Island Interlude

by Anne McAllister

Libby looked first at Juliet, then at Alec, surprised. She supposed that Leopold Hesse, Margo's peripatetic director father, might not settle anywhere long enough to be a real grandparent. But Alec's own parents were charming, down-to-earth people, the sort who would have doted on a grandchild.

  'My father died six years ago,' Alec said, answering her unspoken question. 'Heart attack. And my mother passed away last fall.'

  He couldn't keep the bleakness out of his voice, and Libby thought that that must account for the look on his face. She remembered how much he'd cared for them, how much they'd cared for him.

  'I'm sorry.'

  He nodded. 'Thanks.' Then, as if he couldn't talk about it any more, he turned to Sam. 'So, you want to go fishing again soon?'

  Before Libby could protest Sam agreed eagerly. 'It was more fun with you. Lyman's sorta bossy otherwise.'

  'Lyman knows what he's talking about.'

  'I know,' Sam admitted.

  The conversation that followed was, to Libby, bitter­sweet.

  There was an obvious affinity between father and son—a connection she had hoped she'd imagined, but now knew was true.

  She saw Juliet watching them both, then sneaking glances at her. But every time Libby ventured a smile, the little girl looked quickly away. But it wasn't a dis­dainful snub of the sort Margo had been capable of. It was shyness, pure and simple. She was the sort of daughter she—Libby—might have had.

  Once again the unfortunate 'if only' smote her, and this time it was harder to shove away.

  Deliberately she asked Alec about his work. 'Maddy says you've just finished a film.'

  'On the contrary, it just about finished me.' He sighed and pushed his plate away, stretching, making Libby all too aware of the muscles flexing beneath his shirt.

  She swallowed. 'Hard work?'

  'Incompatible personalities. Natural disasters. Strikes. Rattlesnake bites. You name it.'

  'I'm sure you prevailed.' She gave him a small smile.

  He cocked his head. 'You've a great deal of faith in me.'

  'I know you,' she said bluntly. 'You get what you want.' She kept her voice even.

  'And I never let anything stand in my way. Is that what you're saying?' Alec's eyes narrowed.

  She shook her head, determined not to be baited. 'I was only saying what I remembered.'

  Alec gave her a long, speculative look. Libby kept her eyes on her plate.

  After dinner, at Alec's suggestion, Juliet showed Sam her Lego and they built a rocket with Sam pestering Alec every few minutes for praise and advice. Finally Alec joined them on the floor.

  Libby, watching as the two dark heads and one blonde one bent over the project, squabbling and consulting, teasing, grinning, felt an ache growing somewhere deep inside her.

  Suddenly she wanted the evening to be over as badly as she wanted it to last forever.

  It was just past nine when she could take it no longer. She stood abruptly. 'We have to go.'

  Alec looked up from where he lounged on the floor. 'It's early yet.'

  Libby shook her head and looked pointedly at a yawning Juliet. 'Not for the children. And Sam has to go to school tomorrow.'

  Alec got to his feet. 'He could come up here and play with Juliet. She gets lonely. She'd like a friend.'

  'No.' That was the last thing she wanted. 'He's going to school. He has friends there. If Juliet is lonely, why don't you send her?'

  Juliet seemed almost to shrink at the suggestion.

  'No.' Alec's tone was adamant, as negative as Libby's had just been. 'I want her with me,' he added in a more conciliatory tone.

  Libby shrugged. 'Suit yourself. Come on, Sam. Thank you for the dinner.' She opened the door.

  Alec held it for her, then followed her out. 'I'll walk you back.'

  'It's quite unnecessary. I have a flashlight.'

  'I'll walk you back.' His tone brooked no argument.

  'Juliet—'

  'Can get ready for bed. Lois won't leave till I come back.'

  There was no way to change his mind. To try would be to make Sam wonder what her objection was. To try would be to let Alec know she was more wary of his effect on her than he knew. Libby shrugged and turned back for a moment. 'Goodnight, Juliet.'

  A pair of wide blue eyes met hers for an instant. 'Night.'

  Libby was halfway down the path when a little voice followed her. 'When are you coming back?'

  She turned back, surprised. 'I don't know. But when Lois goes shopping some time, you come and see me.'

  Juliet beamed for just a moment, then waved and shut the door.

  'Don't say it if you don't mean it.' Alec loomed behind Libby in the darkness. Sam, carrying the light, scuffed on ahead.

  Libby stopped and glared at him. 'Why wouldn't I mean it?'

  'You don't have time for me.'

  'You are not your daughter. I wouldn't hold anyone's parentage against them,' Libby said bluntly. 'Besides, I'm not the one who leads people on.'

  He sucked in his breath and Libby thought she heard a curse on it, but all he said was, 'It's just that she's lost a lot. I don't want her to get her hopes up.'

  'I only said to drop by.'

  'I know that.' But from his voice she knew he thought that Juliet was pinning hopes on it, looking for far more than that.

  'No,' Libby said aloud.

  Alec frowned. 'No, what?'

  She shook her head. 'Nothing.'

  She tucked her hands into the pockets of her skirt and started walking again, quickly now, trying to catch up with Sam. The road was rough, more pot-holes than tarmac. She stumbled, and Alec's hand shot out, catching her the way he had caught her once before, the night she'd met him.

  She yanked her hand away now. 'I'm fine.' And she began to run, not stopping until she caught up with Sam.

  He stopped to wait for them at their gate, saying to Alec, 'You comin' fishing tomorrow?'

  'I might.' Alec didn't look at Libby. He reached out a hand and touched Sam's hair. 'Night, sport.'

  Sam grinned. 'Night, Alec. Thanks.' He disappeared through the gate.

  With a quickly mumbled, 'Thanks again for dinner,' Libby made to follow.

  Alec snagged her hand and held her fast. 'Don't.'

  'I have to. I don't have a Lois to foist Sam off on,' Libby said.

  'I don't "foist" Juliet. I told you, I want her with me. I take her damned near everywhere I go.'

  'Sorry,' she said, still trying to free herself from his grasp. 'But, if I don't go in, Sam will dawdle. Goodnight.'

  'One thing,' Alec insisted, still holding her wrist.

  'What?'

  'This.' He pulled her against him, one arm sliding around her back to hold her tight, the other hand coming up to cup her head so that their lips met perfectly. Just the way they had earlier, just as if a meal and three hours of conversation hadn't interrupted them.

  Just as if eight years—one marriage and two children—had not gone by.

  His lips were warm and persuasive, his tongue seeking, wanting. Libby knew what he sought, what he wanted— her traitorous body wanted it, too. Her mind might abhor him, her emotions might hate him. But her body re­called him all too well. And it craved what it remembered.

  No, she told herself. No! But her will was weak. Her hunger was strong. It was only by forcing herself to remember the devastation she had felt when he left her, the pain at his blithe, 'Forget me. I'll forget you,' that she resisted him.

  He'd married Margo, she told herself. He'd made his choice. He couldn't come back to her now. She couldn't—wouldn't—let him.

  She pushed him away, sucking in a deep, desperate breath. 'Goodnight, Alec,' she said in the firmest, most indifferent voice she could manage.

  She shut the gate in his face.

  Sam was in bed when she went up to his room. He had the blanket pulled up to his chin and he was staring over the top of it, his brown eyes owlish in the dim light.

  'Are you glad we went?' he asked her.
r />   Libby rubbed her lips with the back of her hand, then managed a smile as she straightened his blanket. 'I hadn't seen the Blanchards' house in a long time. It was nice to go.'

  'D'you like Juliet?'

  'Of course.' Libby bent to pick up Sam's discarded shorts and shirt and held them in her arms.

  'She's OK,' Sam allowed. 'For a girl. That tree-house really is great, though.'

  Trust Sam to keep things in the proper perspective! She bent to kiss him.

  Sam kissed her in return, throwing his arms around her, giving her a bone-crushing hug. Then, as she turned and walked towards the door, his voice followed her.

  'I thought you were marrying Michael.'

  Libby stopped dead, looking back over her shoulder. 'What?'

  Sam grinned broadly. 'That was some kiss.'

  Libby felt her face burn as she realised that, from his bedroom window, Sam had a perfect view over the top of the gate.

  She glared. 'You know better than to spy on people.'

  He sat up. 'I wasn't spyin'. I just looked out and… there you were. D'you s'pose he learned it from being in the movies?'

  'Very likely,' Libby said, her voice dry. 'Go to sleep now, Sam.'

  'What about Michael?'

  'That kiss had nothing to do with me and Michael. The kiss was… for old times' sake, I guess.'

  Sam looked doubtful, but then he shrugged. "K.' He snuggled down under the blanket and said sleepily, 'I'll bet he lets me come see the tree-house again now.'

  Chagrined, Libby went into her own room and stripped off her clothes, letting the breeze from the fan above cool her overheated body. She looked at herself in the mirror.

  Her body was a woman's now. Fuller, softer than it had been when she had first known Alec. Eight years ago she had been coltish, all arms and legs, small hips and breasts. Her hips were wider now, her breasts, since nursing Sam, slightly rounder. She looked better, she thought.

  She wondered what Alec thought.

  Don't, she told herself. What Alec thought didn't matter. He probably would still find her attractive. The way he kissed her proved that. But it meant nothing. He didn't love her. He still loved his wife. His kisses were no more than lust and, perhaps, a misguided effort to get to Sam through her.

  It was Sam he wanted, not her.

  'What about Michael?' she asked herself aloud, echoing Sam's question. She made herself think about Michael, about going home and marrying him, about the life they'd share together. She tried to conjure up his craggy tanned face, his deep-set dark blue eyes.

  But, perversely, the face she saw was brooding, dark, intense, not craggy. The eyes deep brown, not blue.

  'Go away, Alec, damn you,' she muttered and, drawing the nightgown over her head, she put out the light and slipped between the sheets.

  Congratulations, she told herself. You survived.

  But later that night when a storm awakened her and the wind off the ocean seemed to whip through her soul, she said it again out loud. 'You survived.'

  Though, she had to acknowledge, only just.

  * * *

  The next morning, as soon as she saw Sam off to school, she called Michael. 'Hi.'

  'Libby?' He sounded astonished to hear her voice. She'd written every day, brief notes chronicling her research and general activities, but from the first she'd told him that phone calls were going to be scarce; it usually took too long to get through.

  The wait didn't bother Libby this morning. She needed to talk to him. She had scarcely slept a wink all night. If she could just hear Michael's calm steady voice, feel his love echoing through the phone lines, she would be all right.

  And it was a sign of God's approval of her actions, she decided, when she got a connection the first time.

  'What's up?' Michael asked her, his tone worried.

  She tried to sound breezy. 'N-nothing. I just…got lonely.'

  'Glad to hear it.' He was cheerful, not apprehensive now. He sounded the way he always did, delighted to hear her voice. Calm, ordinary, sensible—the way she wanted to feel.

  Talk to me, Michael, she thought. Soothe me. Make me forget the clamourings in my soul.

  'You should go away more often,' he said, and she knew from his tone that he was smiling.

  'Maybe.' But not if she ran into Alec.

  'So tell me about it. Your letters don't do it justice, I'm sure. How's it going?'

  'What? Oh, the research? It's all right.' She told him about her interviews. They always discussed their re­search with each other. His biological studies weren't so far removed from her oral history that they couldn't understand each other's work.

  She wanted to tell him about Alec, but the longer they talked, the less she could find a way to say it.

  Michael knew there'd been a man in her past—how couldn't he know, given Sam? But they'd never talked about the man whom Libby had loved. She'd always declined.

  'It isn't important. It's finished,' she'd said over and over. 'Completely.'

  And Michael had taken her at her word. 'You don't sound very certain,' he said now.

  'What? Oh, my work you mean. I am. It is. It's fine. It's just that… well, I didn't realise how much I'd be missing you.'

  She heard another sigh—of relief this time, she thought. 'Thank goodness,' he said. 'I miss you, too.'

  She closed her eyes, imagining him sitting in his office, his feet up on the desk, the morning sun streaming through the window making prisms through the water of his aquariums.

  'How's your work coming?' she asked him.

  'I'm getting tons done with you gone. But it isn't worth it.'

  'I wish you were here.'

  'You do?'

  'Of course.' Then, realising he really would start to worry about her if she continued to sound bereft, she added, 'But it won't be all that long until I'm home, I guess. I'm looking forward to it.'

  'Me, too. How's Sam? Is he there now?'

  'He's doing wonderfully. He's at school and I'm on my way to the dock to a straw shop for an interview. I'm calling from a public phone. There isn't one at the house.'

  'So there really isn't any way to reach you?'

  'No.'

  'I'll find a way,' he said.

  'Huh?'

  'Never mind,' Michael replied. 'I'm just thinking out loud.'

  Libby heard bells ringing in the background and realised the time. 'I promised to meet Martha at nine-thirty. I'd better run.'

  'Right,' Michael agreed. 'See you.'

  'Six weeks and six days,' Libby promised.

  But Michael had already hung up.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IF LIBBY thought that invoking Michael's presence through a phone call was going to solve her problem, she was wrong. And in case she had trouble perceiving it herself, Alec was only too happy to show her.

  She finished interviewing Martha at her front-porch straw market and was walking up Colebrook Street when she met Alec coming down.

  'Have lunch with me.' It was less an invitation than a command.

  Libby shook her head and kept walking. 'I'm busy.'

  He fell into step alongside her. 'I can see,' he said, his tone mocking.

  'I am.' She waved her notebook and tape-recorder in front of his face. 'I've been on an interview all morning. I have to transcribe my notes.'

  'How long will that take?'

  'An hour. Maybe more.'

  He glanced at his watch. 'OK. You transcribe. I'll fix lunch.'

  'I—'

  'You have to eat, Libby. Everyone does. So stop being an idiot and come on.'

  He took her arm and, short of digging in her heels and starting a fight with him right in the middle of the town, in front of God and all the chickens, Libby could only allow herself to be dragged.

  He didn't make the mistake of trying to get her to his house, and she could hardly resist being taken to hers. But, if she'd entertained the notion of shutting the gate in his face again this afternoon, one look at the grim set of his mou
th and the determined thrust of his jaw told her she wasn't going to get away with that manoeuvre a second time.

  'Where's Wayne Maxwell?' she asked him, hoping that the mere mention of the reporter would make him release her.

  'Gone,' he said tersely.

  'Chased him out, did you?'

  'Would you want him to get a look at me with Sam?'

  No, Libby didn't want that. She shook her head.

  'So be glad he's gone.'

  She guessed she was. But she hadn't thought that Wayne was a bad guy. If anyone was going to write a story about her, she'd want it to be someone like him. She said so.

  And Alec replied, 'Yeah, well, I gave him a bit. That make you happy?'

  'I guess.'

  He gave her a hard look. 'Good,' he said and strode on, hauling her in his wake.

  Once they were in the house, Alec pointed her towards the typewriter set up on the dining-table. 'Go to it,' he said and, giving her a gentle push, he turned and headed for the kitchen.

  Irritated, Libby watched him go. 'Good luck,' she muttered under her breath.

  Lunch for her was rarely more than a piece of fresh pineapple or some left-over fish from last night's dinner. Since Sam hadn't been there to demand his perennial peanut butter and jelly sandwich, she'd had no desire to fix anything at all and consequently kept little on hand.

  She heard Alec rummaging through the refrigerator, banging cupboards, opening drawers.

  'I don't hear you typing,' he called.

  Libby jumped. Guiltily she flipped the cover off the typewriter and sat down. The last thing she wanted was for Alec to find her standing there right where he'd left her like some awestruck groupie.

  She opened her notepad, rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter, turned on the tape-recorder and began to type.

  Concentrating, however, was a different story altogether.

  The most scrumptious smells began to waft her way. The pop and sizzle of something cooking enticed her. Libby's stomach growled, her mouth watered. Sighing, she flipped off the tape-recorder and, despite her better judgement, her feet made their way towards the kitchen.

  Alec was stirring something in a frying-pan. He looked up when she appeared in the doorway. A corner of his mouth quirked. 'That hungry, are you?'

  'Mmm.'

  He grinned. 'You didn't have much to work with.'