Stitch in Snow

Chapter 10

Tim got home! The house was full of noise. Mairead and I met him at Dublin Airport - so did his best friends. I'll never know how the seven of them fit into the Mini. He was tired from the trip for he can never sleep on planes. He was jubilant at his reception. So was I!

He'd lugged home twenty-five of his favourite records as much because he wanted to have his friends hear them as because he didn't want his cousins (he stored his things between terms at my sister's) to scratch his albums. He'd his guitar in the patiently and wildly tape-mended card-board original case. I ought to buy him a proper one for his birthday this year. He'd only one suitcase and his portable typewriter.

'I was overweight, Mom,' he announced joyfully after hugging my ribs in and rubbing my face with whiskery cheeks. 'Trish's coming in ten days. Just ten days! Mom, and you know what, I got away with 15 kilos overweight for only $15. And,' Tim chortled, 'here…'

He threw me his ski jacket and I nearly dropped it. It weighed a ton.

'What on earth?'

I felt the lining, crammed with objects that felt like an aerosol can, shoes, a huge wad of something soft that turned out to be a pair of trousers and two pairs of socks, the calculator in one pocket and two packs of playing cards in another…

'You must have had twenty pounds in this alone!'

'Right!' and he turned with some urgent questions to Eamonn and Tich. Demanded a kiss from Sheevaun and Mary and Meg and Babs, and socked Pat on the chin. Then he made a big thing of catching Mairead and kissing her.

'One! I told you one was all you'd get from me. You've got other girls here to salute. Bother them!'

'Say, Mom, can I drive home? I got my license.'

'Not yet. You're in Ireland, remember?'

'Thank God, thank God!' And he salaamed.

'And… you haven't slept all night by the look of you… you drive later… when I've had a chance to change my insurance coverage.'

'Now, Mom, I'm…'

'I know you're a good careful driver… but later.'

We crammed four people in the back of the Peug, with Mairead beside me, supporting the guitar case. Tim had managed to get Sheevaun on his lap with Mary beside him and Eamonn grinning as third. The trip home was devoted to catching up on all the gossip, with plans for Trish's entertainment (evidently Tim had informed all his friends of her imminent arrival), questions about mutual friends, generally catching up the threads of his life in Ireland.

We dropped the girls off in Blackrock, and then Eamonn at Shankill. As we reached the Enniskerry turn-off, Tim sat up, eyes on the road, waiting for the second turn that would give him a sight of our home. Our home. We hadn't been in Ireland but four years and yet this place seemed more homey than any town in the States: a fact that had impinged on my consciousness, too. I could experience Tim's feelings keenly for I'd felt the same way on my return.

I made a decent Irish breakfast for the three of us and we sat for several hours talking about everything until I saw Tim struggling to keep his eyes open.

'Look, if your gang is coming back here for tea, you'd better catch upon your sleep or you'll be no good to them,' I told him and shooed him off to his room.

He made a token struggle but went off. I followed in a few moments, to tuck him in, a ritual of his return even now he was nineteen.

I was planting a kiss on his forehead, when he caught my hand. 'You left Bethlehem too soon. Mom. You missed him.'

'Missed him?' My innards jolted about. So much for discipline.

'Yeah, Daniel Jerome.'

'What do you mean?'

'He got into Bethlehem Monday evening, Mom. He was extremely uptight that you'd already left.' Tim's eyes looked deeply into mine. 'You know, I'd thought I'd punch him in the jaw if I ever met him for getting you in that mess…'

'He wasn't at fault…'

'Ohho!'

'Don't be silly, Tim…'

'But Mom, I couldn't. I liked him. And you shouldn't have left so fast.'

'Oh? I had no reason to hang about. Whatever possessed him to come to Bethlehem like that?'

Tim gave me one of his shrewd knowing looks. 'Could be he felt he owed you something?'

'For telling the truth?'

Tim arched one eyebrow. 'The time, place and circumstances do make a powerful difference.'

'Perhaps. You get some sleep, now, Timothy Raymond Lovell.'

'I think it was damned white of him to come in person.'

'I agree. I certainly didn't expect it.'

'That's obvious.' Tim smashed his pillow into submission and flipping on his left side, emphasised his polite wish to follow my original advice and sleep.

I really wanted to find out more details about Dan's visit with Tim. I'd a hundred questions that needed answers, like how had Dan looked? What did he say? Where was he going? How was DJ? Did DJ get the books? (Did he like them?) Had Tim really liked Dan? Yes, Tim had said he did. And he hadn't clobbered him. Not that I would have thought Tim capable of bashing anyone about. So I left Tim to sleep and, as I turned back into the living room, there was Mairead. From the grin on her face, I realised she had overheard the conversation. When she raised one eyebrow, I also realised that my expression gave away my feelings.

'So he came buckety-buckety to see you and you, you bloody ijit, weren't there. Tsck, tsck!'

'Oh, shut up.'

'Did Tim mention if he liked the sweater? No, sorry, he wouldn't have got it if you'd only mailed it that day. How far from Bethlehem is Denver?'

'Half a country.'

'Wow!'

I was sick with the thought of having missed him and I didn't need Mairead's wise remarks. She caught that, too, and giving my arm a reassuring squeeze, she announced that she had to open the shop, the conquering hero / prodigal's return notwithstanding. She'd be in later. Maybe we'd all go out for a jar.

It was hard not to wake Tim with the assorted questions that sprang to mind to bother me. If Dan had seen Tim, and Tim had liked him, surely Dan could have got my Irish address and written me? More than likely, having made this expensive gesture, and found me departed, he'd salved his own conscience in the matter. I would not dwell on the possible motivation of Daniel Jerome. But it was also curious that Tim had not mentioned Dan's visit in his letters. I'd had three from Tim before he left Lehigh and after Dan's trip. That was odd, indeed. Such reflection robbed me of the passive content I had so narrowly achieved.

I went to the garden and weeded the vegetable rows as penance.

With Tim back, the house began to ring with a loudly-set stereo, the gruff tones of young males raised in friendly fierce debate, the muted tones of Irish girls who surely have the loveliest speaking voices in the world. The blacktopped parking area was crammed with an assortment of motor-bikes, respectable cars and chopper push-bikes. Now, however, when I ran out of coffee or milk or bread, there was a cheerful messenger service. And now, also, since most of the young people were employed, I didn't always pay for what was fetched.

Tim had had three very close friends during his years at NewPark Comprehensive: Eamonn and Tich had gone on to University and Pat had entered the family soft goods business. Beyond those three, Tim had a bevy of less intimate acquaintances who apparently were quite willing to make our house their rallying spot. (To give them their due, I'd been approached often during Tim's absence by the boys, asking if they could do any jobs for me.)

If the house was active until wee morning hours, it was also quiet until I had managed to drag Tim from his bed. He has relatively few faults, but rising belatedly out of his downy couch on what he considers his holiday is the prime one. Waking Tim takes roughly three hours, and four cups of coffee, generally consumed cold after much nagging. For particularly urgent matters, a cup of water must be poised in a threatening position above his innocently sleeping face. One douching is all that is needed per week.

I had saved tasks for him, like coping with the weeds at the back of the garden, painting the windowsills, inside and out, where the unkind sun had baked cracks and blisters, recementing certain of the garden steps which frost had loosened, rehanging the garden gate which the winter gales had ripped off its hinges. I used to do such chores myself but with a strapping young man in the house, why should I?

And I wanted them all done before Trish put in her much-discussed appearance or they'd never be accomplished. Tim had marked off the days until her arrival on his calendar, and as the time approached, there was great discussion as to the form her welcome should take. He had borrowed a bike from Eamonn's sister. I had duly finished the tasks he'd given me, but there were other things to be done. Mapping an itinerary, youth hostel cards, awaiting the arrival of the surface-mailed camper foods. He'd had a bit of a job plugging them to his other hiking partners and then began to fret that the packages would not arrive in time. In the face of such anticipation, small wonder that my necessary chores were last on the list of his making.

'June's my holiday. Mom, so please, can't I sleep?'

'This is still May, pet. In June I'll let you sleep.'

'I'll be camping in June.'

'That's your problem and your holiday.- Now it is May.'

He got everything done. He always does. And I always have to badger. I also always forget that I have to.

Tim's return had another benefit: I started writing again in earnest. As if the source of my inspiration, the touchstone of the 'Timmy' books, being in residence, sparked my inspiration.

It was very therapeutic to get involved in the intricacies of a book again. It blotted out all other kinds of thinking. I was working at a fair clip, ten to fifteen pages a day, all about a tow-headed boy with a wide blue-eyed face and a black-haired pony with an equally ingenuous face. Then June arrived. And Trish.

Before she moved into the house, I was prepared to resent her for interrupting my concentration with the necessities of hostessing. But Tim knew the way I worked and had evidently explained the process at length to Trish. She fitted into the household routine as if she'd always been there. In the five days Tim allowed her to get synchronised to Irish time before they took off on their bike hike, there was never a dirty cup, plate, spoon or pot in the kitchen. The laundry disappeared the moment it left the body and reappeared neatly ironed and hung, or folded carefully away. She was also not obtrusive in her efforts to help efficiently. I liked her very much, but I worried. She was obviously the sort who made marvellous wives for busy men, but she wanted a career in music. All right, so teaching a school or church group. Tim was just turned 20 and in no position to marry. Maybe they'd be happy to live together for a while? They certainly acted married to my prejudiced eye.

One consolation occurred to me: youth wasn't being wasted by Tim and Trish.

She also got on extremely well with Tim's friends. I presume that Tim had briefed her, or she had extraordinary recall, because she knew exactly who was who, and doing what from the first evening on.

In those five days, my evenings were quiet - all too bloody quiet alter three weeks of Tim and his friends. But they had to take Trish to every singing pub in the two counties. And that took some pub crawling.

Trish had not brought her guitar since she allowed that Tim's was a very good instrument. She had brought, in the lining of her anorak (I wonder who advised her on that?) nine skillion tape blanks. If the typewriter and computer were Tim's favourite appendages, the tape recorder and mike were hers. I wondered if she slept with them. No, cancel that, Dana.

The day before their scheduled departure was madsville: tents, the campers' dehydrated and flash frozen, vacuum packed food arrived and were admired, haversacks, bike packs, boots, pans, all the paraphernalia occupied my living room. Everything was weighed so that no one carried more than was bearable. There was a huge argument between Trish and Tim because she wanted to carry as much weight as he: she was just as fit, wasn't she, and not a scrawny wight. He was being a male chauvinist pig, that's what, and she wouldn't permit it. I think Sheevaun and Mary wished she'd be quiet about equality: they were quite willing for Eamonn and Pat to take the heavier loads.

Tim solved the problem by saying Trish could carry their tent one day, and he the next.

We had a huge feast and booze-up the night before, though it ended, on Tim's orders, at midnight, to allow for a good sleep and an early start. They'd have to take it easy the first day, possibly the second, but an early start would mean they could have more rests the first day, to limber muscles unused during the winter. (After those hills in Lehigh, I wouldn't have thought he needed any limbering so I think he meant Eamonn and the girls. I knew that Pat had biked to Belfield from Shankill every day.)

Mairead and her new man came, on Tim's invitation. Nick had done a good deal of cycling so he fit into the evening far better than Mairead, to judge by her bemused expression, had anticipated. Nick Hewlett was a sort of nondescript looking person until he smiled or until you had talked him up a bit. He tended to hold his own counsel, which must certainly recommend him to Mairead who resented gratuitous advice, but he knew a great many things about travelling in Ireland. Not surprising when I finally asked him what was his business and found he'd been chauffeuring for one of the big hire-car firms. He often took on assignments with film companies and he had a store of amusing tales to tell about driving this or that big name film star. He'd been assigned to the Rafferty's Daughter crew so he had a good deal of pertinent information to give Trish, with names of people to look up for more than the average courtesies.

'Where'd you find him?' I asked Mairead on the side.

'Let's just say, we found each other.'

'Did you know all that?'

'No, but then,' and she shot it back at me, 'we didn't talk about us.'

That set both of us off laughing and neither of us could explain to the others.

The evening was great fun and I tried not to think of tomorrow. As I'd dreaded, the house was all the more empty for their leaving. Tim's a good organiser and despite my attempts to stuff everyone with pancakes enough to last the week, much less the first morning, they mounted their bikes, festooned with oddments of equipment at exactly seven o'clock. They looked mighty ungainly, bending over the handlebars, their backpacks bulging, as they pumped down the road, two by two, and out of my sight.

Tim had promised to give me a shout now and then, so I'd know they hadn't come to any grief. I'd that much to look forward to.

I occupied that day with housecleaning: I couldn't leave all the bits and pieces out or Mrs. Munday would hide them on Tuesday when she came and we'd never find anything. I also restocked the freezer which had been severely depleted.

Mairead phoned me as I was sitting down to a lonely dinner of chicken wings, and she and Nick took me out for a few jars. Nick had enough stories to fill a book of 'Timmy's' if such stories had been fit for young eyes. I'd never realised that film stars could be so… so… human?

I crawled into bed that night, too well oiled to care about anything except closing my watering eyes. They could have a smokeless room in some of the bigger pubs, couldn't they, for the people like me? They have smokeless sections of airplanes, don't they?

The next morning was worse. I marched myself back upstairs at nine-thirty and sat dutifully at the typewriter. The story absented itself as if Tim's presence had been responsible for its progress and it was suspended until he returned in three weeks.

Three weeks in a doubly empty house? And Mairead far too involved with Nick to want to share his company? I would go absolutely stark raving bonkers.

I noticed glumly that the calendar said it was D-Day. Deserted Day, I grembled to myself. I was on my fourth cup of coffee. Mr. Murphy had brought only circular mail, sent surface from the States. It was fund-raising time for colleges so I didn't even have anything palatable to browse through with my coffee. Or answer later, thus disposing of more heavy time. Injury upon insult!

The doorbell purred and then' someone applied the knocker vigorously to the door as if they didn't trust mechanical devices.

'I'm coming! I'm coming.'

I wondered who the hell would be so insistent. And then ran, because, maybe something had happened to Tim and Trish, and it was the Gardai…

I hauled open the door and stared.

Leaning indolently against the doorjamb was Daniel Jerome Lowell, his mouth twitching in echo of the pure devilment in his serge-blue eyes.

'What are you doing here?'

I clung to the door handle so as not to throw my arms about his neck, sternly telling myself that I'd've been glad to see anyone who wasn't the bearer of bad tidings.

The light went out of his eyes. I know I had sounded shrewish with relief, but I was trying not to sound over-joyed, too. Nothing more certain to put a man off…

I grabbed his hand and pulled him over the threshold.

'Tim and Trish left yesterday on their bikes…' I said in a rush of explanation. 'And the way you… summoned me… I was scared stiff it was the Gardai reporting an accident. Don't stand there! Come in. When did you get here? Oh, you've a car. Why didn't you phone? I'd've picked you up at the airport. Are you staying long? I didn't mean to sound inhospitable or…'

Baggins came charging out of the bushes to inspect the newcomer and the awkwardness of my greeting was covered by necessary introductions. I wasn't surprised that Baggins liked Dan and lick-kissed him. I'd've been more surprised if Baggins had been aggressive.

'I got in this morning,' Dan said, still ruffling Baggins' neck fur, 'I don't know how long I'm staying and I didn't mean to alarm you. I need a car for transport so I didn't phone you and you're a marvellous dog, aren't you, Baggins?'

Baggins promptly produced more ecstasies of welcome, wriggling between Dan's legs so that he almost tripped Dan up.

'Would you like some coffee, Dan?'

'I 'd love some…'

'… Or breakfast?'

'I'd in mind to invite you out to lunch…'

'Good heavens, what time is it?'

'Nearly twelve…'

'But you must be exhausted if you came in on that morning flight.'

'I'm used to flying.'

'I'll fix the coffee. I won't be a minute…' I got out of the room, so flustered that I dropped the kettle into the sink as I tried to fill it. The fluster then descended to my innards and my hands shook so that I spilled coffee as I filled the filter top, dropped a coffee mug, fortunately only into the plastic dish drainer so it was unscathed.

'This place is just right for you Jenny.' he said, appearing in the archway from the dining room. 'Had it long?'

'Three years now.' Yes, yes, talk inanities until you can get your breath back. 'You're sure you don't want an egg and some good Irish bacon?'

'I said I wanted to take you out to lunch…' He really was in my kitchen, the warm orange of the walls making his tanned face darker. He looked much less haggard than he had the last time I'd seen him. In Denver, in Peter's living room. His hair was shorter, though, and he'd trimmed the moustache recently. The casual shirt, open at his throat, the dark blue blazer made his presence all the more overpowering for me.

'Unless you've something else planned…'

'No, Tim and Trish left yesterday on their trip…'

'I know…'

'How do you know?'

'You just told me,' and he jerked his head backwards toward the front of the house and then he grinned, coming towards me. 'Besides, Tim told me he and Trish would be gone by the sixth…' Dan moved across the small room, towards me.

'Tim told you?'

'Yes, when I came to Bethlehem. Only you'd already hightailed it out of the States…'

I swallowed. To think I had missed him by such a small margin. 'I had no reason to remain. My tour was over. Tim and I had had our visit. I was anxious to get home…'

If he didn't move away from me, six weeks of careful discipline, or stern exorcism…

He did move, but not away. Closer. He leaned against the counter, facing me, and before I could turn away from his gaze, he had caught my chin and tipped my face up.

'Jenny,' he said and folded me into his arms because he'd seen the ridiculous watering of my eyes. 'Jenny, Jenny!' And he kissed my cheek and stroked my hair, not at all the way Tim does, and loved me with his hands and the length of his body while I stupidly bawled away the longing and frustration of the last six weeks.

'Jenny! Jenny?' He framed my face with both hands and kissed me slowly, ever so slowly, leisurely as if he had all the time in the world.

Except that I'd put the kettle on and it's the whistling kind.

He didn't interrupt the kiss but with one hand, he let go of me and tried to find the kettle. He burned his hand and that broke the kiss.

I was all contrition but my weeps had turned to laughter as I held his burned fingers under the cold water. I got command of myself.

'You'll freeze my fingers off,' he complained, pulling his hand out of mine and examining the red marks critically.

'He who pulls kettle from fire without watchful eye gets fingers burned! I've something to take the sting out…'

He snatched me back to his side. 'Jenny, are you glad to see me?'

Our eyes met and he slowly dropped his hand, his expression puzzled and expectant. Or hopeful? My behaviour had blighted him. He must have come straight from the airport to my house. Tim had obviously given him precise directions for how else could he have found the house? His eyes were weary, too, from travel fatigue and the time change, and anxious.

Slowly I became aware that his anxiety was real: he was very unsure of his welcome. I had attributed to him more self-confidence and assurance than I now realised he possessed. The murder charge had been a terrible, terrible strain and he had not recovered from that either.

'Did you know that it's D-Day?' I asked with the first steadying thought that had come to my mind.

He blinked in an effort to follow my line of thought.

'I was grembling about the house, full of self-pity when you knocked, banged and clattered at my door like the knell of doom. I'd decided that "D" is for Deserted. Now I guess it's really "D" for Dan Day.'

I'd said the right thing. The anxiety cleared out of his face and his eyes began to sparkle as I remembered they could from Denver. Lightly he put his arms around my waist, wincing a bit as he inadvertently clasped the burned fingers.

'Tim told me that I should come the day after he and Trish left because you'd be feeling deserted and I could…' He broke off with a laugh.

'Catch me with my defences down?'

'That's right.' He nodded vigorously, his face smiling. 'I thought he was wrong at first until…' He hugged me to him, swaying both of us back and forth. 'Oh, Jenny!' And he buried his face in my hair, nibbling at my neck.

Resolutely I pushed him from me, and miraculously he let me.

'Yes, Jenny, we need to talk. Seriously. So make me that coffee which has scarred me for life.'

Dan perched on one of the breakfast stools as I poured water into the filter top, got out the sugar and milk, added another cup to the one I had nearly broken.

'So, why besides making it a " D " for Dan Day, are you in Dublin?'

'I'm here to see you, Jenny.'

'I thought you were doing something about off-shore oil.'

'I'm here to see you, first and foremost. Jenny.'

'Where's DJ?' I was scared of why he wanted to see me, first and foremost.

'In Denver with the Taggerts. I wanted him to finish school before… Before I made other plans for him.'

He took the cup I offered, lifting it in a salute.

'He's had a very rough two years, Jenny…If I'd had any idea that he was being so abused…'

'Abused?' I got absolutely rigid with hatred of a woman who'd abuse a nice youngster like DJ. I thought of his sensitive face, the haunted eyes, the intensity of his stare when he measured me up as the person who could absolve his father.

'Not physically,' Dan hastily reassured me, 'but I've a lot to make up to him. By the way, Tim's a credit to you. I'd've known him anywhere from those books.'

'You haven't ever read them?'

'DJ insisted,' and Dan smiled again, this time pure mischief at my shock. 'And I'll admit that I thoroughly enjoyed them. Them and a second childhood. Tim and DJ got on very well, by the way…'

'Tim and DJ?' I sank, strengthless, onto the other stool.

'Yes, when DJ found I was going to Bethlehem, he insisted on coming with me. He wanted to thank you, too…'

'Oh, Dan, if I'd only known. He must have been so disappointed.'

'Not half as much as I was but then, he met Tim,' Dan went on blandly. 'DJ said for me to tell you that he'd've known Tim anywhere, too. And I was to say that Tim in person is even nicer than Tim of the books.'

'Except when you want to get him up in the morning to do chores.'

Dan laughed. 'And thanks for that sweater, Jenny.'

'You did get it? Did it fit?'

'I have it with me. That's why I came.'

'Why you came? But you said it fit?'

'So it does. But I had to come, you see, because you'd sent me the sweater.'

I was confused.

'Why would that make you come? I mean, I did hope to get a note from you saying that it had come…'

'I wanted to write, but after I'd talked to Tim…'

'But you couldn't have got the sweater that fast…'

'I've had quite a few conversations with Tim, Jenny,' he said gently, 'because I wasn't going to appear where I wasn't wanted.'

'Wasn't wanted?'

He put down his coffee mug and I could see that his expression was wary.

'Look, Jenny, I'd had to involve you in a very messy business. I wasn't at all sure if you ever wanted to see or hear from me again. I sure as hell couldn't have blamed you. And that night at Pete's… it seemed to me that you couldn't wait to get out of the house when you discovered I was there.'

'I only left because I didn't want to give the D.A…'

'I know that now. Jenny, but that evening… I'd been through such hell…'

'Oh, Dan…' I took his hands in mine.

'And to see you, so tired… so… And thinking about DJ and Pete's two girls…' He rubbed at his hair, grimacing against the memory of that desperate time. 'Then you up and leave the States, goddamn near as soon as you'd got the all-clear from Pete. I was sure you'd never want to set eyes on me again. And Tim didn't give me a very warm welcome, either. Until he saw DJ…' Dan managed a little grin.

I was appalled by Tim's duplicity. 'Why, the brat. He didn't mention a thing. If I'd known you'd come…'

'I asked Tim not to tell you. DJ and I went back to Denver. Tim did say that he didn't think you held any bad feelings for me…'

'I didn't. I didn't…' His turn to hold hands for reassurance.

'And then the sweater came. Jenny, I've thought and thought. I've tried to convince myself that it's only gratitude, that it's because you are the antithesis of Noreen Sue and this is reboundsville. But Jenny, I can't get you out of my mind. What in hell should we do about it?'

He was appealing to me, his eyes, his warm hands, his whole body leaning towards me across the counter. And why in hell did it have to be in the way? For a long moment, I couldn't answer, couldn't do anything because of the upsurge of emotion, all joyful and mixed with the primitive response of his presence.

'I think we should talk about it…'

'Then you don't dislike me…'

' Whatever gave you any notion that I did?'

'That's my Jenny!'

'No, don't get any nearer. We have to be rational, sensible,

'Why?' and he was nibbling sexily at my left palm and wrist. 'I didn't fly three thousand miles to be sensible. I came because I wanted you, I wanted to see you and talk with you and be with you. And I'm selfish, I want DJ to have you, too. And DJ to have someone like Tim in the background, to help erase the darkness of these last two years.' He was pressing my fingers into his palm, one at a time, enumerating the various points. 'You've a profession, so have I. The two professions are not mutually exclusive. I've the house in Denver, you've one here. We could even manage to spend a half year in each country. And Tim says he'd love to learn to ski…'

I thought of the blond boy on the black pony and how I'd wondered if DJ would like one.

'I want you, Jenny, for myself and for DJ. You have what we both happen to stand in grave need of: integrity, understanding and compassion. Those qualities come over in your books, you know. And I can trust you. I think that's the prime consideration. I know I can trust you. You knew what even my best friends, Pete included, did not know: that I couldn't, wouldn't, and didn't take a life.'

'But I knew that. I was there!'

His grip tightened almost painfully. 'Jenny, even before Pete told when the murder was supposed to have happened, you told him I hadn't done it.'

'Didn't Pete believe you?' I was incredulous and yet…

Dan shook his head, smiling sadly. 'Pete's been in the business too long to trust anybody, any more. Only you and DJ believed in me. I need you. Jenny, because I can trust you, because I want DJ to realise that he can trust someone again. And if you think that trust, need, respect and…' here that impossible quirk of devilment gleamed in his eyes again, 'the most agreeable rapport in bed… aren't the basis for a lasting relationship… Jenny, couldn't we just try it on for size this summer? Tim was blunt that I should ask you… Couldn't we see if it wouldn't work on a more permanent basis…'

There was that in his attitude that told me he was ready right then to marry me. He rose, still holding my hands as he came round the corner. All discipline deserted me. I had only a few seconds more of rational thought because the moment he started to kiss me…

'Couldn't we, please, Jenny?'

'I rather think we'd better…'

I could tell myself later that it was the challenge of erasing the haunted look in DJ's eyes but, when Dan's lips covered mine, I knew that it was to remove, forever, the anxiety in Dan's.