they have it when they get back." He opened drawers and
began pulling out clothes.
A driver delivered the
car to the hotel fifteen minutes later. It was a rugged four-wheel drive Toyota
Land Cruiser, considerably battered and obviously well-used.
They drove in silence.
Blake had never been given to small talk. Even during their marriage he'd done
little talking. She had usually been the one to begin conversations and to keep
them going. The strong, silent type he was. She'd been enamored by it then,
found it sexy and exciting, wondering what lay behind that quiet facade, what
fascinating thoughts lurked behind those calm gray eyes.
Later it had no longer
been exciting. She had silently prayed for him to talk, to say the things she
so desperately needed to hear. Instead, there had been silence, or words that
had not mattered.
She sensed the old
bitterness stirring in her again and tried to push it out. It was all in the
past now.
Only he was sitting
next to her again, now, in the present. She bit her lip and focused on the
scenery outside. They'd left the city and were driving through rural country
past rubber plantations and picturesque Malay villages. The wooden houses were
built on stilts, their thatched roofs shaded by tall coconut palms. In the
distance, misty, forest-covered hills reared up against a deep blue sky.
"Tell me about
your friends," she asked at last, "the ones who own the house. Are
they American?"
"John's American,
Lisette is French. He's a botanist and she's a nature photographer and they're
both deep into conservation issues."
"Why are they out
of the country?"
"They're on a lecture
tour through the States. They've been all over the Peninsula and Sarawak
cataloging rain forest plants."
"Do they have
kids?" She couldn't imagine how they'd manage the needs of a family.
"Two grown
daughters. They're in the States."
"They're older
than you, then, I guess." She felt as if she were doing an interview
rather than having a conversation.
He shrugged
indifferently. "In their early fifties."
"They must be
interesting people. Do you see them often?"
"A couple of
times a year. When I'm in the Far East I usually go up there to write my
reports and spend a little time with them. I'm sorry to miss them this
time."
There was silence
again. Outside, they passed by rolling green valleys and hills, cultivated with
shimmering green bushes—tea, she knew—and through Chinese villages where small
shop houses spilled their goods onto the sidewalk. Above the shops were the
living quarters- potted plants on the balconies, washing hanging from lines to
dry. The different ethnic groups making up Malaysia's population made for a
colorful and interesting country.
Blake was preoccupied,
not making an effort at conversation. She studied his inscrutable face,
wondering what he was thinking. He hadn't counted on her being with him and she
wondered if he resented her presence. It was an uncomfortable thought.
"I'm sorry I'm
causing you a problem," she said. "You hadn't counted on my coming
with you."
"It's not a
problem." His eyes met hers briefly. "Unless we make it a
problem," he added.
"What do you
mean?"
He shrugged lightly.
"We are not exactly strangers to each other, and unfortunately our past
relationship did not have a very satisfactory ending."
"That was a long
time ago," she said tightly. "And I have no intention of making it a
problem."
"Good. Neither do
I."
She thought of waking
up in his arms early that morning, snuggled tightly up against him, and she
suppressed a wave of hot embarrassment. That had been a problem. A serious one.
They had lunch in a
Malay village an hour later, eating nasi lemak, spicy coconut
rice with fish, egg and cucumber wrapped up in a banana leaf. They ate it with
their fingers, Malay style, and she was mentally writing up the experience of
sitting here in this picturesque village with small children staring at them
curiously and women draped head to foot in Muslim dress on
began pulling out clothes.
A driver delivered the
car to the hotel fifteen minutes later. It was a rugged four-wheel drive Toyota
Land Cruiser, considerably battered and obviously well-used.
They drove in silence.
Blake had never been given to small talk. Even during their marriage he'd done
little talking. She had usually been the one to begin conversations and to keep
them going. The strong, silent type he was. She'd been enamored by it then,
found it sexy and exciting, wondering what lay behind that quiet facade, what
fascinating thoughts lurked behind those calm gray eyes.
Later it had no longer
been exciting. She had silently prayed for him to talk, to say the things she
so desperately needed to hear. Instead, there had been silence, or words that
had not mattered.
She sensed the old
bitterness stirring in her again and tried to push it out. It was all in the
past now.
Only he was sitting
next to her again, now, in the present. She bit her lip and focused on the
scenery outside. They'd left the city and were driving through rural country
past rubber plantations and picturesque Malay villages. The wooden houses were
built on stilts, their thatched roofs shaded by tall coconut palms. In the
distance, misty, forest-covered hills reared up against a deep blue sky.
"Tell me about
your friends," she asked at last, "the ones who own the house. Are
they American?"
"John's American,
Lisette is French. He's a botanist and she's a nature photographer and they're
both deep into conservation issues."
"Why are they out
of the country?"
"They're on a lecture
tour through the States. They've been all over the Peninsula and Sarawak
cataloging rain forest plants."
"Do they have
kids?" She couldn't imagine how they'd manage the needs of a family.
"Two grown
daughters. They're in the States."
"They're older
than you, then, I guess." She felt as if she were doing an interview
rather than having a conversation.
He shrugged
indifferently. "In their early fifties."
"They must be
interesting people. Do you see them often?"
"A couple of
times a year. When I'm in the Far East I usually go up there to write my
reports and spend a little time with them. I'm sorry to miss them this
time."
There was silence
again. Outside, they passed by rolling green valleys and hills, cultivated with
shimmering green bushes—tea, she knew—and through Chinese villages where small
shop houses spilled their goods onto the sidewalk. Above the shops were the
living quarters- potted plants on the balconies, washing hanging from lines to
dry. The different ethnic groups making up Malaysia's population made for a
colorful and interesting country.
Blake was preoccupied,
not making an effort at conversation. She studied his inscrutable face,
wondering what he was thinking. He hadn't counted on her being with him and she
wondered if he resented her presence. It was an uncomfortable thought.
"I'm sorry I'm
causing you a problem," she said. "You hadn't counted on my coming
with you."
"It's not a
problem." His eyes met hers briefly. "Unless we make it a
problem," he added.
"What do you
mean?"
He shrugged lightly.
"We are not exactly strangers to each other, and unfortunately our past
relationship did not have a very satisfactory ending."
"That was a long
time ago," she said tightly. "And I have no intention of making it a
problem."
"Good. Neither do
I."
She thought of waking
up in his arms early that morning, snuggled tightly up against him, and she
suppressed a wave of hot embarrassment. That had been a problem. A serious one.
They had lunch in a
Malay village an hour later, eating nasi lemak, spicy coconut
rice with fish, egg and cucumber wrapped up in a banana leaf. They ate it with
their fingers, Malay style, and she was mentally writing up the experience of
sitting here in this picturesque village with small children staring at them
curiously and women draped head to foot in Muslim dress on
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