kitchen he'd finished.

  She would have put on music, but there was no stereo. She went to the books instead, but that was almost as intimidating as the granite of his eyes. She took out a geology book and tried to absorb the words when she opened it, then gave up and pulled out a book of tall ships. She stood, turning pages, listening to the water running somewhere close by. Scott's shower. She turned another page and admired an old boat with an abundance of white, square sails.

  When the telephone rang, she almost dropped the book. Then a door opened or closed somewhere and Scott's voice called to her, Get that, will you. Take a message.

  She answered the telephone. It was a woman calling, her voice sharp and startled. I must have the wrong number. The voice rattled off a number.

  No, you've dialed right, said Melody, looking down at the number on Scott's telephone.

  Where's Scott?

  He's ... busy. Can I take a message?

  No, I-Yes, all right. The voice became brisk. Ask him to bring my nightgown and my toilet things in to Campbell River. The nightgown's in the drawer in his dresser, and-He'll know where to find it.

  The line went dead. Melody put down the receiver. Well, that was plain enough. She pushed her hands into her pockets and tried to tell herself that she was curious about this room, about the scenery. Anything but the woman.

  When Scott came into the room, she was at the window, looking out at the trees. She did not turn when she spoke. That way she was able to keep her voice casual.

  The bedroom must be done, too. She heard the bite in her own voice, but could not seem to stop it. Because she said she left her nightgown in your dresser, and would you bring it to her. And her toilet bag. She turned and Scott was in the doorway. She added, She didn't say what her name was.

  Caroline. His hair was still damp, just starting to wave as it dried. He was wearing a pair of corduroy slacks and a soft, bulky sweater and his face was flushed uncomfortably. He said, She-

  Don't tell me! Melody made a sharp gesture. She had to be crazy, letting herself dream about him. I knew there was a Caroline. You called her from Queen Charlotte. I just thought-I don't know what I thought. She gulped and said, That she didn't matter, I guess.

  Yeah, he said uncomfortably. Look, I-

  She spun away from him, but where was there to go? You don't have to explain anything. It's not-you don't owe me any explanations or-

  You mean I can sleep with anyone I like, and you don't give a damn?

  No. She smoothed her hands on her skirt. I-I don't mean that. I ... I just don't want to hear about her.

  Hell! She jumped and he said, Damn it, Melody! I'm sorry, but I don't-If there are rules for this sort of thing, I don't know them. Caroline-we were friends. He grimaced and said, Not all my friends leave their nightgowns in my drawers.

  Were, he had said. Past tense. She bit her lip. She's not a friend any more?

  Not that kind, he said. Not since-It was you I called when I was up in the Beaufort, not Caroline. It was you I went to see the minute I returned.

  And she had not been home. Her fingers curled into her skirt and she whispered, I was going to tell you. The last time you phoned me, I-I almost gave you the number of the hotel in LA, where I would be. But I-I guess I wasn't sure why you were calling me, if you would call again.

  She felt the flush in her cheeks, but the ice was gone from his eyes. She could see the long breath that escaped his body, leaving it relaxed. He smiled slightly and asked, Do we owe each other any more explanations?

  She shook her head, because she was not ready to tell him her secrets yet. He said, All right, then. Why don't you stop looking as if you want to run. I won't bite.

  Won't you?

  He must have seen the nervousness in her smile, because he said, Melody, you may be stranded here until the morning ferry, but I won't expect you to share my bed, if that's what you're worried about.

  Oh. She felt deflated, confused.

  Shall we find something to eat? he suggested. Have you had supper? She shook her head and he said, Stop looking as if I'm the big bad wolf and we'll get some supper.

  She followed him through an unfinished hallway into a big kitchen. She was surprised at its modern brightness after the warm, glowing darkness of the living room.

  No, Caroline did not design it, he said sharply, reading her thoughts. I did. With the help of the cabinet-maker I hired.

  I like it, she said, and half-smiled when she realized that her voice was placating. Then he laughed and somehow everything was all right.

  Omelets? he suggested.

  All right.

  She chopped the onions and he wiped her eyes when she cried from the fumes. Then he burned the omelet and insisted that he could do better. It was going to be all right. She told herself that, watching him burn the omelet.

  Charlie always insisted he could cook, she said, laughing, wrinkling her nose. You really burnt it, didn't you?

  Yeah. He opened a cupboard door and exposed a flip-top garbage bin. Let's start from scratch again. This time I'll watch the stove instead of watching you.

  She gasped and he said, And who's Charlie?

  My father, and he can't cook. When he threatens to, it means he's hungry and Amanda-my mother-better get in the kitchen or he'll smoke up the whole house. She smiled fondly. He's a real manipulator.

&nbs
p; You love them? He was keeping his eye on the pan this time, and the omelet came out of the pan light and aromatic.

  Yes. We didn't have a very conventional childhood, and that footloose life-style doesn't suit me, but Robin and I always knew they loved us. He nodded and she remembered that his background had been foster homes and probably not enough love.

  What about men? he asked, and she did not turn the subject back to childhood. Sometime, he might want to share his with her. Maybe.

  Only one, she said. We were engaged. That was when I thought being a songwriter meant I had to live in the madhouse with the musicians. He thought so, to. She shrugged. He wanted me to be someone else.

  He was watching her but, somehow, she didn't mind. He asked, What did you want?

  She met his eyes. Not Peter.

  Peter? he repeated. Jeff called and asked you to call him back. At Peter's.

  She nodded. He's my talent agent, and Robin's. And Jeff's, for that matter. He's good, but I'm not in love with him. Sometimes I wonder if I ever was.

  He managed not to burn the second omelet and they ate together in the breakfast nook. It's good, she said.

  What about Jeff? He was watching her, perhaps looking for a reaction. She wondered if she should resent the questions, but she wanted him to care.

  He's a good friend. When I was going nuts trying to be the fastest rat on the treadmill, he helped me see what I was doing to myself. She stirred the omelet and said slowly, I've only been writing my songs in Queen Charlotte for a couple of years. Before that-Jeff helped me find the equipment I needed, and he came visiting and brought me gossip and-He's been with Robin's band from the beginning. He was waiting for her to say something else and she said, We've never been lovers. He's like another brother.

  Caroline and I were lovers. You know that. He stirred the omelet around on his plate without eating any. I think she appealed to me because she's all tied up in her career and didn't need me. Maybe I appealed to her because I wasn't asking her to give up her independence or make any commitments that would interfere with her plans to become head of her department at the college.