Steven said, "but there it is."
Kate swiped at crumbs on the counter with a paper towel. A wayward image crept into her mind: she and Steven bundled up in mittens and mufflers, out on a snowy mountaintop together… just the two of them.
That was the frightening thing. Even though she
knew
she'd hate skiing, part of her longed to go out there and make herself cold and miserable. Just so she could be on that mountaintop with Steven. Just so she could be his type of woman over all the Gloria Nestors of the world. And there would go her selfhood, the independent person she'd fought so hard to become. Yes, it was frightening, wanting so badly to please a man.
She pushed the plates across the counter. She wasn't going anywhere near that sink today. It was far too dangerous.
"I'll get back to work," she said briskly. "Thanks for the lunch."
"You're welcome." But his tone didn't sound welcome in the least. When he went back outside, the pounding of nails sounded a bit more vigorous than necessary. The whistling had stopped.
Kate paced the library floor. She took a bag of M&Ms from her pocket and lined them all up in a straight row on the mantel. She picked out the yellow ones and ate them. Gloria Nestor had wasted no time in arranging another evening with Steven, and perhaps this time she'd be more successful in keeping his interest.
"She can have him!" Kate declared to the mantelpiece, but the words didn't sound very convincing. She ate one green M&M, then stalked upstairs to look for anything that would make her stop brooding about Steven and Gloria.
She paused in a doorway, examining the ratty brown carpet she'd started to pull up. This was the room where she planned to hang Steven's print once it was framed.
Whenever she saw a painting by Monet she would think of Steven.
This wasn't doing her any good. Turning, Kate opened the door across the hall. She saw a pair of loafers discarded carelessly on the rag rug, a shirt tossed across the back of a chair. Steven's bedroom. Kate hesitated, then stepped inside. There was only the barest amount of furniture—a couple of chairs, a bed, a nightstand. Kate picked up the book that was open facedown on the nightstand and read the title:
The Hound of the Baskervilles
. Sherlock Holmes—that seemed right for Steven. She glanced down, eyes lingering on the rumpled sheets of his bed. His pillow had been twisted and punched up against the wall as if he, too, had spent a restless night. Kate moved her hand over the pillow, thinking of his tousled head pressed against it. She could so easily imagine his powerful body lying here, tensed with energy even in sleep. Her hand crept downward, fingering a corner of the sheet…
What had come over her? She straightened quickly and backed away. She turned and fled the room, retreating all the way to the attic.
Here at last she found something to occupy her mind. She began poking about among all the boxes. This mess really did need to be cleared out, and yet the place would lose much of its atmosphere all neat and bare. Attics were meant for treasures like this.
She found fifty-year-old receipts, mildewed books, a moth-eaten scarf, faded photographs of children playing on a beach. Kate settled down cross-legged on the floor, sneezed vigorously into her handkerchief, and proceeded to pore over the photographs. Young faces laughed up at her, their happiness shining even through the cracked, yellowed film of age. Kate wondered if the children had grown up in this house, where they were now. All the papers she had unearthed so far carried the name Eliza R. Hobbes. Who was she? Had she loved the house as much as Kate did?
Reluctantly she put the photos back in their shoe box, but couldn't resist scavenging through a big chest pushed against one wall. It was filled with old dresses, the cloth thin and brittle under Kate's fingers.
"Oh, goodness," she breathed, holding up a whirl of polka dots, then a froth of yellowed lace. Perhaps Eliza had worn
Kate swiped at crumbs on the counter with a paper towel. A wayward image crept into her mind: she and Steven bundled up in mittens and mufflers, out on a snowy mountaintop together… just the two of them.
That was the frightening thing. Even though she
knew
she'd hate skiing, part of her longed to go out there and make herself cold and miserable. Just so she could be on that mountaintop with Steven. Just so she could be his type of woman over all the Gloria Nestors of the world. And there would go her selfhood, the independent person she'd fought so hard to become. Yes, it was frightening, wanting so badly to please a man.
She pushed the plates across the counter. She wasn't going anywhere near that sink today. It was far too dangerous.
"I'll get back to work," she said briskly. "Thanks for the lunch."
"You're welcome." But his tone didn't sound welcome in the least. When he went back outside, the pounding of nails sounded a bit more vigorous than necessary. The whistling had stopped.
Kate paced the library floor. She took a bag of M&Ms from her pocket and lined them all up in a straight row on the mantel. She picked out the yellow ones and ate them. Gloria Nestor had wasted no time in arranging another evening with Steven, and perhaps this time she'd be more successful in keeping his interest.
"She can have him!" Kate declared to the mantelpiece, but the words didn't sound very convincing. She ate one green M&M, then stalked upstairs to look for anything that would make her stop brooding about Steven and Gloria.
She paused in a doorway, examining the ratty brown carpet she'd started to pull up. This was the room where she planned to hang Steven's print once it was framed.
Whenever she saw a painting by Monet she would think of Steven.
This wasn't doing her any good. Turning, Kate opened the door across the hall. She saw a pair of loafers discarded carelessly on the rag rug, a shirt tossed across the back of a chair. Steven's bedroom. Kate hesitated, then stepped inside. There was only the barest amount of furniture—a couple of chairs, a bed, a nightstand. Kate picked up the book that was open facedown on the nightstand and read the title:
The Hound of the Baskervilles
. Sherlock Holmes—that seemed right for Steven. She glanced down, eyes lingering on the rumpled sheets of his bed. His pillow had been twisted and punched up against the wall as if he, too, had spent a restless night. Kate moved her hand over the pillow, thinking of his tousled head pressed against it. She could so easily imagine his powerful body lying here, tensed with energy even in sleep. Her hand crept downward, fingering a corner of the sheet…
What had come over her? She straightened quickly and backed away. She turned and fled the room, retreating all the way to the attic.
Here at last she found something to occupy her mind. She began poking about among all the boxes. This mess really did need to be cleared out, and yet the place would lose much of its atmosphere all neat and bare. Attics were meant for treasures like this.
She found fifty-year-old receipts, mildewed books, a moth-eaten scarf, faded photographs of children playing on a beach. Kate settled down cross-legged on the floor, sneezed vigorously into her handkerchief, and proceeded to pore over the photographs. Young faces laughed up at her, their happiness shining even through the cracked, yellowed film of age. Kate wondered if the children had grown up in this house, where they were now. All the papers she had unearthed so far carried the name Eliza R. Hobbes. Who was she? Had she loved the house as much as Kate did?
Reluctantly she put the photos back in their shoe box, but couldn't resist scavenging through a big chest pushed against one wall. It was filled with old dresses, the cloth thin and brittle under Kate's fingers.
"Oh, goodness," she breathed, holding up a whirl of polka dots, then a froth of yellowed lace. Perhaps Eliza had worn
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