Snowflakes on the Sea

by Linda Lael Miller

  Looking up at the huge skylight over the bed, at the shifting lace of glistening snow, Mallory felt tears smarting in her eyes. How many times had she and Nathan made love in this bed, with the sky stretched out above them like a beautiful mural? She swallowed hard, tossed back the covers of the oversize round bed and crawled between icy satin sheets. Cinnamon settled companionably at her feet with a canine sigh, her nose resting on her red, shaggy paws, her great weight causing the mattress to slope slightly.

  In spite of everything, Mallory laughed. “You lead a tough life, dog,” she said, reaching out to switch off the lamp beside the bed. “Sorry we were out of caviar, but such is life.”

  Cinnamon made a contented sound and went to sleep.

  Mallory, however, spent several hellish hours just staring up at the moving patterns of eiderdown snow on the skylight. She’d been wrong to leave the island without a word to anyone; she knew that now and guessed that she’d known it all along.

  The thing was, she just hadn’t been able to face another night of waiting for Nathan.

  So what do you call this? she asked herself ruthlessly. Aren’t you waiting, even now, for him to call or show up? Preferably with some convincing reason for leaving the island with Diane and not even bothering to let you know first?

  Mallory turned restlessly onto her side. Why should she have left word for him? Hadn’t he been equally thoughtless?

  Her stomach twisted into a painful knot. It was possible that Nathan wouldn’t even know she was gone for hours yet, and that was the hardest thing of all to bear.

  She buried her face in the smoothness of her pillow and cried until her throat was raw. Then, fitfully, she slept.

  Nathan glanced at the clock on the Porsche’s dashboard and grimaced. Damn, it was late.

  Diane flung a petulant, sidelong look in his direction as he guided the car down the ferry ramp and into the still-crazy Seattle traffic. Her face was pale and pinched with residual shock, and her hands were clasped, motionless, in her lap.

  High drama, Nathan thought bitterly. God, she should have been an actress.

  “This is all a bad dream,” she said in a stricken, whispery voice.

  Nathan shifted gears and reminded himself that she’d had a hard night. She’d been so upset by his decision that he’d taken her from the island to Tacoma, where her parents lived, thinking that she needed to be close to someone who cared about her. But her parents had been away, and they’d missed the connecting ferry to Seattle finding that out.

  He sighed. “Listen, Diane—I’m sorry you had to hear the news from the guys in the band. I really am—”

  Diane drew in an audible breath calculated to inspire guilt and lifted her chin in theatrical acceptance of a cruel fate. “One way or the other, we’re all fired. I don’t see what it matters that I heard it from them and not you.”

  Nathan had no answer for that; he concentrated on the road ahead. The traffic lights were mere splotches of red or amber or green, dimly visible in the swirling snow, and the tires of the Porsche weren’t gripping the pavement all that well.

  “You’re doing this for Mallory, aren’t you, Nathan?” Diane demanded, after some moments of silence.

  Nathan stiffened but didn’t look away from the traffic. “Mallory is my wife,” he replied flatly.

  Diane made a disdainful sound. “Wife! Good Lord, Nathan, you’re insane to give up your career for her!”

  Nathan tossed one scathing look in Diane’s direction. “Watch it.”

  She subsided a little. “Why? Nathan, just tell me why. If she loved you, she—”

  “I’m tired, Diane,” he broke in, and his tones proved it. “I’ve got more money than I can spend in a lifetime, and I’ve done everything I set out to do, musically, at least. Now I intend to straighten out my marriage.”

  “You have no marriage!” Diane cried in a hoarse, contemptuous whisper. “You and Mallory are a joke!”

  Nathan’s fingers tightened dangerously on the leather-covered steering wheel, but he maintained control. “Your opinion of my marriage couldn’t matter less to me, Diane.”

  There was still a tinge of hysteria in her tone when she spoke again. “So you’re doing the farewell concert here, and that’s it? No television specials, no tours, no records?”

  “I’ll record, and I suppose I’ll write songs, too. But I’m through chasing fans all over the world.”

  “How do you plan to make records without a band?” Diane demanded, her voice rising.

  Nathan sighed. “If the guys are available, we’ll work together.” He looked again at Diane and saw exactly what he’d feared he would—hope. Why couldn’t she just find another job and let the thing drop? She was a gifted press agent, and she wouldn’t be out of work long. Although Nathan had always disliked her on a personal basis, her recommendation would be a good one.

  “Then I could keep doing your press work—”

  “No.”

  Diane seethed in electric silence as Nathan guided the car up a slight hill into the residential section where her sister lived. Because Diane’s work kept her in Los Angeles most of the time, she didn’t need a permanent place in Seattle.

  When he drew the Porsche to a stop in front of her building, he faced her. “Good night, Diane. And I’m sorry.”

  Diane’s lower lip trembled, and she tossed her magnificent head of hair in a kind of broken defiance. The motion filled the chilly interior of the car with the flowery, somewhat cloying scent of her perfume. “Not half as sorry as you’re going to be, Nathan McKendrick,” she vowed.

  Nathan rested his head against the back of the car seat, sighed and glowered up at the leather upholstery in the roof. “What is that supposed to mean, pray tell?”

  There was a note of relished power in her tone. “I built you up, Nathan. I can tear you down.”

  “How melodramatic,” he retorted in sardonic tones. “For all the world like a scorned lover.”

  Diane wrenched open the car door and scrambled out to stand, trembling, on the snowy sidewalk. Her eyes glittered, scalding Nathan in blue fire. “How long do you think that naive little wife of yours will last under a full-scale press attack, darling?”

  An explosive rage consumed Nathan’s spirit, and his jaw tightened until it ached. Still, he managed to keep his hands on the steering wheel and his voice even. “If you do anything to hurt Mallory, Diane—anything—you’ll spend the rest of your shallow little life regretting it.”

  Diane smiled viciously. “Or savoring it. Good night, handsome.”

  Wondering why he hadn’t fired Diane years ago, Nathan watched until she had disappeared inside her sister’s apartment building. Then another glance at the dashboard clock made him groan. Why the hell hadn’t he called Mallory before leaving the island? God knew what she was thinking by now.

  Turning the Porsche back toward the waterfront in a wide, deft sweep, he swore under his breath. He could stop and call now, however after-the-fact the gesture might be. But Mallory was probably asleep. No, he would just get back to the island as soon as he could and they would talk in the morning.

  Seething, Diane Vincent unlocked her sister’s front door and stormed into the apartment, not even bothering to turn on a light. In the room Claire kept just for her, she flung down her purse, wrenched off her coat and angrily punched out a familiar number on the telephone beside the bed.

  “I know it’s late!” she seethed, when the recipient of her call grumbled about the time. “Did you find someone?”

  The affirmative answer made Diane smile. Without even saying goodbye, she hung up.

  Cinnamon awakened Mallory early the next morning, bounding up and down the length of the big bed and occasionally plunging an icy nose into her mistress’s face.

  Grumbling, Mallory crawled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. It was as large as the living room in the island house with its garden tub, hanging plants, cushioned chairs and gleaming counters.

  After a quick shower, M
allory dressed in gray wool slacks, a red turtleneck sweater and boots. Two more cans of pâfaté were sacrificed to Cinnamon’s hearty appetite, and then it was time for another walk.

  The telephone on the hallway table rang as they were going out, but Mallory didn’t answer. In fact, she didn’t even look back. But a half an hour later, with Cinnamon’s morning walk accomplished, Mallory found herself at loose ends. Still shivering from the bite of the winter wind, she choked down one slice of whole wheat toast and a cup of tea.

  After that, she went into the study, a spacious room equipped with two glass desks that faced each other, and flipped on the television set. “Tender Days, Savage Nights” was on, and she watched herself steal a diamond bracelet and the heroine’s husband, all in the space of an hour.

  And then Cinnamon was hungry again. She stood by, watching, as the beast happily consumed two cans of imported lobster.

  “This will never do, you know,” she informed the Setter as she poured scalding water over the dish the dog had eaten from and placed it inside the dishwasher. “So don’t expect gourmet fare. From here on out, it’s good old canned dog food, all the way.”

  Cinnamon whimpered and tilted her beautiful red-gold head to one side, as if to protest this projected change in the menu.

  Mallory reached down to pet the dog and sighed. She’d kept all thoughts of Nathan carefully at bay, but now they were suddenly streaming into her mind and heart like some intangible river.

  She wandered into the mammoth living room, with its massive ivory fireplace and thick silver-gray carpeting. Snow drifted past the slightly rounded floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Seattle’s beleaguered downtown area and the waterfront.

  Her thoughts spanned the angry waters to the small island, invisible in the fury of the day. Surely Nathan was there, angry but safe—

  The shrill jingle of the telephone made Mallory start. She steeled herself. This time, she would have to answer it.

  The walk to the telephone table beside Nathan’s favorite chair seemed inordinately long.

  “Hello?” she ventured, turning the cord nervously in her fingers.

  “Hi, babe,” Brad Ranner greeted her, his voice full of pleased surprise. “How long have you been back in the big city?”

  Mallory swallowed, sank onto the sturdy suede-upholstered arm of Nathan’s chair. “Since last night. Why?”

  “Mallory, haven’t you heard? There isn’t any phone service to the island, and the ferries aren’t running, either. I called on the off chance that you might have come back to town earlier than you planned.”

  Mallory felt a swift stab of alarm. Except during labor strikes, the ferries always ran.

  Brad seemed to sense her agitation. “Relax,” he said. “You’re back in civilization yourself. That’s what counts.”

  His insensitive comments taxed Mallory’s strained patience. “Brad, I have a number of friends on that island, and I think Nathan is there, too. What if someone is sick or—or—”

  Brad’s tone was soothing. “Honey, take it easy. The Coast Guard will check things out. You know that.”

  Mallory did know, and she was comforted. Besides, the islanders were independent sorts, and they would look after one another. “How are things on the set?” she asked in order to change the subject.

  “Everybody is excited. Mall, I have great news. That’s one of the reasons I called. I’d like to tell you in person, though. Is it all right if I brave the treacherous roadways and drop in?”

  Mallory closed her eyes for a moment, summoning up her courage. “Brad, about the show—I—”

  “We’ll talk when I get there,” Brad broke in cheerfully. And then, before she could say a word in response, he hung up.

  Will we ever, Mallory thought, one hand still resting on the telephone receiver. And you’re not going to like my end of the conversation at all.

  Two minutes later, Mallory was in the bathroom, applying makeup. No sense in greeting Brad with her wan, tired face and having to endure the inevitable you-haven’t-been-taking-care-of-yourself lecture.

  The cosmetics transformed Mallory from a very pretty woman to a beauty, but they could do nothing to mask the weariness in the depths of her green eyes. In hopes of drawing attention away from them, she brushed her lustrous dark taffy hair and pinned it up into a loose Gibson girl.

  Once again, she felt pain and remorse; Nathan loved her hair in that particular style.

  Where was he now? Stranded on the island, with no idea where his wife had gone? Lying in some love-rumpled bed with Diane Vincent? Mallory brought herself up short. She had enough trouble without borrowing more.

  She went back into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the neatly made bed, hurriedly dialing the number of the house at Angel Cove. Maybe Brad had been wrong about the telephone service being out. But an operator broke in to say that emergency line repairs were being made.

  So Brad had been right, after all. Frustrated, Mallory wandered back to the living room and distractedly petted a whimpering Cinnamon. She had wanted so badly to reach Nathan, to hear his voice, to apologize. Now, it might be hours, or even days, before she reached him.

  Mallory went to the windows and, for the first time in her life, cursed the snow.

  Cinnamon made a low, whining sound in her throat, and then barked uncertainly. A moment later, Mallory heard the opening and closing of the front doors. She turned, frowning, from the windows, expecting to see the woman who came in to clean twice a week.

  Instead, she was confronted with a scowling, disheveled, unshaven Nathan. His dark eyes swept over her, leaving an aching trail wherever they touched.

  “I chartered a boat,” he growled, neatly dispensing with the first question that rose in Mallory’s mind. “What are you doing here?”

  Mallory’s throat closed and, for a moment, her mind went blank and she honestly didn’t know what she was doing there. “I—I—” she stammered.

  Nathan slid out of his suede jacket and ran one hand through his rumpled hair. “Damn it, Mallory, what is going on with you? Everybody on the island is out of their mind with worry—”

  Suddenly, Mallory found her voice. Hot color pounded in her cheeks. “Was that before Diane’s latest crisis or after?” she snapped.

  Some of the fierce anger drained from Nathan’s lean, towering frame, and he sank into a chair. “Is that why you did the disappearing number, Mallory? Because of Diane?”

  His tone was so reasonable that Mallory felt ashamed of her outburst. She dared not approach him, but she did try to match his decorum with her own. “Yes,” she admitted. “I called y-your house—at the Cove. One of the guys said you’d taken Diane back to Seattle. I—I know I was hasty, but—”

  Nathan thrust himself out of his chair and made a hoarse, contemptuous sound in his throat. “Spare me, Mallory. I’m tired and mad as hell and I really don’t think this is a good time to discuss your paranoia about Diane.”

  Mallory was instantly furious. Her paranoia! How dare he shift all the blame to her, when none of this would have happened if he hadn’t been so quick to come to Diane’s aid! “Damn you,” she swore. “Nathan McKendrick—”

  But he was striding around her, on his way toward the bedroom. By the time she recovered enough composure to storm in after him, he was in the shower.

  Outraged, Mallory pounded at the thick, etched-glass doors with both fists. Through the barrier, she could see the shifting blur of his tanned flesh.

  “Nathan!” she yelled, in anger and in pain.

  Suddenly, the shower doors slid open and, with a lightning-quick motion of his hand, Nathan pulled Mallory under the pounding, steaming spray. Water plastered his ebony hair to his face and dripped, in little rivulets, down over his muscular, darkly matted chest. Mallory dared look no farther.

  “You wanted to talk,” he shouted over the roar of the shower. “So talk!”

  Mallory’s makeup was smeared, and her hair clung to her neck. Her sweater, slacks and boots
were all drenched. She threw back her head and shrieked in primitive, unadulterated fury.

  Gently, Nathan thrust her backward against the inside wall of the shower and out of the spray of water. His hand caught under her chin and lifted. “So I can make you feel something, lady—even if it is rage.”

  Mallory stared up at him, stunned by his words, by the situation, by the alarming proximity of his naked, beautifully sculptured frame. Her throat worked painfully, but she could say nothing.

  Nathan bent his head to kiss her, and the sea-breeze scent of his wet hair caught at her heart. His lips moved gently on hers, at first, and then with undeniable demand. She trembled as his tongue laid first claim to total possession. “Mallory,” he rasped, when the devastating kiss broke at last. “I want you.”

  Mallory stiffened and thrust him angrily away, even though a desire equal to his was raging inside her. She turned, let her forehead rest against the water-speckled tiles lining the inside of the shower stall. “Don’t, Nathan. Don’t touch me—don’t talk—”

  But his hands were hard on her shoulders as he turned her back to face him. “Listen to me, Mallory. We’ve played this game long enough. I didn’t spend the night rolling around in Diane Vincent’s bed!”

  Mallory arched one eyebrow and looked up at him in silence.

  His muscular shoulders moved in a defeated sigh. “I was wrong not to call you and let you know what was going on, and I’m sorry.”

  Mallory believed him. She looked down at her soaked clothes and laughed, at herself, at Nathan, at the ludicrous insanity of the situation.

  And he kissed her again.

  The ancient heat began to build in Mallory’s slender body, just as she knew it was building in Nathan’s powerful one. She trembled as he removed her sodden garments, her boots, the few pins that had held her hair in place, and discarded them in the separate world beyond the shower doors.

  Nathan surveyed her waiting body for a long moment, missing nothing—not the full sweetness of her firm breasts, the narrow tapering of her waist, the trim but rounded lines of her hips and thighs. Making a sound low in his throat that must have dated back to the beginning of time, he reached out for her again.