Книга - Her Favorite Husband

Her Favorite Husband
Caron Todd


Same old Ian? She's just traveled 1,400 miles–he could at least pretend he's happy to see her! He may be unwilling to forgive her for their breakup, but Sarah Bretton is surprised to realize she may still be passionately in love with him. Ian Kingsley, her first husband. The one she married when she was still a kid.Same old Sarah? Ian thinks he's over her. After ten years–and two more husbands–does she really think they can just pick up where they left off? No way. Not even if he finds himself irresistibly, irritatingly drawn to her…









“You surprised me.”


“Which I should never, never do.”

Ian smiled, his old smile, the one Sarah had wanted to see.

“One second I’m watching a football game and the next you’re standing in the doorway. You, of all people—”

“Here, of all places. A ghost. A bad dream. Indigestion.”

“More of a fold in time.”

“Like being catapulted back ten years…”

“Exactly. You came through the door and for a millisecond it was like we were back in that little apartment.”

“I wish we were.” She let her knee bump his in case he missed her point.

“Sarah,” Ian warned.

“Don’t you wish we were?”


Dear Reader,

Have you heard of the two-year itch? The Globe and Mail ran a story about it quite a while ago, saying, as I remember, that a Scandinavian sociologist had noticed that an increasing number of people believed their relationships were over once the initial excitement of falling in love faded.

That got my attention, because as wonderful as those early years can be, there’s a deep satisfaction in continuing to grow together. It seemed sad, if true, that more and more men and women were missing that experience.

Sarah Bretton Kingsley Bennett Carr is in exactly that situation. She believes in marriage—fidelity, commitment and lasting happiness—and no matter how often it disappoints, she’s always willing to try again. I hope you’ll enjoy the story of her trip to the Northwest Territories to find a love that lasts.

Caron Todd




Her Favorite Husband

Caron Todd







TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Caron Todd began writing her first romance novel after the Alberta badlands caught her imagination during a family holiday. Her interest in writing goes back as long as she can remember—she was inspired by watching her father at his typewriter when he was a Winnipeg Tribune reporter and by her parents’ love of books and storytelling. She lives with her husband in Manitoba.


To Laura




CONTENTS


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


My thanks to Victoria Curran

for her skilled and patient help tightening and

focusing the story, to Megan Long for the perfect

title, to the staff at Thompson Public Library, who

were so helpful while I stayed in their city, and

to my family, whose humor, encouragement and

sound advice I so appreciate.




CHAPTER ONE


AS SOON AS SHE SAW HIM, she wanted to feel him inside her. Almost could. It took her breath away. She reminded herself where she was, fourteen hundred miles from home, in a dim cave of a cocktail lounge–frontier saloon, a place decorated with big screen TVs and dead animals. Restraint was called for here.

A waitress walked by, balancing a loaded tray. “Want a table, hon? Help yourself. Anywhere’s good.”

He turned then, with a disinterested glance at the door, and froze mid-sip of frothy beer. Finished the sip, put down the mug. She couldn’t tell if he was only surprised, or also angry. There was no reason to be angry, not after all this time.

She chose the most direct path between the tables that separated them. No leaping up to greet her, she noticed, no sweeping her into his arms. He didn’t budge, other than to take a supercasual swig of beer as he watched her weave to his side. She’d come so far, a stone’s throw from the arctic circle, and he couldn’t even smile?

“Sarah.”

“Ian.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Not only surprised, then. Angry, still.

She climbed onto the bar stool beside his and tried for light-hearted sparkle. “I’m exploring.”

“In a skirt and heels?”

“Wrinkle-free fabric.” She scrunched a handful of the soft wool-silk blend to demonstrate its Far North worthiness. It was her favorite travel suit, charcoal-gray to show she meant business, with a ruby-red camisole and a small, but real ruby pendant adding not all business. She lifted a foot, resting it on one of his. “Close-toed shoes.”

“Ah. Practical.”

“Always.”

He moved his foot out from under hers.

So far, the visit wasn’t going very well. What had she expected? Something more. A hug. A bit of delight to go with the surprise.

He looked enticing, if excessively casual, in denims and a navy blue shirt, his hair forming those little curls over his collar the way it did when he put off getting it cut. He sounded enticing, too, his voice as deep as she remembered. All around him, though, was a wall of bristling, possibly antagonistic, energy.

She smiled at the bartender, who smiled back, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. She was tempted to point him out as an example of how to give a friendly greeting. “Could I have a glass of red wine? Something fruity. Beaujolais? A small glass, or I’ll get sleepy.”

“Dangerous thing for an explorer,” Ian said.

Carrying on a light-hearted conversation all by herself wasn’t easy. Sarah swiveled from side to side, aware that he noticed the way her skirt tightened as she moved. “Let me say, in the interests of full disclosure and absolute clarity that although in a sense I am exploring, I’m not an actual explorer. I’m here because I’m taking a holiday.”

“In Yellowknife.”

“People do.”

“Some people.”

“Lots of people.”

“Not you.”

“You’re so sure? What if I’ve changed?”

“Enough to choose this place for a bedtime drink?”

Her gaze followed his to the moose head over the bar, then to a mangy bear near the washroom, stretched upright, its mouth open in a silent, toothy roar.

“Which brings me back to my question,” he said.

“Why I’m here?” For the first time since yesterday morning, when she’d begun to make her plans, Sarah saw that it was a very good question. Popped by to see you was the only answer she had. Popped fourteen hundred miles from home to see him. To see this cold-eyed man. “Do I need a reason to travel?”

She knew what he was thinking. To travel to this particular city, to this particular bar stool, yes, she needed a very good, very sensible reason. Behind his controlled expression, she was sure a fight was brewing. A continuation of the last one, after a ten year pause.

It was hard not to be disappointed. This trip had seemed like the best idea in the world. She’d been so pleased with it she’d hugged it to herself all day long. She must have been imagining an alternate universe, where Ian would love the idea, too, because in this one they never spoke to each other. No birthday calls, no Christmas cards. No hint that either of them would be glad to see the other.

Except, she had been glad.

“Of course you don’t need a reason.” He managed to sound both mild and cold. “It goes without saying you can travel wherever you want. I’m curious about your choice of destination, that’s all.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the North. Ever since I first heard about Santa.”

It amused her, but there wasn’t even a hint of a sparkle in his eyes, nearly black, and shuttered at the moment. And beautiful. Whether they were closing her out or drawing her in as far as she could go, she had always found them beautiful.

“You’re annoyed,” she said.

“I’m not.”

“All this time, and you’re still annoyed.”

“More like…skeptical.”

“All this time and you’re still skeptical.”

He leaned on one elbow, rotating his beer bottle and watching her. She couldn’t believe the distance he was putting between them. How could distrust last so long? She had as much reason to doubt him, but she wasn’t giving him the cold shoulder.

The pieces of her plan had fallen together so easily—didn’t that mean it was a good one? The stars were aligned, and all that?

The thing was, she’d met someone. Someone kind, handsome, smart, funny. More or less perfect. Of course, any man she liked seemed perfect at first.

Dithering about starting a new relationship was unusual for her, but she felt unsure of herself. Coming here seemed like a chance to get some perspective. Soon she’d be busy with the manuscript of Elizabeth Robb’s upcoming book, but right now there was nothing on her desk that Oliver, her partner at Fraser Press, couldn’t take care of for her.

Once she’d accepted the idea of getting on a plane, she’d decided to follow a few days in Yellowknife with a trip to Winnipeg. Visiting her parents always settled her down. Then she’d go to Three Creeks, an hour and a half from the city, to encourage and inspire her most breadwinning author. Liz had been disturbingly silent about future projects. That could mean no book the year after next. No one wanted that—not Liz, not her readers and not Fraser Press.

The only imperfect part of the plan was that if Sarah had thought of it a day or two earlier, she could have saved Liz some hefty courier fees and picked up the current manuscript and illustrations in person.

But now, already, the whole alignment thing seemed in doubt.

She looked at Ian, who was busily ignoring her. They’d only been together for ten minutes. If the visit were a book, this would be the rough draft stage. With some effort, it could still end well.



IAN LOOKED TO THE SIDE one more time. Yup, still there, still her and still looking at him like a kid with a windup toy.

Well, he wasn’t going to play.

He knew he was behaving badly. If he could be civil while interviewing poachers who hunted elephants for their ivory, or coffee growers who slashed and burned Amazonian rain forest, couldn’t he be civil to Sarah?

A hard knot in his stomach indicated that no, maybe he couldn’t.

Saying she had slashed and burned her way through his life might be overdoing it. But she had bashed her way through a year or two of it.

Not that all the memories were bad ones. That made it worse. She’d thrown so much away.

He still couldn’t believe she was sitting there as if no time had passed, as if they’d gone out to the pub for the evening. Beer and darts? Sure, why not?

Amazing. Sarah, of all people.

She looked good.

She looked lovely.

They’d been kids, more or less, when she’d taken off. Now, she was definitely a woman. Her necklace pointed like an arrow to her cleavage, catching the light and blinking, this way, this way.

Statistics weren’t his thing, but the probability of the two of them ending up side by side in a Yellowknife bar had to be almost zero.

“Did you call my parents?” he asked. “Someone told you I was here? You’re not sick or anything?”

“I’m bursting with health.” She smiled, cat that got the cream now that he’d shown concern. Coaxing, looking for a way in. “Does it matter why I came, Ian? We don’t have to examine the details, do we? Can’t we just go with the flow?”

“I don’t think so.” Going with the flow had never led to good things.

He leaned against the bar so he could see past her, to one of the televisions on the wall. He’d come down from his room to watch football on the big screen. Bombers versus Argonauts, and after last season, the Bombers had something to prove.

With any luck she’d get bored, and flow someplace else.



IAN SEEMED TO BE WARMING up. At least he’d stopped glaring. Sarah sipped her wine and tried to be unobtrusive while he stared at the TV. After what felt like at least an hour, he made a disgusted sound and turned his back to the screen.

“Am I in the way or are they having trouble catching the ball?”

“Both.”

“We could change seats.”

He gave her a less unfriendly look than he had so far. “No, thanks. It’s pretty clear how the game’s going.” He moved his mug back and forth on the bar, like someone reconsidering a chess move. “Did you get in this evening?”

“A couple of hours ago.” Right away, she’d discovered the first weakness in her travel plan. Yellowknife was bigger than she’d expected, long and narrow, sticking close to the northern shore of Great Slave Lake, and it was full of desk clerks committed to customer privacy. She’d gone from hotel to hotel, hoping to stumble across him in a lobby or coffee shop or lounge.

And she had. Lucky stars, after all.

“You had quite a chunk of the globe to choose from, if you wanted to see the North,” he said. “Bit of a coincidence that you walked into this bar.”

“Must have been fate.” He didn’t like fate. Maybe some tiny part of her was still annoyed, too. Still skeptical.

“You could have gone to Alaska.”

“That’s true. Nearly straight up from Vancouver, a direct flight. One takeoff, one landing. Much more sensible. You know how I hate takeoffs and landings.”

“Or Baffin Island, the Yukon, the Beaufort Sea—”

“I’m not keen on seas, especially cold ones.”

“Labrador, the Queen Elizabeth Islands—”

“The who?”

“That big triangle at the top of the continent.”

“I’ve learned something already! My explorations are bearing fruit.” She thought she saw a break in his expression, a tiny, tiny ray of amusement, but it quickly disappeared. She looked at him encouragingly, willing him to realize how much fun it was that they should run into each other in a sportsman’s bar in the Northwest Territories.

He frowned. So much for her powers of silent persuasion.

“But you chose this spot.”

“The Diamond Capital.”

His face cleared. “Is that it? You’re looking for diamonds?”

“Myself? In the ground, you mean? I’ll concede I’m not dressed for prospecting.”

Another flicker, suppressed again.

“Anyway, I have enough diamonds.”

“Three, I hear,” Ian said. “If you count the first.”

“Of course I count the first.”

“You’re not wearing one now.”

“The stone was a hazard,” she said lightly. She wished he hadn’t noticed. “They made me put it in my checked baggage.”

“Was your wedding band a hazard, too?”

This wasn’t a discussion Sarah wanted to have. After ignoring her for the better part of an hour, did he have to study her so closely now? What did he think he’d see? Pain? Shame? She wouldn’t show him either.

“I’m between wedding bands at the moment.”

“Between the second and the third?”

“Post-third.”

He looked at his beer bottle, long enough, she thought, to read the label five times in both official languages. “That’s too bad. You’re all right?”

“Of course.” At least he didn’t seem shocked or titillated by the news, the way some people did. “Puzzled, though. Because here I am, so glad to see you and there you are, so…skeptical.”

“You surprised me.”

“Which I should never, never do.”

At last he smiled, and unexpectedly, it was his old smile—the one she’d wanted to see—warm, kind, much better than the bartender’s.

“One second I’m watching a football game and the next you’re standing in the doorway. You, of all people…”

“Here, of all places. A ghost. A bad dream. Indigestion.”

His chuckle, brief as it was, instantly made her happy.

“None of the above. More of a fold in time.”

“Like being catapulted back ten years…”

He’d stopped leaning away from her. Stopped playing with his beer bottle. “Exactly. You came through the door and for a weird millisecond it was like we were back in that dark little apartment on Corydon.”

Basement apartment, all they could afford, but handy to the university. “I wish we were.” She let her knee bump his in case he missed her point.

“Sarah.”

“Don’t you wish we were?”

“It was damp, remember? And sometimes we had crickets.”

His eyes weren’t closing her out anymore. They were drawing her in. It struck Sarah that his coolness until now might not have been disapproval, after all. Not completely, anyway. It might have been an attempt at self-control.

If so, it seemed to be slipping.

She swung the bar stool around, bringing their knees into contact again. Heat flowed right up her leg. She saw when his thoughts went in the same direction as hers—the one place where nothing had ever gone wrong. She laid her hand on his cheek. She didn’t know she was doing it until she felt the sharpness of his whiskers.

He stiffened, and for a moment a wall went up. She thought he was going to tell her to take herself, her favorite skirt and her beautiful high heeled shoes all the way back to Vancouver in one giant leap, but he didn’t. He didn’t say anything.

His hand covered hers. His fingers moved, gentle, exploratory, as if the skin he touched was something unusual, something that needed his full attention. Slowly, down to her wrist, then up again. That was all, but she felt it everywhere, in every cell, and from the intensity of his expression, she guessed so did he.

She gave herself a second or two to consider doing the sensible thing. “My hotel is across town. Fortunately, it’s a skinny town.”

He took more than a second or two, so many seconds she thought he would turn her down. Then he said, “My room’s upstairs.”

“Even better.” She found a ten dollar bill in her purse and put it on the bar. “Unless there’s someone who’d rather you didn’t?”

“Not lately.”

The phrase simmered before her while they walked out of the room, not touching, trying to keep their intentions to themselves. “How lately?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, of course not.” They went through the lobby, still tamping down a sense of urgency, nodding to the desk clerk and wishing him a good night. “But is it not lately in the sense of a month or in the sense of a year? Ballpark.”

They stepped into the elevator and the doors closed.

“I’m responsible and healthy, if that’s what you mean.”

It wasn’t. Maybe it should have been, but something else was bothering her. As he pressed the button for the third floor she leaned close and spoke against his lips. “I mean, is there anyone else on your mind?” She didn’t want there to be, not at the front of it, not at the back, not deep down and half-forgotten.

“You kidding? Sarah’s here. All things bright and beautiful.”

It took her back, miles and years back, to the week they’d met, to the first time they’d made love. They were dazzled by each other and that was what he’d said to her afterward. Sarah, all things bright and beautiful. It was the most poetic thing she’d ever heard, better than in a movie, better than in a book. She’d thought what an angel of a boyfriend she’d found.

But he wasn’t an angel at all.

She was standing right against him and each breath brought her chest into contact with his. The tingling made it hard to concentrate. If she took one step away, got just a few inches of air between them, she could think more clearly.

Instead, she moved closer. His arms came around her and they kissed, tentatively at first, feeling their way between past and present.

When the elevator opened they hurried to his room. Door locked, clothes off, skin that was familiar and different at the same time.

She broke away, put her palms on his chest, pushed him onto the bed. She needed that, after all his…skepticism. She needed to be in charge. She liked the way he looked up at her, heated, waiting, visibly struggling to remain passive.

“Anticipation is half the pleasure,” she told him.

“Half? Are you sure?”

There was a huskiness in his voice. She could almost feel it against her skin. She got onto the bed, letting her legs rub along his. Somewhere between floor and mattress, waiting became too much for her, too. She lowered herself onto him, gasping at the relief of that touch. Before she’d had time to reconcile the strangeness with the familiarity, heat and a tremulous heaviness gripped her. She gave in to it, and let the waves carry her. In moments, he followed, pulling her hips closer, finding his way deeper, whispering her name.

They rested, and then he began to stroke her again, taking his time, making her feel the way he always had, that there was no one more beautiful or more important to him in all the world. Far at the back of her mind was something she needed to tell him, but she couldn’t get hold of it, couldn’t see it at all, and soon there were no thoughts left, only him, moving over her and in her, only the rightness of that.




CHAPTER TWO


SHE FELL STRAIGHT TO SLEEP. At first she nestled close, soft puffs of air blowing on his chest. Unbelievable, to feel that again. Soon she turned, onto her side, but with her back still pressed against him. Disconnecting a step at a time.

Soft and sweet as she slept, apparently harmless.

But here, and therefore not harmless.

At the bar he’d nearly walked away from her, even as they’d toyed with the idea of coming upstairs. One foot on the floor, ready to get up and go. That was thanks to a small, really small, portion of his brain that knew what was good for him. They couldn’t fall together like this and then just as easily fall away, with no repercussions.

He was an idiot.

Her hair, dark soft waves of it, had fallen forward, a few wisps fluttering each time she exhaled. He propped himself up on one elbow so he could smooth it from her face.

A thinner face. She was thinner all over. Between wedding bands. Had three disappointing men taken away her glow, given her those sharper angles? Poor Lady of Shalott. That was what her brothers used to call her. Always dreaming. No real man would ever make the grade.

A few years ago one of their former classmates had told him about marriages two and three. That was when the second was over and the third was on the horizon. That Sarah. She’s had more husbands than I’ve had winter coats.

True or not, it wasn’t a friendly comment. He’d said so, and got a pitying look. No doubt he was part of the story now. Poor guy, still on Sarah’s hook.

He would have denied it before that urgent need to get to his room had taken over, before that kick in the chest when he’d turned and seen her at the door.



SARAH WOKE UP RELAXED and refreshed, with no sense of time.

The length of Ian’s body was pressed against her back and legs. No one else felt like him. If they’d been apart for fifty years instead of ten, she’d still know who lay behind her. She wished she could doze off again so neither of them would have to move just yet, but she could tell he was awake, too.

“Is it morning?”

He kissed the back of her neck. “You’ve had a fifteen minute snooze.”

“You’re kidding.” She opened one eye to squint at the window. Natural light glowed around the closed curtains. “So the midnight sun thing is real?”

“At this latitude and time of year, not quite. More of an all-night dusk.”

The blanket and sheet had fallen on the floor. Sarah turned onto her back and stretched, happy to have Ian looking at her, confident the years hadn’t done her body any harm. “I feel wonderful.”

“You sure do.”

She nudged him with her hip. “You know what I mean!” His smile made her heart twist. She’d always had a soft spot for him tousled and bleary-eyed.

It wasn’t really a happy smile, though.

How could he not be happy, after what they’d shared? They had shared it, hadn’t they? She hadn’t been on cloud nine all alone while he labored thanklessly?

She rolled onto her side to face him, trying to study him without staring. Already, the drawbridge was on its way back up, his expression becoming guarded, his smile fading.

“Well?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“Your verdict? My abs okay?”

“More than okay, as you well know!” She stroked the taut skin and felt his muscles tighten. “Much more than okay.”

It was an odd feeling, though, to touch him so intimately. Briefly, he’d been her Ian again. Fell asleep, and he was. Woke up, and he wasn’t. Like having blurred vision. Then and now, two of him, two of her. Sarah supposed it was to be expected, but it made for a crowded bed.

She pressed her body against his, hoping the feeling would go away. “Wasn’t that amazing? How quickly we clicked.”

“The question is why.”

“Why?” There wasn’t any need to ask why. Was it the clicking itself he questioned, or the speed of the clicking?

She couldn’t think about it now. Her brain wasn’t working on all cylinders. It wouldn’t be for hours. Perceptions changed after making love. She’d never figured out if postbliss chemicals cleared the view or clouded it.

“There’s a time for thinking, Ian.”

“And this isn’t it?”

“Of course this isn’t it.” She leaned over him, running a hand across his chest, then down to those much more than okay abs.

Gently, but firmly, he pushed her away. “I’m still fuzzy about how you landed in Yellowknife.”

“Well,” she said, watching the space between them grow wider as he sat up and leaned against the headboard, “I think first they pull the rudder back and then they do something with those wing flaps.”

“What’s the big secret, Sarah? What are you avoiding telling me?”

“There’s no secret. I already explained why I came.”

“Something about Santa.”

“You don’t believe I’d search for Santa’s workshop?”

His mouth twitched. “You probably would. And now that you spend all your time surrounded by children’s books, what could be more natural than an expedition to the North Pole?”

“Hey, you could come along.” She was so pleased he knew something about her work. About the rings, too. All these years apart she hadn’t been invisible to him. “Take the National Geographic photos, write the article. Interview the man himself!”

His attention sharpened when she mentioned his work. “Keeping tabs on me?”

Some self-protective urge got in the way of admitting anything that purposeful. “I wouldn’t say tabs.”

“What would you say?”

“I’d say—” I think about you sometimes, I wonder how you are “—I’d say, I try to notice what’s going on around me.”

“I haven’t exactly been around you.”

“The geography isn’t the point. You were my first husband. That doesn’t go away. There’s a little spot in my peripheral vision that is forever yours.” She held a finger to one side of her head. “It’s about here.”

“Pretty much out of sight. I’m surprised you noticed the work I do.”

“You’re not a spy. You’re a photojournalist. It’s kind of noticeable. Every now and then a magazine cover pops out at me. Like Serengeti Safari, on my way from canned goods to produce.”

“You went right by, did you? It stayed on the shelf?”

“Admired, but abandoned, I’m afraid.” As soon as she said it she wished she hadn’t. It wasn’t all that funny. Not terribly diplomatic, either. She hadn’t done the abandoning, though. It was the other way around. He was the one who’d walked out.

“You really just happened to turn up, Sarah? In my hotel?”

Oh, he could be frustrating! She was tired of being interrogated. “After visiting several others.”

“Ahh. The coincidence needed help.”

Sarah looked around for her purse. It was near the door, half under Ian’s jeans. She went to get it, then rejoined him on the bed while she opened it and pulled out a piece of folded newsprint.

“There I was yesterday morning, relaxing in my jammies—”

“Where’s ‘there,’ besides Vancouver?”

“In my apartment. Twelfth floor, oceanside.”

“Nice.”

“There I was, having my morning coffee and a delicious whole wheat, mega-iced, mega-cinnamon-sugar cinnamon bun, when I opened my weekend paper and found this.” She waved the clipping. It was an article describing how gold built Yellowknife in the 1930s and how diamonds under the rock and ice of the Barren Lands were behind another growth spurt now.

“‘All That Glitters Isn’t Gold.’ By Ian Kingsley.” She smiled. “I always knew your name would look good in print. This story is why I came to Yellowknife, Ian. You made me want to see the place for myself. At the end you said you’d be here for several weeks, working on a series of columns about the Northwest Territories. So I thought, why not?”

Before she finished speaking, she sensed his withdrawal.

“You dropped everything?” His voice had cooled.

What did that mean? She hadn’t dropped anything.

Slowly, she refolded the clipping. “Like a banana peel.”

“Right. Of course.” He went to the pile of clothes on the floor, purposeful, quick. He was already gone, more or less, before he finished getting dressed. “It’s none of my business what you do.”

“No.”

“Not anymore.”

“If it ever was.” She couldn’t believe what was happening. She’d finally answered his question and now the evening was crumbling, falling apart.

He pulled his shoelaces tight, and tied them with swift, sharp movements. “I’ll call you a taxi.”

He was throwing her out?

If she’d seen it coming she could have left first, left him dangling. Nothing to be done about it now. She certainly wasn’t going to bob up and down collecting clothes while he watched.

Settling back against the headboard, she turned to give him her left breast’s best angle. She could be just as cold as he was. Colder. “I’m not sure it’s that easy. You can’t say, ‘No, thank you’ right after, ‘Yes, please.’ Not if you’ve accepted what’s offered.”

“You’re right. It’s rude. It’s unfortunate.”

“Do you have a thesaurus? There must be a better word choice.” She took her time getting up from the bed, then padded toward him. He seemed unable to stop looking at her, his eyes lingering at all the expected places.

“I’ll shower and then we’ll talk.” That might give him time to settle down, to see that his behavior had gone way past unfortunate to absolutely mean.

But when she came out of the bathroom he wasn’t waiting, contrite and ready to apologize. He’d gathered her clothes together and left a note on top of them.

“TAXI’S PAID FOR AND WAITING.”

Scribbled under the block capitals was an apparent afterthought. “It was good to see you, Sar.”




CHAPTER THREE


TUNNELED UNDER THE covers the next morning, Sarah silently replayed the phrase Ian had used. Good to see her?

He’d actually said that. Written it, anyway, and writing it was worse. He’d had time to tear up the note, time to write a better one.

Good to see her, Sar. He’d thrown her out after great sex, and affectionately shortened her name.

How had she landed herself in this mess?

By ignoring a very important prefix, that was how. Ex-wives didn’t go to bed with ex-husbands. That was what ex meant.

But with Ian, look, don’t touch had never been an option.

The moment her body had gone into overdrive in that House of Taxidermy they called a bar, she should have headed straight back to the airport, alarm bells ringing.

She couldn’t, though. She’d already started to wonder about her choices where men were concerned, and when she’d seen his photo and byline in the paper her questions had moved front and center. What was she doing, embarking on relationship after relationship? Was it time to try again? Were she and Ian done? Really, forever and truly, done?

An odd thing to wonder after ten years, but the tumbling into bed, the complete and absolute wonderfulness of that, said no.

The turfing out said yes.

Maybe she’d expected too much from one short trip. As if she could stand in front of him and all answers would be revealed. As if he was some kind of oracle.

You dropped everything.

He’d said it so harshly, and cold went the eyes, on went the clothes. Why was he like that, leaping to judgment? “Dropped everything,” in that tone, as if she’d abandoned a child or left someone marooned on a cliff. Was that what he thought of her?

She didn’t care what he thought of her.

She did care, but she couldn’t change it. Couldn’t change him.

Muffled through the covers, she heard the room telephone ring.

Ian. She knew it right away. A mortified, shamed and sorry Ian. Haggard from tossing and turning all night—even more than she had, because he was the guilty one. She had only been unwise.

If he apologized, she would pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about. Note? You’re worried about that? Heavens, I was glad to see you, too.

She reached outside the comforter, felt around on the bedside table for the receiver and with as little banging against clock and lamp as possible, pulled it into her cocoon.

“Hello?”

“Good morning!” The voice on the other end was cheerful and wide-awake, medium deep. Not Ian. Oliver. “What a grumpy sounding woman. It can’t be the lovely, vacationing Ms. Bretton.”

She threw back the covers to see the clock. Eight? That meant it was seven at home. “Is something wrong? Is Jenny all right?” Jenny was her little mutt, rescued from an animal shelter a couple of years ago and living like a queen ever since. “Oh, Lord, not a car—”

“Jenny’s fine,” Oliver quickly reassured her. “Missing you, but hale and hearty. She’s here by my desk, cocking her head every time you speak.”

“Poor girl.”

“She’s not cocking it sadly. Curiously, that’s all.” His voice faded and Sarah heard him croon to the dog, saying ridiculous things about it being Mommy on the phone, yes, Mommy, who was far away….

“Stop it, Oliver. You’ll embarrass her.”

Sarah was coming to grips with two facts—one, that her demon lover hadn’t rushed to beg her forgiveness and two, that in another corner of her life she was something other than an idiot. In the eyes of some, in a faraway renovated gingerbread house, she was a capable, professional woman.

“What’s going on then, if you’re both fine? Why are you at work at this hour?”

“Pup needed to go out—did you mention how often and how early her physical needs dominate? I don’t think you did—and our walk took us past a coffee shop. Once we had a latte and a double chocolate glaze, there was no going back—”

He broke off, then, with a change in tone, got to the point of his call. “Hate to bother you, Sarah, first day of holidays. There’s a complication and I think you’ll want to know about it.”

She wriggled higher in the bed so she could sit straighter. “What kind of complication?”

“An Elizabeth Robb kind.”

There were never any complications from Liz.

“She sent an e-mail this morning at 4:00 a.m. her time,” Oliver added, “a panic hour if there ever was one. She claimed she hasn’t started the book.”

“I know. That’s what we’re going to talk about when I go to Manitoba. She was bound to get blocked eventu—”

“This year’s book,” he interrupted.

“What?”

“She hasn’t started this year’s book.”

Sarah got out of bed and paced as far as the phone cord allowed. “The one in the spring catalog?”

“That’s the one.”

“What does she mean, not started?”

“She means no paintings and no text.”

“You’re kidding.” Liz hadn’t said a word about having trouble with this year’s book. Although now that Sarah thought about it, she hadn’t said the project was going well, either. “Slowly,” she’d said, in a don’t-bug-me tone. “Does she mean she’s not happy with the paintings and text?”

“I’m afraid not. I called her as soon as I read the e-mail and asked her to send an attachment of whatever she’s done. It isn’t even an outline, Sarah. It’s doodles.”

The news was starting to sink in, but it was still hard to believe. “Any clue from her about what’s wrong?”

“She said there was no book, and went to change a diaper.”

“Send me the outline, would you? I’ll look at it over breakfast. And Oliver? Give Jenny a hug and a biscuit for me?”

“Already done.”

“Thanks. Thanks for taking care of things.”

“You’d do the same. You will do the same, I promise. Have fun.”

“Sure. Always.”

Sarah hung up and sat staring at the telephone. Maybe the outline was more complete than it looked at first glance. Maybe an old book could be reissued with added story and illustrations. How about an alphabet book? Liz must have tons of drawings on hand, enough to take a child from A to Z….

The phrase dropped everything kept trying to muscle into her thoughts.



IAN PACED FROM THE telephone to the window.

He didn’t like feeling in the wrong. She was a grown-up. She made the choices she wanted to make.

He paced some more.

Okay, right. What happened was his choice, too. Every minute from the time she’d walked into the lounge had been an invitation, but every minute he’d stayed was like saying yes. He couldn’t argue his participation had been halfhearted.

It was his hotel. That was the thing to keep in mind. She’d encroached on his territory. Saw the article one day, arrived in town the next…how sensible was that? And for what? To play? He was here to work. Six columns, six weeks. It was a tight schedule and he needed to focus. No distractions, not even Sarah.

Especially not Sarah. They’d written “The End” on their story, not “To Be Continued,” not “Tune In Next Decade” for more of the frigging same.

He downed some coffee and a cereal bar, then went through to the shower. If he didn’t get a move on he’d be late for his first meeting of the day. He’d booked half an hour with the Mountie who headed the Diamond Protection Service. Cops might be our friends, but annoying them seemed like a bad idea.

When his sluggish brain didn’t switch from Sarah’s soft, pale skin to interview questions, he turned the tap cooler, then all the way to cold. It woke him up and got him out the door in no time flat.



A COFFEEMAKER SAT ON the desk near the window. Sarah fit a pouch of an unknown roast into the filter basket and filled the reservoir with water. While it dripped, she scanned the file Oliver had sent.

An outline, no. Doodles, yes.

A spot above her eyebrow began to throb. She rubbed it and tried to feel only concern for Liz’s welfare. After a book a year for fifteen years—all of which seemed to end up in every library, school and child’s bookshelf in the land—what could have happened to sink this one? Painting and writing were Liz’s life. They were all she wanted to do.

Or had been, once upon a time long ago and far away. Before she moved back home to Manitoba from Vancouver, before she married her pumpkin farmer, before they started their family. Liz wouldn’t be the first woman to sink under the weight of domestic bliss. Clearly, she needed a hand.

When Sarah tried to call she got a busy signal, so she went back to her e-mail program, hoping to catch Liz online. After a couple of false starts in which she either sounded accusing or unreasonably cheerful she typed:



In a bit of a predicament, are you? Don’t panic! We’re here to help. We’ll talk about it more when I see you, but why not give me a head start understanding the problem? Oliver said there aren’t any paintings yet. You told me once the images help you see the story. Don’t they usually come first?



Sympathetic, she hoped, the question about images a sprinkling of breadcrumbs, the beginning of a path out of the forest. But firm.

By the time she had dressed and put on eyeliner and mascara, there was still no answer from Liz. Sarah took an apple from the side pocket of her suitcase and went out to the balcony, crunching.

She could see the city center, busy with cars and pedestrians. Closer to her, a rocky outcropping extended into a chilly-looking lake. Clusters of small buildings climbed up and down the rock, some apparently teetering on the edge. That must be the Old Town. Ian had written about it, rough shanties built by prospectors during the 1930s gold rush.

To the east, the water went on forever. To the north, beyond the city, green and rust-colored growing things stretched into the distance. In an austere way, it was beautiful.

She couldn’t put her finger on what it was about the north that got to her. Not as a direction, not as a place. Maybe, like New York in the song, as a state of mind? It pulled at her. Could it be actual magnetism, the North Pole using its power?

Her worries took a couple of steps back. She wanted to get out there, see the town and the lake close up. Explore, for real.




CHAPTER FOUR


IAN WAS MORE THAN LATE for his appointment. He missed it entirely. He rebooked the interview, for the following day, and went to spend the remainder of the morning at a restaurant that promised authentic northern fare, everything from caribou steak to musk ox burgers to freshly caught Great Slave Lake fish. He ordered bannock and coffee, opened his laptop and tried to work.

Tried but failed.

Sarah had been in his bed. Sarah Bretton Kingsley Bennett Carr. How long would her name be by the time she was fifty? There weren’t many decisions he regretted—even the bad ones usually had value—but that “I’ll call you a taxi” moment was one. Her face when he’d told her to go…he wouldn’t forget that expression in a hurry. And then the way she’d rearranged herself, that sinuous movement that turned her breasts and legs into the only things in the room…

“I’m not sure it’s that easy,” she’d said, mixing sultry with cool. She was right. The whole uncomfortable scenario of him being wrong about that and her being right about it was complicated by the memory of her leg hooked over his hip. Silky, but insistent.

Taking into account what he knew about Sarah and about the city’s hotels, he tried to guess where she’d be staying, if she hadn’t already zipped back to Vancouver.

As he guessed, she was registered at the newest, most luxurious place in town. When the switchboard put him through to her room, the answering machine picked up.

“Sarah? It’s me.” Although there weren’t many customers in the restaurant, he lowered his voice as he said, “Don’t know about you, but I didn’t get much sleep last night. My behavior—”

What could he say about his behavior?

“It was inexcusable.” Strong word. He felt better, saying it. “Pretty much from hello. You probably know what happened. Same old problem, right? One of them, anyway.”

He understood the banana peel remark had been an exaggeration, but it was true enough. Sarah jumped into things without looking, and she thought it was a good quality.

“That’s no excuse,” he added, wishing he hadn’t brought up the past. Blaming the other person had a way of watering down an apology. “I was a jerk no matter what the provocation. Anyway, I’m sorry for being thoughtless last night. And I hope you’re okay this morning.”

He imagined her voice, teasing, amused, saying of course she was all right. He used to wonder if it was even possible to hurt her. It was easy to infuriate her, but most of the time she kept things light. Or sexy. Like last night, walking toward him naked, as if he’d be mesmerized and do whatever she wanted.

As if? She’d nearly got her wish.

“I have to go, Sarah. Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”

As soon as he ended the call he realized he shouldn’t have left it open-ended. He should have said goodbye. None of that till we meet again stuff. A definite we’re done goodbye.

That’s what it was in his mind. Always had been.

He woke up his sleeping laptop. In one pane, he began playing a downloaded video that showed how diamonds formed. In another, he typed Column, Week Two.

Diamonds are forged by intense heat and pressure deep in the earth’s mantle….

Boring. Delete.

Diamonds are almost as old as the world itself. Some say they come from the stars….

Boring and vague. Delete.

He tried again.

The only diamond that ever caught my fancy was small and flawed, but that imperfect fraction-of-a-carat held a whole world, a whole future.

He stared at that for a while, then deleted it, too.



SARAH’S SPIRITS BEGAN TO rise as soon as she felt the sun on her face. Last night couldn’t be undone. The problem of the missing book couldn’t be solved, not today, not until she and Liz sat down together. All she wanted from this moment in time was to take it in, to see and hear and smell it.

For a small city, Yellowknife bustled. Ian had talked about that in his column, about people coming from all over the world to work in the diamond industry. Walking along the sidewalk, she heard so many languages spoken it was like an outdoor United Nations. The speakers of those languages were mostly men. Young, strong men of the wood-chopping, diamond-digging variety.

She hadn’t planned to shop, but all along her route to the Old Town the stores were filled with local arts and crafts. She found treasures every few steps—soap-stone carvings, photographs of the summer’s never-setting sun and the winter’s northern lights, traditional beaded leatherwork and incredible quilts with colorful, hand-sewn northern scenes. Soon she had souvenirs for everyone in her family and at Fraser Press, and had moved on to birthday and Christmas presents.

Just when she thought she couldn’t carry another thing, she came to a bookstore. Bookstores, she’d always thought, were as good as a rest, so she opened the door with her two free fingers and stepped inside.

“Oh, my goodness,” a woman said, hurrying from behind a counter. “Let me help you with those packages.” For a moment they were almost bound together, trying to untangle bags without dropping any. “Have you bought the entire town?”

“Not yet, but there’s still tomorrow.” Sarah pulled her collar away from her throat, letting a breath of air reach her skin. Her sweater, hand-knitted Peruvian alpaca wool, had seemed perfect when she was packing. “I didn’t think to check the weather before leaving home. It’s summer.”

“Yes, it is. For a while. A short, but delightful while. You’re not the first to think we have winter year-round.” The clerk didn’t seem to mind Sarah’s ignorance. She had a grandmotherly manner. Sarah could imagine her curling up with a child, getting comfortable to read a story. “Feel free to browse and if you see something you’d like to buy, I’ll be happy to send it to wherever you’re staying.”

Sarah thanked her, and turned to see the display on the closest table. It was a collection of children’s books. J. K. Rowling, C. S. Lewis, Enid Blyton…and Elizabeth Robb.

The familiar covers jumped out at her. There was an early story about a boy and a space pirate, a more recent book about warring fairies—Liz had written that one while falling in love with Jack—and a third, Sarah’s favorite, a nature book, all lush paintings and no text, done in memory of Liz’s first husband.

She began to leaf through it. Andy was on every page, a boy discovering the variety of life in a forest.

The clerk must have noticed her interest. “That one is by a Manitoba author. Very popular. What’s the age of the child in question?”

“Oh, about thirty,” Sarah said, with a laugh. “But I already have these three. I’m enjoying remembering the first time I read them.”

“They’re lovely books, aren’t they? So colorful, and full of warmth, I always think. Robb has another book coming out in the spring. We’ve started a sign-up sheet.”

“You need a sign-up sheet?”

“It saves disappointment. I wouldn’t say the response compares to Harry Potter, but we do get a stream of parents and children coming in the month of an Elizabeth Robb release.”

That was good news and bad news. “I’ll keep an eye out for it.” A desperate, anxious eye.

Sarah chose some books—biographies of northern explorers and prospectors—and carried them to the checkout counter. As if the reminder of Liz’s problem wasn’t enough, taped to the wall behind the cash register she saw a clipping of Ian’s column. His black-and-white photo stared back at her.

I didn’t, she wanted to tell it. I didn’t drop anything.



ALL RIGHT, SO SHE had been a little careless where Liz was concerned. That don’t-bug-me tone had merited closer attention. Oliver could lecture her about it if he wanted, but not Ian.

With heavy bags digging into her fingers and banging against her legs, she finally came to the lake. On a map or from the air its shape made her think of a goose in flight. From the ground, it was like an ocean. The water went on and on, all the way to the horizon, clear and blue and sparkling.

Brightly painted houseboats—blue, red, yellow—were tethered on the north side. Farther out, sailboats and windsurfers glided across the waves. A few hardy people were swimming. In spite of the sun, the nearly twenty-four-hour sun, she couldn’t believe it was warm enough for that.

It reminded her of the Whiteshell, where her family had a cottage. Huge sheets of weathered granite sloped up from the lake. Along the shore, rocks had long ago broken off and tumbled into the water. A stab of homesickness struck her.

“Kinda pretty, a’nit?”

Sarah turned with a start to see an old man nearly at her elbow. She stepped back, more comfortable having a few feet between them, even though he seemed too frail to do any harm. He wasn’t a hundred percent clean. As soon as she noticed that she felt guilty.

“I didn’t hear you,” she told him.

He raised his voice. “Pretty, a’nit?”

She smiled, not sure if he was joking. “I meant I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “You was off in your own world. From away, are ya?”

“Vancouver. And you’re from here?”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “From the Flats.”

He must mean Willow Flats, part of the Old Town. Sarah wondered if he was one of the prospectors who’d built there during the Depression. That would make him, what, ninety-five? Couldn’t be. Maybe he’d come during the second wave of gold mining. That would put him in his seventies or eighties. From the look of him he hadn’t had much luck, whatever brought him here.

“I’m taking my walk,” he told her. “Up to the caf for a beer.”

“In the morning?” She couldn’t help asking.

“Be noon once I’m there.”

The café, looking out over the water from the other side of the narrow peninsula, was a long walk for a slow-moving old man. Sarah wondered if she should offer him a few dollars. She didn’t want to offend him, but here she stood with bags and bags of souvenirs, and there he wobbled in his dusty clothes.

“I don’t suppose you’d let me buy you that beer?” She felt in her pocket and brought out a few five dollar bills, enough for a meal, as well. “To thank you for stopping to make me feel welcome?”

“Well, ya know, I did that for free.” He nodded in farewell and started away, leaving her with her hand and the bills outstretched.

Embarrassed, she put the money back in her pocket. She didn’t seem to be doing much right lately.

Not far along the shoreline was a place where the stones were terraced like stairs. They led to a flat rock shelf big enough for a few people to sunbathe. She tucked her purchases into a dry, shaded nook, put her shoes on top, rolled up her slacks and waded into the lake.

Cold, clear water lapped over her toes, then over her ankles. It chilled her through, an odd sensation when she was so hot, like chills and fever. Minnows and water bugs darted to her feet, then away. She stopped to watch a small plane take off, slapping against the water before it lifted to the air and headed north, its loud engine fading to a drone.

She reached the stone steps and she climbed onto the shelf. There was one just like it at her family’s cottage. She and her brothers had fished from it, dived from it, had campfires on it. She and Ian had made love on it, late at night when there was a new moon, so nothing but stars lit their bodies.

The good memories were the ones that gave her the most trouble. Better memories than she had with anyone else.

Right from day one.

First class, first day of university, Old English lit, two rows ahead and three seats over. The cutest guy on the face of the earth.

Of course, at that point she hadn’t seen many guys yet.

Beowulf, as fascinating as he was, had receded. Her world, in that moment, was composed only of herself and this unknown boy. She was sorry for everyone else, everyone who wasn’t her, about to fall in love with him.

They had nearly all their classes together. That first week, she didn’t learn a thing. Didn’t take a single note. Didn’t turn a page. She watched Ian.

He was different from anyone she’d met before. Quiet, still, but not from shyness. She could tell it was from listening and thinking so intently.

One day they went for coffee and he talked about Shakespeare the way other guys talked about video games—like something vivid and fun, full of muscled, sweaty men with swords, not English actors in tights.

She couldn’t concentrate on what he said, though. All she could think was that she wanted to kiss him. She watched his face and his eyes, watched them change as his thoughts changed, noticed the way his mouth tightened when he stopped to think, and the way his lips parted and softened when he spoke. She thought of the way her lips would feel on his.

One day she did it. Kissed him. Right there in the coffee shop. What she hadn’t imagined was the heat, the current, sparked by that touch. It propelled them, no questions asked, into his dorm room and onto his bed.

They spent days in his room. Shakespeare was still in the mix. With Ian, Shakespeare was always part of it. Of course, Sarah was a fan, too. After seeing an old video of the Olivia Hussey Romeo and Juliet, how could she not be? But for Ian the Complete Works was like a self-help book. Shakespeare, Ian had claimed, understood everything, all human yearnings, all the mistakes and all the dreams.

Sarah didn’t want to think what the Bard would say about her now, a comic character on a fool’s errand to Yellowknife. Never mind rose-colored glasses; the minute she’d read that article on Saturday morning, she’d put on a blindfold.



THE WALK BACK TO THE hotel was uphill all the way. By the time Sarah reached the New Town, she felt as old and tired as the man by the lake.

She stopped for a breather, and saw three restaurants within close range. A pizzeria straight ahead, a Chinese establishment at one end of the street and a place that claimed to serve authentic northern fare down the other.

She went closer to read the menu posted on an outside wall. There through the window was Ian, like a framed picture, lost in thought, a cup of coffee beside his laptop.

Writer at Work. No, that didn’t fit. He didn’t look productive at all. Stalked by Guilt?

Probably not. By now he’d managed to squeeze the mistake he’d enjoyed so much into some dark, unused corner of his brain, then shut the door and locked it.

The imbalance between them unsettled her. He so clearly didn’t want to see her, but she wasn’t done needing to see him.

It was noon and she was hungry. She decided to go in.




CHAPTER FIVE


SARAH MANEUVERED HERSELF and her bags onto the bench seat across from Ian’s and gave him a bright smile. “You don’t mind, do you? I’ve been shopping all morning and I’m starving.”

She couldn’t tell if he minded or not. He closed his laptop and pushed it to one side, then caught a waiter’s eye, pointed at his coffee cup and signaled for another.

At least his first move wasn’t to call a taxi.

His water glass, apparently untouched, sat a tantalizing few inches away from her. “Could I have that? I’m parched.”

“Help yourself.”

“Another half hour out there and I’d be dead from dehydration.” The restaurant was busy, but not full. From the door she hadn’t seen the empty tables. She’d only seen Ian.

She drank most of the water, then patted some on her forehead. The coolness was such a relief she spooned out a few small ice cubes and dropped them inside her sweater. “This is the Arctic, right? I didn’t take a wrong turn and end up in Arizona?”

“It’s the subarctic—”

“Oh, the subarctic.”

“And you’re dressed for fall.”

He was dressed for gardening, or fishing, something outdoorsy, a bit casual even for a freelancer. The look suited him—the open collar, the rolled up sleeves, the signs of a little too much sun and just the right amount of muscle.

Her body began to tingle. Apparently it had no IQ at all.

“I thought you might be on your way home by now,” Ian said.

“That would have been a very short holiday.”

“You’re staying?”

“Hard to accept, is it?”

“No, no…of course not. You should enjoy the sights.”

The sentence sounded incomplete. Enjoy the sights quickly, he was saying, leave town even faster.

He had already ordered his meal. By the time the waiter arrived with coffee, Sarah had chosen one of the lunch specials printed on a blackboard menu—an almost zero-fat meal of poached arctic char and a salad.

When the waiter left she said, “Ian, could we let it go?”

“It?”

The unpromising response made her pause. “Whatever’s causing problems between us.”

He looked the way he had yesterday, withdrawn, and not friendly in the least. It was hard to feel good about the middle part of the evening given his antagonism before and since.

Oh, well. She’d unmade the bed, and regardless of lumps, she’d have to lie in it for a while.

The slight variation on the old saying made her smile, and a man two tables over smiled back. It cheered her up. Male admiration had a way of putting a spring in her step.

“Careful, Sarah.”

“Of?”

“Some of the men around here are just down from the mines. They’re two weeks in, two weeks out.”

“Not exactly an eternity.”

“They spend half the month in a high-security zone accessible only by plane in summer and ice road in winter. The other half of the month they like to unwind—”

“Understandably. It’s nice of you to be concerned, but it isn’t necessary. What do you think I’ve been doing for the past ten years?”

“Getting married, apparently.” He muttered it almost grumpily. His tone surprised Sarah. Pleased her, too.

“Looking after myself. Spying the wolves with my own little eye. Anyway, if I were looking for romance there’s someone at home who—”

His shock stopped her. A flash of it, then nothing, his face expressionless.

He’d misunderstood. And thought the worst.

The waiter arrived with their meals. They sat in stiff silence while he deposited plates in front of them and refilled their coffee cups.

She wouldn’t explain. Let Ian leap to his regularly scheduled judgments.



“SOMEONE AT HOME.” Ian tried to keep his voice neutral.

“That’s right.”

Maybe in her book, cheating with an ex wasn’t really cheating. He’d thought better of her.

“How many winter coats have you had since we broke up?”

“How many?” She looked at him blankly. “I have no idea.”

“It’s been ten years. Three coats? Four?”

She shrugged. “I have a long gray one with a fur collar for formal occasions. A red one for dreary days. A ski jacket for the slopes. A black-and-white houndstooth for contrast when I wear all black. An all-weather trench with a zip-out lining. A long down parka for visiting at home in January. A cape, but that’s not strictly a coat—”

“Okay. Got it.”

“Got what?”

“You have a coat for every mood and every occasion.” Maybe he was finally starting to understand her. “This is just the way you are, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. What am I agreeing with?”

“Your need for variety.”

She picked at her fish, separating the flakes with her fork. After a few moments she said, “This is very good char.”

Ignoring an idea she didn’t like, as usual.

Just as well. He was starting to feel ashamed of himself, being petty enough to ask the question.

They went on talking, two acquaintances catching up on each other’s news. About parents and siblings, about the storm that had destroyed her family’s house a couple of years earlier. Ian had heard about it at the time. It was a real loss. A grand old house, moldering away until the wind gave it a swift end. He’d liked the place. Missed it, after the divorce. Missed her family, too.

“Why are you pretending you’re not angry, Sarah?”

“Angry?”

“About last night.”

She gave him a cool smile. “You think I can’t have a roll in the hay and come out of it unscathed? It didn’t mean all that much to me, Ian. And your…behavior wasn’t a big surprise. It’s what you do.”

“What I do?”

“Run off.”

“I run off?”

Their voices had steadily been getting louder. Not much, but people at nearby tables had noticed. He lowered his, and suggested that she should, too. Even before he’d finished saying it, the anger he’d known must be there swept into her face.



“DON’T TELL ME HOW LOUDLY to speak. You’re the one who can’t carry on a normal conversation. And then you scold me?”

Ian pushed his plate away. “I don’t need this, Sarah. We’ve been divorced for ten years. There has to be some advantage to that, right? Lunches don’t have to dissolve into fights anymore.”

“Our lunches never dissolved into fights. What are you talking about? Is that how you remember it?”

“It doesn’t matter how either of us remembers it. We were married for two years a decade ago. A blip in both our lives.”

A blip? “And last night? Was that a blip, too?”

“Of course it was.”

“A blip.”

“Had to be, didn’t it?”

She was annoyed, for no good reason. She knew he was right.

It was the physical thing. They’d gone to bed the week they met and after that they had tumbled together at every opportunity. As hello, as goodbye, as good-morning and good-night. As an apology. As exercise. As entertainment. Anytime they got within three feet of each other. They’d mistaken it for belonging together.

“I don’t mean to be offensive,” Ian said. “It was one time only. By definition that’s a blip.”

“Why are you going on and on about it? You’re protesting a little too much. The blipness of last night getting to you?”

He took a few bills from his wallet, tucked them under his cup, stuck his laptop into its case and started out of the restaurant.

She wasn’t going to be left behind, not again. Loading up her parcels, she hurried outside, too. By the time she reached the sidewalk he was half a block ahead, waiting at the curb for the light to change.

Just as it did, she caught up with him. He crossed the road and turned right. That was the direction she’d come from in the morning, so she went that way, too, nearly stepping on his heels.

He responded by taking bigger steps. Over his shoulder he said, “Sarah, I have work to do.”

“So do I.”

“Work?”

“Sure. What did you think, that I dropped everything? I’m in contact with the office. A big, fat, profit-draining problem has already landed on my lap.”

“Then why don’t you stop following me?”

“What makes you think I’m following you? How arrogant is that?”

“You’re behind me, going in the same direction.”

“Whither thou, darling.”

“It’s a bit late for that.”

Sarah gave an exasperated groan. “Honestly, your sense of humor could fit on a flea! I’m not following you. You’re not the center of everything, you know. I’m going to my hotel.”

He pointed behind them. “Your hotel’s that way.”

She swung around, ready to argue, but there it was, the tallest building around, easy to see if only she’d looked.

“Come on, I’ll take you.”

“I don’t need you to take me!”

He ignored her, his whole body expressing his aggravation. He couldn’t be half as aggravated as she was, because now she really was following him.

He stopped in front of the hotel’s big double doors. “Okay?”

“It was okay before. And just so you know, I don’t like you when you’re sarcastic.”

His irritation seemed to evaporate and he looked at her with something approaching gentleness—tanned, hard-edged gentleness. It completely threw her. “I’m sorry, Sarah.”

As soon as he said it she was sorry, too, although she didn’t know exactly why and, in any case, wasn’t willing to say so.

“What a pair we are.” He checked his watch, muttered that he was late, and headed back down the street.




CHAPTER SIX


SARAH EASED HER PACKAGES out of her arms and onto the bed, then pulled off her sweater, relieved to feel cool air on her skin.

Nobody made her angry the way Ian did. It was as if she had a hidden switch only he could find and flick on. It never stayed on for long, though.

The telephone’s message light was blinking. She lifted the receiver and pressed the retrieval button.

“You have—one—message,” the robotic voice said. “Nine—forty-five—a.m.” After a click, she heard Ian’s voice.

“Don’t know about you, but I didn’t get much sleep last night.” There was a pause, long enough for her to slip off her shoes and sit on the side of the bed. When he continued, she was surprised how genuinely disappointed in himself he sounded. At lunch, he hadn’t seemed sorry or disappointed at all.

Then he ruined it, talking about same old problems and provocations.

Still, it was nice that he’d tried.

Why hadn’t he told her in the restaurant that he’d called? Nine-fifty, soon after she’d left the hotel. She wouldn’t have been angry at lunch if she’d known about the message. Not very angry, anyway.

“We aren’t good together,” she told the wall. “Simple as that.”



SARAH CHANGED INTO LIGHTER clothes and began to pack the presents she’d bought. There was no way they’d all fit in her luggage. She’d have to send most of them home by mail.

A few things could take the place of the wine she’d brought with her. She set the bottle on the desk. It was a Grand Cru burgundy, meant to celebrate a special occasion. She’d pictured drinking it under the northern lights while belugas leaped out of the sea.

Belugas were a long way from Yellowknife, though, and it turned out northern lights and midnight sun couldn’t happen at the same time. Who knew?

Her laptop beeped. A message had come in.

Sender, Liz McKinnon. Aka Elizabeth Robb.



Not this time.



Sarah had to scroll down to remind herself what she’d said that morning. It was a question about images coming before text.

Not this time? That was it? Where was the explanation? The urgency? The realization that faraway bookstores were already lining up readers?

Instead of typing HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?, the uppercase letters denoting a shout, Sarah confined herself to asking,



What’s different this time?



Liz’s answer arrived ten minutes later.



I’m married. I’m a mother. I’m a Wife and Mother.



Sarah understood. New commitments, busier days. That didn’t mean her old commitments had disappeared.



Poor Liz! Things not going well?



A few minutes passed.



This place should be called Robbtown. More people come in and out of the house than I ever saw in Vancouver—to talk to, anyway—and almost all of them are relatives who think because I’m at home I’m not working. Then there are the diapers.



It was hard to imagine Liz dealing with diapers. Hard to imagine anyone dealing with them.



I’m sorry about the crowds of Robbs. Sorry about the diapers, too.



Sarah hesitated before adding to the message. Should she ease Liz along or drag the monster out of the closet and, she hoped, see how puny it really was?

Drag out the monster, she decided.



We’ll talk about this more when I see you, but I’m wondering…do you need to postpone the book? Cancel it?



The answer came immediately.



No. No! I’ll figure it out. Sorry, Sarah, but I’ve got to go. Baby’s crying, kettle’s whistling, dog’s barking. See ya.



Sarah tried not to be irritated by the casual sign-off.

The monster didn’t look all that puny. Liz either couldn’t or didn’t want to ignore the distractions her life was throwing at her.

If her book wasn’t finished in time there’d be an empty spot in the company’s catalog and an empty spot on bookstore shelves, one another publisher would be glad to fill.

Sarah rubbed her eyes. Her head was starting to throb. So much for taking a break and getting perspective. Surrounded by tundra and houseboats and Old Town shanties and she hardly had a chance to—

Of course…why hadn’t she thought of it right away? She hurried to the phone and dialed Liz’s number.

No answer. That was always the way with Liz. The phone was busy, or no one was there. With an e-mail, an answer could take hours, even a whole day.



Liz, I told you, didn’t I, that I’d be in Yellowknife before Manitoba? That’s where I am now. You’ve got to come. Instead of me going to you, you come here. Every two steps you’ll trip over a story. You can’t be here and not see pictures. You’ll have to hurry, though. I’m flying back to Vancouver on the weekend. I know it’s rushed, but it’ll be worth it. All right?



Every few minutes Sarah hit the receive button. Nothing happened. With any luck, it meant Liz was hard at work. Off in the woods with her easel and paints. Or shut in the attic, insulated from interruption.

Finally, Liz answered.



I’m a Wife and Mother. Did you forget?



Uh-oh, Sarah thought, this time noticing the capital letters. Liz wasn’t just overwhelmed. She had a martyr complex in the making. Sympathy would be the worst thing to offer.



Hand infant to husband. Point nose north. Flap wings.



For half an hour, Sarah heard nothing back. She heated water through the coffeemaker, directly onto a tea bag in a mug. She dipped the bag in and out, burned her tongue on the first sip and wished she had her own kitchen with a proper kettle, a nice porcelain pot and a wide choice of premium tea leaves.

The laptop dinged.



Infant handed. Flight booked. Arriving Yellowknife Thursday.



Like magic, Sarah’s headache began to subside.

The schedule would still be tight; there was no getting away from that. But a few days here, and Liz would have grist for the mill for years to come.




CHAPTER SEVEN


SARAH RESERVED THE room adjoining hers for Liz and spent the rest of the afternoon preparing it as she would at home, with magazines, a tin of mints, a basket of fruit and chocolate, and teas and coffees to augment those supplied by the hotel.

By evening, the long, complicated day had caught up with her. She bought a sandwich from the hotel coffee shop and took it up to her room. She wanted bubbles, cocoa, a book and her dinner, all in the tub.

First, she would return Ian’s call, so she could forget about him and his odd apology.

She undressed with one hand and dialed his hotel with the other. The front desk connected her and the answering machine came on.

“Got your message, Ian. Thanks. You said you supposed I knew what happened last night. Actually, I don’t know. Pretty much from bar to bed to goodbye. It feels wrong to be grumpy with each other, though, doesn’t it? Do you want to meet for a drink tonight?”

The question had slipped out. If she could have caught it and put it back in her mouth, she would have. She didn’t want a drink. Not with him, not with anyone. She wanted a bubble bath and bed. Besides, an innocent drink was how the previous evening had begun.

Since she couldn’t take back the suggestion, she added, “Not as a prelude to anything, just a drink. I want to think we can be civil to each other. For old time’s sake.”

She liked the sound of that. Postbliss and postfight chemicals had nothing to do with the invitation. “Anyway, I’ll be here for a while if you want to give me a call.”



SARAH HELD HER BOOK SAFELY above the bubbles. She had just finished reading about a young man from Ontario who’d gone north to find his fortune during one of the 1880s gold rushes, and had never been heard from again. He’d simply disappeared.

The cold could have got him, she supposed. A glacier. Wild animals. Rapids. Other gold-seekers. The book was full of similar stories about southerners with a dream coming up against the harsh realities of the north. It was different now, with modern travel and technology. Safer.

Sarah let the book fall to the floor, and slid deeper into the bubbles. She wished she hadn’t fought with Ian today. He was her harsh reality, always insisting on being unreasonable.

They used to get along. There weren’t any lunches that dissolved into fights. Ian had to be thinking of someone else. She remembered lunches much differently. Sexy lunches, study lunches, long, wonderful conversation lunches.

Once, at exam time, with books and binders open all over the apartment, and stress oozing from the walls, she’d looked up from her notes and thought again how absolutely beautiful he was. But upset. He was studying for his one science credit and had been afraid he would fail.

She’d gone over to commiserate with him. Had ruffled his hair and told him he should grow it longer. He’d said his dad would just cut it off.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/caron-todd/her-favorite-husband/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.