"About what?" Stephanie turned to study her brother, wondering if Brock had asked about her.
Perry started to answer, then interrupted her look. "No, he didn't ask about you. Obviously you told him that I gave up graduate school in law when dad had his accident."
"Why? What did he say?"
"A lot of nonsense about night school and summer courses." His mouth tightened grimly. "Which would take me forever, plus there's the problem of commuting back and forth and keeping the inn operating the way it should. No, it just isn't possible."
"What else did you talk about?" They had discussed the possibility of Perry resuming his education many times, always with the same conclusion, so Stephanie didn't argue with him now. She was too eager for any snippet of information about Brock.
"Everything from the difficulty of getting and keeping good help to renovating the whole place and turning it into the most famous ski lodge on the continent." Her brother paused, appearing to consider something. "You know, Stephanie, most of the time I feel like I'm a pretty experienced guy, but last night, in his suite, he was getting calls from half the world. My whole life is centered around that inn, yet I doubt very seriously if the inn earns enough money to pay his travel expenses for a year. I represent pretty small potatoes to his organization. The place could burn down and he'd never miss it."
"Why are you thinking like that?" It didn't sound like her brother: his attitude was defeated and inferior.
"I don't know." She shrugged and sighed. "Maybe I'm jealous. Hell, I know I am," he laughed shortly. "There I am sitting in his suite last night, trying desperately to concentrate on the discussion, and this chick of his keeps waltzing in and out of the bedroom dressed in this sheer lacy peignoir. I spent more time imagining…" Perry stopped at the sight of the ashen color that spread over Stephanie's face. "I'm sorry. Stephanie, don't be a fool."
"Please, don't say anything," she protested softly. "There isn't anything you can say that I haven't told myself already." She turned, needing a few minutes by herself. "Excuse me. I'm going to get some coffee."
When she returned to the living room, Perry was buried in the front page of the newspaper, and the conversation wasn't resumed. Stephanie sat on the sofa to drink her coffee. The minute it was gone she was up, walking to the window to look at the empty scene. Back and forth she went—too nervous to stay seated, while the grandfather clock ticked away the minutes.
"A watched pot never boils," Perry remarked on her tenth trip to the window.
"I know it." She walked to the fireplace to add another log to the waning fire.
"It's getting late," he observed. "I'd better get dressed for church. Are you coming?"
Rising, she glanced toward the window. "I…" Then Stephanie saw the blue Mercedes coming up the drive. "He's here!"
She dashed to the door and was outside by the time Brock stepped from the car. Her smile froze into place when she spied the blonde sitting in the passenger seat. Her gaze swung in hurt confusion back to Brock as he approached, his features grimly drawn.
"I have to leave. With luck, I'll make it to New York in time to catch the afternoon flight to Geneva," he said.
Stephanie couldn't speak, her throat paralyzed. She could only stare at him with her rounded blue eyes. The frosty chill of the October morning wasn't nearly as cold as she felt. He was leaving, and they wouldn't even have the morning together.
"I came to say goodbye," Brock continued. "I should have called, but…" His jaw hardened. "I told you this could happen. Dammit, I warned you!" He grabbed her by the shoulders as if to shake her.
The physical pain was almost welcome. In the next second, he was yanking her into his arms and bruising her lips with a hard, angry kiss, relentless in its punishment. But his savagery aroused an emotion stronger than pain. It engulfed her, leaving her weak and breathless when he broke the contact.
He pushed her away and had already turned to walk to the car before he muttered a rather final sounding, "Goodbye, Stephanie."
But she couldn't get that one word out—not even his name. The car had been started and was turning around. Still Stephanie hadn't moved from where he'd left her at the door.
There was no last glance from Brock—no wave, nothing. Tears misted over her eyes, blinding her vision. She didn't see the exact moment when his car disappeared from view down the long lane.
Entering the house, she was aware of Perry's blurred outline near the stairwell. "He had to leave…for Geneva." Her voice was choked and very small. Her brother looked at her for a long minute, but didn't say anything as he turned to climb the stairs. Stephanie walked blindly into the kitchen where she cried slow, silent tears.
THE NORTH WINDS came to strip the leaves from the trees, exposing the dark skeletons of the trunks and leaving piles of brown leaves to carpet the ground. The first snow flurry of the season came the last weekend in October. November arrived.
Stephanie had written Brock two letters, short ones with news of the inn and the area, minus any personal messages. The only address she had was the one the monthly reports were sent to. She couldn't be sure if they would reach him. Last week, she had sent merely a postcard.
There hadn't been a single reply of any kind, and she was gradually becoming convinced he had forgotten her. She couldn't shake the feeling that she had been on the brink of discovering something wonderful, only to lose it.
The ring of her office extension drew a sigh. Unclipping an earring, she answered the phone. "Miss Hall speaking. May I help you?"
"How are you?" a familiar male voice inquired.
Incredulous, Stephanie tightened her grip on the receiver, the blood singing in her veins. "Brock?" She could feel her voice choking. "Where are you?" In the background she could hear a hum of voices.
"Can you believe it?" His short laugh was a quietly harsh sound. "I'm in the middle of a board meeting. I don't know who the hell they think I'm talking to, but I had to call you."
"I'm glad." Her answer was hardly above a whisper.
"The mail packet caught up with me this morning. I got the letter and postcard you sent," he said.
"I…I wasn't sure if I should write," she admitted.
"These are liberated times, but I'm not surprised that you're behind them," he mocked, but not unkindly.
A voice intruded from the background. "Mr. Canfield, here's the breakdown report you wanted on the foreign currency exchange this quarter."
"Good, Frank," was Brock's partially muffled response, then clearer, "Are you still there?"
"Yes, I'm here," Stephanie assured him, her voice regaining its strength.
Brock started to say something, then changed his mind. "This is the most frustrating means of communication." His tone was low and charged with irritation. "I can't see you or touch you."
"I know." There was a certain torment in hearing his voice.
"Mr. Canfield?" The same voice interrupted Brock again.
"Dammit, Frank, can't you see I'm on the phone?" he demanded. He came back on the line, sighing tiredly. "I'm sorry, it's no good, I can't talk now. I'm trying to schedule a trip there in December or January."
That long, Stephanie thought, but didn't say it. Instead she attempted a light remark. "The heart of the skiing season. Maybe you'll have enough time to spend an afternoon on the slopes. We already have a good snow cover."
"I don't give a damn about the snow." He controlled the impatience in his voice to add a promising, "I'll see you…soon, I hope."
"Goodbye, Brock."
The line clicked dead before Stephanie hung up the phone. She stared at it until a flicker of movement caught her attention and she looked up to see Perry in the doorway.
"Was that Brock?" He studied her quietly.
"Yes." She reclipped the earring on her lobe, unwilling to discuss the sweetly short conversation with Brock.
A sadness stole into his features. "Don't let him break your heart, Steph." His hand slapped at the doorjamb in a helpless gesture
as he turned to walk down the hallway to his office.
Chapter Six
THERE WEREN'T any more calls from Brock. Stephanie continued to write him, but not more frequently than she had before. Other than to say she looked forward to his next trip to New Hampshire, she didn't make any possessive references to him. She knew that the next time she saw him it might all be different, and she didn't want any potentially embarrassing letters sent by her.
The forecast for Thanksgiving called for snow. It was falling steadily in fat flakes, accumulating quickly on a ground that was white from previous snowfalls. It was a workday as usual, the Thanksgiving holiday weekend being one of their biggest of the winter season.
When Stephanie entered the kitchen that morning, her brother was at the big door, bundling up with boots, muffler and gloves. "Let's forget about breakfast this morning. I'm going out to put the snow chains on the wagon. We'll eat when we get to the inn."
"When the weatherman said snow last night, he meant it, didn't he?" She glanced out of the frosty window at the large flakes veiling the gray white hills.
"We're in for a storm," Perry prophesied. "It wouldn't hurt if you grabbed a clean shirt and my shaving kit, and something for yourself. If this keeps up, we'll just sleep at the inn tonight. Our road is always the last one the snowplows hit." He grimaced and ducked out the back door amid a whirl of snowflakes and cold air.
The drive from the farmhouse to the inn usually took ten minutes, but the limited visibility and the slippery roads caused by the falling snow increased it to twenty-five. The car radio forecast worsening conditions.
Before breakfast was over the area slopes were closed to skiers. The inn suddenly seemed more crowded than usual because all the guests were virtually confined to the inn. They congregated in the lobby around the fireplace, the games room, the lounge and the restaurants. There was even a line to use the recently completed sauna and exercise room. Almost any flat surface was commandeered for a game of cards. Impromptu chess and checkers tournaments were held.
Shortly after twelve noon there was a mild panic when it was discovered that two cross-country skiers hadn't reported in from an overnight trip. Perry and Stephanie had just sat down to the restaurant's turkey dinner. The adventurers were finally located at another lodge, but their dinners were cold when they returned to them.
Then the deluge of stranded motorists began. Although they were full, Stephanie temporarily doubled up rooms where she could, shifting all the members of one family into a room, helped housekeeping figure out how many spare blankets, sheets, cots and pillows were on hand and how many motorists they could handle, and filled in wherever else she was needed.
"Don't forget to save us a place to sleep," Perry reminded her at one point when she was working out the capacity of the sofas in the lobby.
"There's always the floor," she retorted with a laugh.
It was almost a relief when the storm knocked the telephone lines out late in the afternoon and the switchboard finally stopped buzzing. The dinner hour didn't bring a letup in the frantic pace. With all the extra people, both Perry and Stephanie lent a hand in the restaurant kitchen, doing everything from helping to fix the food to running the dishwasher.
At nine-thirty Perry laid a hand on her shoulder.
"You've done enough, Steph. Why don't you call it a night?"
"Yessir, boss," she agreed readily. "What about you?"
"I'm going to the lounge. Freddie needs some help behind the bar. And—" he breathed in tiredly "—I'd better be around in case someone gets rowdy."
Stephanie was tempted to insist he let someone else do it, but Perry took his responsibility as manager too seriously to shrug it onto someone else. "Okay, I'll see you in the morning."
"Wait a minute!" He called her back when she started to turn away. "Where do I sleep tonight?"
"On the couch in your office…unless it's already occupied," she joked. "In that event, you're on your own."
"Thanks a lot, sis," he retorted in a mock growl.
Stopping at her office, Stephanie picked up the small overnight bag she had packed and started down the hallway. She didn't know which sounded more divine—a shower or sleep? With luck, she would be able to have both.
Before she knocked at the door of the suite, she heard the childish giggles coming from in side. Her knocks produced some shrieks and more giggles. The door was opened by a young woman, barely a year older than Stephanie. She looked tired, harassed and exasperated, her smile growing thin.
"Hi. It's me, your roommate for the night." Stephanie struggled to sound cheerful.
"Of course, come in, Miss Hall." But she was diverted by the impish little five-year-old girl who appeared in the connecting doorway to the bedroom. "Amy Sue, you get back in that bed before I spank you!" the woman threatened, and the little nightgowned figure fled in laughter. "I'm sorry. I've been trying to get the girls asleep for the last hour. They think this is some kind of a party."
"It's all new. They're just excited, Mrs. Foster. And please, call me Stephanie," she insisted.
"I'm Madge." She walked to the bedroom. "And these are my daughters, Amy, five, and Marsha, four."
Amy, the oldest, quickly scurried under the covers. The king-sized bed seemed to swallow up the two small girls with their dark hair. The pair eyed Stephanie with bold curiosity.
"Hello, Amy and Marsha," she smiled. The two looked anything but sleepy with their bright brown eyes.
"Hello. Who are you?" The youngest asked, exhibiting no shyness because Stephanie was a stranger.
"My name is Stephanie," she replied.
"My friend in day care has that same name," Amy piped.
"Will you read us a story?" Marsha dived for the storybooks on the nightstand beside the bed. "Read mine."
"No, mine!" Amy protested.
"Girls!" Madge Foster attempted to intervene with some measure of authority.
"I don't mind," Stephanie murmured. "I'll read to them while you relax in the tub." When the woman hesitated, obviously tempted, Stephanie repeated, "Really, I don't mind."
"Thank you. I don't know what to say," the woman faltered. "All day long, trying to drive in that storm, with those girls bouncing all over, then being stranded here…my nerves could use a rest. But I won't leave them with you for long, I promise."
"Read my story, please?" Amy pleaded.
"I'll read them both," Stephanie promised. "But we'll start with Marsha's first."
She set her overnight case on the floor by the bed and walked over to sit on the edge where the bedside lamp was lit. Marsha immediately pressed her book into Stephanie's hands. They grumbled when she insisted that they had to crawl under the covers and lie down before she would read to them. They didn't give in until she had agreed to show them the pictures on each page.
Her ploy worked. By the time she had read the first story for the third time, both girls had fallen asleep. When the bathroom door opened Stephanie held a silencing finger to her lips. Madge Foster smiled and shook her head in disbelief.
"You must have my husband Ted's kind of voice. I can read until I'm hoarse, but they go right to sleep for him," she whispered. "I don't think my head is even going to have a chance to, touch the pillow before I'm asleep. The bathroom is all yours, and it's like heaven."
"Good." Stephanie flexed her shoulders as the fatigue began to set in. She picked up her night case and started toward the marble bathroom.
"Oh, Miss H…Stephanie, do you mind if I leave the lamp burning on my side of the bed? The girls don't like to sleep in the dark. I've been trying to break them of it, but this is a strange place and…if it wouldn't bother you…?"
"No, it won't bother me. I'm like you," Stephanie explained. "I'll probably be asleep before my head's on the pillow."
"The girls don't toss and turn very much, so I don't think they'll disturb you."
"I'm sorry we weren't able to provide you with a room of your own," Stephanie apologized.
"Listen
, I'm just grateful for a bed to sleep in. And heaven knows, this one is big enough to hold two more," Madge smiled. "Go and take your bath. And good night."
"Yes, good night."
The hot bath water made Stephanie realize how mentally and physically exhausted she was. It was an effort to towel dry and pull on her nightdress. All three were asleep when she reentered the bedroom. She moved quietly to the far side of the bed on the fringe of the pool of light cast by the lamp. She, too, drifted into sleep within minutes.
A coolness roused her, a vague sensation of a draft. Stephanie tried to pull the covers tighter around her neck, but something held them down. She started to turn onto her side, only to become conscious of something heavy weighing the edge of the mattress down.
Her lashes opened to a narrow slit, then widened at the outline of a person sitting on the bed beside her. It was a full second before she realized who the man in the white shirt was.
"Brock!" Was she dreaming? She said his name softly in case she scared his image away.
But his hand touched her face in a light, cool caress and she knew it wasn't a dream. "Hello."
"What are you doing here?" she breathed, keeping her voice low.
He looked tried and drawn: she could see that in the half-light from the lamp. But the glint in his gray eyes was anything but weary.
"Here you are finally in my bed, and there isn't room for me." His gaze danced to the sleeping children in the center of the bed, their faces illuminated by the soft glow spilling from the lamp.
"The storm—" Stephanie started to explain in a whisper.
"Yes, I know. I stepped over bodies in the lobby." Without warning, Brock straightened to fold back the covers and slide his arms beneath her, picking her up.
Stephanie clutched at his neck, too stunned and sleepy to straggle and too conscious of the possibility of waking the children or their mother. "What are you doing, Brock?" The question was issued in confused excitement, her pulse accelerating at this contact with his leanly muscled frame.
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