by Anne Stuart
"Listen, I've cut brush here every Christmas since
we moved up," Marianne replied, letting the pint-sized Shannon slide down her body to land waist-deep in the snow. "Cameron won't mind if we take enough branches to make wreaths—hell, he won't even know. I don't think he comes out of that workshop of his for months at a time once the snow falls." Pulling a pair of pruners from the capacious pocket of her oversized khaki parka, she began cutting. "Of course, I'll have to admit he wasn't best pleased to catch me raiding his raspberry patch last summer, but he was decent enough in the long run, and I sent Eric over with a jar of preserves to make up for it. He would never have bothered with them—he would have eaten a few and let the birds get the rest." Snip, snip, and the pile of green-needled branches began to grow.
"You didn't bother to tell me about the raspberries when you dragged me out here," Jessica replied tartly, wading over to a likely tree and starting in.
"Then you never would have come. I know what a chicken you are, especially when it comes to strangers. If Cameron shows up we'll just offer to make him a wreath, too. If they have wreaths in Scotland," she added doubtfully. "Oh, well, he lives in America now—he'll have to get used to our customs. Mind you get the balsam and not the spruce."
"I can't tell the difference. What does it matter?" She continued cutting indiscriminately.
"The spruce trees have needles that go all the way around the branch and are very bushy, and they drop their needles all over the house in less than a week, lialsam has flatter needles that stay on the branches for
months. It also smells a hell of a lot better. That there is cat spruce, and if you smell it you'll understand why."
"In other words I'm to cut balsam."
"Unless you like sweeping up pine needles and having the house smell like a litter box."
"Not particularly." She eyes a branch doubtfully, trying to decide whether it had needles halfway or all the way around the thin branch. And then she raised her eyes a little higher, to meet a pair of very green eyes watching them stonily.
Marianne had her back to them, cutting away with abandon while Shannon played nearby. "Actually Cameron isn't a bad kind of neighbor," she remarked cheerfully as she plundered his trees. "We don't have to see him or have anything to do with him, but the presence of a man in this deserted end of the island discourages some of the rougher elements."
"And he provides you with trees and raspberries to rob," a rich, incredibly Scottish voice came from the still figure watching them, and Marianne whirled around, dropping her pilfered branches and her clippers in the deep snow.
With a curious blend of amusement and guilt Jessica watched the man advance upon them. It was an unpleasant feeling, being caught red-handed, but it appeared that Marianne was prepared to shoulder the burden of the responsibility. Indeed, after a cursory glance all the Scot's attention was focused on her tall friend.
"So you've taken to robbing my poor trees, Mrs. Trainor," he said, fixing those sparkling eyes on her. "For shame, woman. And dragging this poor pregnant lady with you while you do the dirty deed. She looks half frozen, not to mention the wee baim at your feet."
He was a small man, staring up so fiercely at Marianne, not much more than five feet six or seven. Thin and wiry, he had bright green eyes, an angular, not unattractive face with just a trace too much stubbornness, and a thick shock of curly brown hair shot through with streaks of red in the early-winter sunshine. He was dressed in ancient corduroys, a thick wool sweater and galoshes, with a brightly colored scarf around his neck, and his glower heated the air around them. Jessica felt like an Eskimo in her heavy layers.
"Now, Andrew," Marianne began placatingly, part of her attention on the snow as she tried to find where her expensive clippers had gone. "You know you don't need every single little branch—I doubt you come here more than once a year."
"If you're going to call me Cameron behind my back you may as well do it to my face," he said sourly. "And I walk this way almost every day, Mrs. Trainor. I don't fancy seeing my trees stripped bare by your greedy fingers. Trees are living creatures; they don't like to have parts of them ripped off by savages."
"Savages!" Marianne snapped, forgetting her search for the clippers. "I'll have you know we were going to make Christmas wreaths and garlands out of your precious branches. And we wouldn't have bothered, except your trees have the straightest branches of any hereabouts. And if you're talking about the souls of trees, I can't think of any better fate for a tree than to celebrate Christmas." Even as she said it she realized how foolish it sounded, and a deep flush suffused her face.
Andrew Cameron stared at her for a long moment, and then, to the women's surprise, a smile lit his dour face. "If you're thinking a tree has a soul, you may not be as great a philistine as I thought you were," he remarked. "But I'll thank you to ask me next time you want to plunder my forest."
"I have no idea how to get to your cabin, and you don't have a telephone," Marianne said with some asperity, bending down to search through the snow for the L. L. Bean clippers that had been one of Tom's expensive toys.
He was watching Marianne with a peculiar expression on his face, and Jessica had a sudden, absurd suspicion that she banished as soon as it entered her mind. "I may get one" was all he said. "The clippers are to your right."
Marianne glared up at him, considered ignoring his directions, and then thought better of it. She couldn't afford to lose an expensive pair of clippers to a pride that might more honestly be called spite. Of course, they were exactly where he pointed, which didn't help her temper.
"Do you suppose you've cut enough," he asked with heavy sarcasm, "or were you needing some more?"
"We've got enough," Marianne snapped. "That is, if you're willing to let us leave with our ill-gotten gains."
"I'm willing. The pregnant lassie has mainly spruce, you know," he pointed out, and Jessica began to share Marianne's annoyance.
Marianne's eyes met hers for a rueful moment. "We like to mix the spruce," she said loyally.
Andrew Cameron shook his head in disgust for the folly of women. "In that case, if you're finished, you may as well come back with me to get warm."
"There's no need-"
"The bairn looks half-frozen, not to mention the pregnant lassie," he interrupted. "And if you're going to keep robbing my forest you'd best learn how to find me. Come along. A cup of tea will do you wonders."
"The poor pregnant lassie," Jessica finally spoke, her voice heavy with sarcasm, "is Jessica Hansen."
The surprisingly friendly green eyes met hers, and she could have swom there was a trace of a wink in them. "I know that," he replied. "It's a small island. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hansen. I'm glad you like my trees."
"Not Mrs. Hansen, Miss," she corrected with the fearlessness that had become second nature to her. "And it's Jessica." A tentative smile lit her face. "And I would love some tea."
"Traitor," Marianne murmured under her breath. "All right, Cameron, we'll come." She scooped up Shannon's sturdy weight and dumped it on Cameron's slighter figure. "You carry Shannon."
If she hoped to intimidate him she was off the mark. "Gladly," he said, adjusting her weight comfortably. Marianne waited for Shannon to squirm and fuss. The child wasn't used to strangers, particularly male ones.
But Cameron seemed to have exerted some sort of magic spell over her recalcitrant daughter. He'd already taken off through the heavy snow, striding through the drifts as if they were no more than soap flakes, Shannon tucked tightly against him.
"I suppose we don't have any choice but to follow the man," Jessica observed. "He's taken your daughter captive."
"You're right," Marianne said glumly. "Think you'll have any trouble?"
"No such luck. You didn't tell me Andrew Cameron was so... so..."
"So feisty?" Marianne supplied. "So disagreeable? So pigheaded? So young? So short?"
Jessica laughed, a low, amused sound. "So handsome, Marianne."
&nbs
p; "Handsome?" Marianne gave a disbelieving snort. "You've been away from men too long. He's no more than passable." There was a curiously vulnerable light in her eyes as she watched the figure of the Scot and her daughter tramping farther into the woods. Their voices floated back to them, a light, lilting song. "Would you listen to that? They're singing Christmas carols, damn it." She started after them. "Wait up, you two."
To Jessica's relief the cottage wasn't too much deeper into the snow-shrouded woods. Definitely not far enough to support Marianne's claim not to know where it was. It was a long, low log building with an attached woodshed, the smoke curling from the chimney like a plume, adding to the puffy white clouds in the blued winter sky. A welcome blast of warmth greeted her, and she sank gratefully down on a narrow bench by the wood stove, stripping off her sodden gloves and rubbing her chilled hands briskly before looking around her.
Marianne had taken the seat across from her, a sour expression on her face, and Andrew was over by the far wail in what served him as a kitchen, busying himself with the tea fixings with the cheerful hindrance of Shannon. There was a narrow cot in the far comer, neatly made, a closet in the corner and a rough table. The rest of the long, narrow room was a workshop, a maze of wood, machinery and musical instruments in various stages of construction and repair. Jessica took the proffered cup of tea unthinkingly, the rich apple-and-cinnamon smell of it tickling her nostrils.
"I've only herb tea, but in your condition you shouldn't have too much caffeine," Cameron said sternly.
"Why does everyone suddenly become an expert on childbirth and pregnancy?" Marianne said plaintively before Jessica could respond. "Caffeine doesn't do any harm."
"Better to be safe than sorry," Cameron said sternly. "A little less caffeine might improve your temper, woman."
"There's nothing wrong with my temper that a little less of your interference wouldn't cure," Marianne snapped back.
"Do you make musical instruments?" Jessica interrupted. Ever the peacemaker, her father had called her.
"I do." He seemed loath to drag his attention away from the battle with Marianne. "I wouldn't be interfering if you didn't traipse all over my land, helping yourself to my trees and my raspberries at will, without so much as a by-your-leave."
"Listen, you sawed-off Scottish runt, those berries were on the edge of rotting when I got to them."
"What kind of instruments?" Jessica said somewhat desperately as Shannon climbed onto the bench beside her.
"What?" Cameron demanded irritably. "Oh, anything I'm in the mood for. Mostly stringed instruments—guitars, dulcimers, mandolins, banjos."
"Can you make a living at it?" Jessica persevered, her business interests cropping up.
"Yes."
"Of course he does," Marianne interrupted before he could sail into her again. "He makes more money than the rest of this island combined—this rustic workshop is only an affectation. His instruments aren't just that, they're works of art, collector's items, and he gets obscene prices for them."
Cameron's temper seemed to have abated somewhat. "I wouldn't have thought you'd be that conversant with my business, woman."
"Stop calling me woman, damn it!" Marianne snapped.
"Stop swearing, damn it!" Cameron shot back. "I don't like to hear a woman swear."
"Then shut your ears. If I weren't around you I wouldn't need to swear."
"How long have you two known each other?" Jessica inquired, wrapping her arms around Shannon's sleeping figure. "You sound like you grew up together."
"Too long," Marianne stated.
"Not long enough," Cameron said obscurely, earning him an odd look from his nemesis. And then, suddenly tiring of the battle, he turned to Jessica. "Do you play any instruments, Jessica?"
"A little piano," she admitted with a shrug. "Nothing more portable."
"You need music. Your bairn needs to hear music. These early stages are important to his development. If he hears music while he's in the womb, he'll grow up to be a music lover."
"I told you, everyone's an expert on prenatal care," Marianne announced to the world in general. "Besides, it's a girl."
"How do you know, woman?" he shot back. "Is it your bairn she's carrying?" That shut Marianne up, if only for a moment. "So would you like to learn an instrument? Something you can hold against your belly while the baby grows, listening to the sweet sounds?"
"Cameron, you don't need to make any more sales," Marianne said nastily.
"I'm warning you, woman" And he was. Marianne wisely shut up. "If you want to learn," he continued with an odd gentleness, "I'd be honored to lend you an instrument and even give you lessons."
"Why?" Jessica asked abruptly.
"Because I have a fondness for bairns and mothers," he said simply. "And even though I'd be doomed to spending more time with your sour friend there, I'd be willing to endure it to stand as your friend also."
The light in his green eyes completed the message, and Jessica grinned back. She should know better than to be a matchmaker, especially for such an incredibly mismatched couple, but she couldn't resist. She had the curious conviction that the feisty little Scot was just what Marianne Trainor needed. "I'd be honored, An-drew." And their handshake was a bargain that had little to do with music.
It was going to be a cool, rainy autumn, Springer thought, tipping back his chair and staring out the wide picture window into the misty Washington afternoon. Like every other autumn and winter in the ten years he'd lived there. Sooner or later he was going to get tired of that constant rain, and that moment seemed to be looming closer and closer.
The mug of coffee cradled in his large hand was lukewarm and bitter, and he drained it with a grimace of distaste and dissatisfaction. Dissatisfaction with his coffee, with the West Coast rain, with his life. And he knew perfectly well it had nothing to do with coffee or Washington. It had to do with missing someone he still barely knew, someone who had managed to become entangled in his soul in a damnably short period of time.
It was only because the whole situation was so unresolved, he told himself, setting the empty mug on the floor beside him. If he'd just had one more chance to see her, to talk to her, he wouldn't have been left with this gnawing feeling in his gut—the feeling of unfinished business, of a wanting that never seemed to go away, months after he should have forgotten all about her.
Elyssa had been right. Now in this winter of his discontent he was going to have to learn patience. For Katherine's sake, and for his own. He just wished it were an easier thing to learn.
Chapter Sixteen
It was early morning on Christmas Eve. Jessica ran a nervous hand through her thick tangle of wheat-blond curls, chewing the pale lipstick off her lips for the third time. She was no longer used to wearing makeup, and twice she'd rubbed her eyes, smearing the mascara. Who was to say that one had to wear makeup in the big city at Christmastime? Fumbling in her outsized purse, she pulled out the lip gloss and tried again. It was an armor against the outside world, she decided, pulling her loose-fitting wool dress to hang more evenly over her five-month belly. And she'd need all the armor she could get, leaving her little nest and braving the bold, bad world of New York once more.
She would never have gone, nothing would have convinced her but the tears in Elyssa's voice the week before, as she'd added a final plea. Hamilton MacDowell, bluff, macho, indestructible Hamilton MacDowell, had a particularly virulent form of cancer. He wouldn't last another year.
Where was Marianne when she needed her? There was a light snow falling, already sticking to the bare roads and covering the gray, melted-downsnow. Surely the venerable Toyota couldn't have failed her again. Once more she paced across the shiny wood floors, once more she checked the wood stove. Marianne had promised she would keep the fires going while she was in the city to make sure the pipes didn't freeze. Andrew would have been more than willing to help her, Jessica was certain, but Marianne was determined to do it herself. So far she had managed to make herself scarce t
he three times Cameron had tooled his aging Valiant to their end of the island, and the great romance appeared to have foundered before it even began. Marianne was able to avoid him as long as she wanted—he had to pass her house to reach the MacDowell place and she could steer clear until the ancient, rusty car rattled its way back down the road.
It was a source of great frustration for Jessica, but there was nothing she could do about it. In the meantime, the lessons were becoming more and more important to her. Cameron was right—she loved the feel of the baryo against her expanding belly, loved to feel the music flowing through the beautiful instrument and her burgeoning body. Moving across the room, she ran a caressing hand down the neck of the banjo and its firebird inlay, plucking a string and letting the pure, crystal sound echo in the room. She only wished that she dared to take it with her to New York. It soothed her better than the most powerful tranquilizers.
There was nothing to be nervous about, she reminded herself. Elyssa had said Springer would be at the opposite end of the country. He never came East if he could help it, and Christmas had particularly bad memories for him. He had no idea of his father's illness—Hamilton had been adamant. The closest Springer MacDowell would come would be via the telephone, and he wouldn't ask to speak to her. He wouldn't even know she was there, much less five months pregnant.
And that was another problem. Elyssa had no notion of her condition, and Jessica could think of no tactful way to broach it. In the end, she decided to let her stomach announce itself. With luck, the MacDowells would be too discreet to question her. If their concern outdistanced their discretion, she would place the blame on Peter, on some Vermonter, perhaps Cameron. She had effectively blanked out her child's parentage, and nothing was going to force her to think about it.