A Will And A Way

by Nora Roberts

  They had made it through dinner without incident. Perhaps they’d been polite to each other because of Charles and Sweeney or perhaps because both of them had been too tired to snipe. Pandora wasn’t sure herself.

  They’d dined under the cheerful lights of the big chandelier and had talked, when they’d talked, about the weather and the food.

  By nine they’d gone their separate ways. Pandora to read until her eyes closed and Michael to work. Or so he’d said.

  Outside the air was chill enough to cause Pandora’s skin to prickle. She hunched up the collar of her jacket and started across the lawn. It crunched underfoot with the early thin frost. She liked it—the absolute solitude, the lightness of the air, the incredible smell of mountain and river.

  In Tibet she’d once come close to frostbite because she hadn’t been able to resist the snow and the swoop of rock. She didn’t find this slice of the Catskills any less fascinating. The winter was best, she’d always thought, when the snow skimmed the top of your boots and your voice came out in puffs of smoke.

  Winter in the mountains was a time for the basics. Heat, food, work. There were times Pandora wanted only the basics. There were times in New York she’d argue for hours over unions, politics, civil rights because the fact was, she loved an argument. She wanted the stimulation of an opposing view over broad issues or niggling ones. She wanted the challenge, the heat and the exercise for her brain. But…

  There were times she wanted nothing more than a quiet sunrise over frost-crisped ground and the promise of a warm drink by a hot fire. And there were times, though she’d rarely admit it even to herself, that she wanted a shoulder to lay her head against and a hand to hold. She’d been raised to see independence as a duty, not a choice. Her parents had the most balanced of relationships, equal to equal. Pandora saw them as something rare in a world where the scales tipped this way or that too often. At age eighteen, Pandora had decided she’d never settle for less than a full partnership. At age twenty, she decided marriage wasn’t for her. Instead she put all her passion, her energy and imagination into her work.

  Straight-line dedication had paid off. She was successful, even prominent, and creatively she was fulfilled. It was more than many people ever achieved.

  Now she pulled open the door of the utility shed. It was a big square building, as wide as the average barn, with hardwood floors and paneled walls. Uncle Jolley hadn’t believed in the primitive. Hitting the switch, she flooded the building with light.

  As per her instructions, the crates and boxes she’d shipped had been stacked along one wall. The shelves where Uncle Jolley had kept his gardening tools during his brief, torrid gardening stage had been packed away. The plumbing was good, with a full-size stainless-steel sink and a small but more than adequate bath with shower enclosed in the rear. She counted five workbenches. The light and ventilation were excellent.

  It wouldn’t take her long, Pandora figured, to turn the shed into an organized, productive workroom.

  It took three hours.

  Along one shelf were boxes of beads in various sizes—jet, amethyst, gold, polished wood, coral, ivory. She had trays of stones, precious and semiprecious, square cut, brilliants, teardrops and chips. In New York, they were kept in a safe. Here, she never considered it. She had gold, silver, bronze, copper. There were solid and hollow drills, hammers, tongs, pliers, nippers, files and clamps. One might have thought she did carpentry. Then there were scribes and drawplates, bottles of chemicals, and miles of string and fiber cord.

  The money she’d invested in these materials had cost her every penny of an inheritance from her grandmother, and a good chunk of savings she’d earned as an apprentice. It had been worth it. Pandora picked up a file and tapped it against her palm. Well worth it.

  She could forge gold and silver, cast alloys and string impossibly complex designs with the use of a few beads or shells. Metals could be worked into thin, threadlike strands or built into big bold chunks. Pandora could do as she chose, with tools that had hardly changed from those used by artists two centuries earlier.

  It was and always had been, both the sense of continuity and the endless variety that appealed to her. She never made two identical pieces. That, to her, would have been manufacturing rather than creating. At times, her pieces were elegantly simple, classic in design. Those pieces sold well and allowed her a bit of artistic freedom. At other times, they were bold and brash and exaggerated. Mood guided Pandora, not trends. Rarely, very rarely, she would agree to create a piece along specified lines. If the lines, or the client, interested her.

  She turned down a president because she’d found his ideas too pedestrian but had made a ring at a new father’s request because his idea had been unique. Pandora had been told that the new mother had never taken the braided gold links off. Three links, one for each of the triplets she’d given birth to.

  At the moment, Pandora had just completed drafting the design for a three-tiered necklace commissioned to her by the husband of a popular singer. Emerald. That was her name and the only requirement given to Pandora. The man wanted lots of them. And he’d pay, Pandora mused, for the dozen she’d chosen just before leaving New York. They were square, three karats apiece and of the sharp, sharp green that emeralds are valued for.

  This was, she knew, her big chance, professionally and, most importantly, artistically. If the necklace was a success, there’d not only be reviews for her scrapbook, but acceptance. She’d be freer to do more of what she wanted without compromise.

  The trick would be to fashion the chain so that it held like steel and looked like a cobweb. The stones would hang from each tier as if they’d dripped there.

  For the next two hours, she worked in gold.

  Between the two heaters at each end of the shed and the flame from her tools, the air became sultry. Sweat rolled down under her sweater, but she didn’t mind. In fact, she barely noticed as the gold became pliable. Again and again, she drew the wire through the drawplate, smoothing out the kinks and subtly, slowly, changing the shape and size. When the wire looked like angel hair she began working it with her fingers, twisting and braiding until she matched the design in her head and on her drawing paper.

  It would be simple—elegantly, richly simple. The emeralds would bring their own flash when she attached them.

  Time passed. After careful, meticulous use of drawplate, flame and her own hands, the first thin, gold tier formed.

  She’d just begun to stretch out the muscles in her back when the door of the shed opened and cool air poured in. Her face glowing with sweat and concentration, she glared at Michael.

  “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Following orders.” He had his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets for warmth, but hadn’t buttoned the front. Nor, she noticed, had he bothered to shave. “This place smells like an oven.”

  “I’m working.” She lifted the hem of the big apron she wore and wiped at her brow. It was being interrupted that annoyed her, Pandora told herself. Not the fact that he’d walked in on her when she looked like a steelworker. “Remember rule number three?”

  “Tell that to Sweeney.” Leaving the door ajar, he wandered in. “She said it was bad enough that you skipped breakfast, but you’re not getting away with missing lunch.” Curious, he poked his finger into a tray that held brilliant colored stones. “I have orders to bring you back.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  He picked up a tiny sapphire and held it to the light. “I had to stop her from tramping out here herself. If I go back alone, she’s going to come for you. Her arthritis is acting up again.”

  Pandora swore under her breath. “Put that down,” she ordered, then yanked the apron off.

  “Some of this stuff looks real,” he commented. Though he put the sapphire back, he picked up a round, winking diamond.

  “Some of this stuff is real.” Pandora crouched to turn the first heater down.

  The diamond was in his hand
as he scowled down at her head. “Why in hell do you have it sitting out like candy? It should be locked up.”

  Pandora adjusted the second heater. “Why?”

  “Don’t be any more foolish than necessary. Someone could steal it.”

  “Someone?” Straightening, Pandora smiled at him. “There aren’t many someones around. I don’t think Charles and Sweeney are a problem, but maybe I should worry about you.”

  He cursed her and dropped the diamond back. “They’re your little bag of tricks, cousin, but if I had several thousand dollars sitting around that could slip into a pocket, I’d be more careful.”

  Though under most circumstances she fully agreed, Pandora merely picked up her jacket. After all, they weren’t in Manhattan but miles away from anyone or anything. If she locked everything up, she’d just have to unlock it again every time she wanted to work. “Just one of the differences between you and me, Michael. I suppose it’s because you write about so many dirty deeds.”

  “I also write about human nature.” He picked up the sketch of the emerald necklace she had drawn. It had the sense of scale that would have pleased an architect and the flare and flow that would appeal to an artist. “If you’re so into making bangles and baubles, why aren’t you wearing any?”

  “They get in the way when I’m working. If you write about human nature, how come the bad guy gets caught every week?”

  “Because I’m writing for people, and people need heroes.”

  Pandora opened her mouth to argue, then found she agreed with the essence of the statement. “Hmm,” was all she said as she turned out the lights and went out ahead of him.

  “At least lock the door,” Michael told her.

  “I haven’t a key.”

  “Then we’ll get one.”

  “We don’t need one.”

  He shut the door with a snap. “You do.”

  Pandora only shrugged ass he started across the lawn. “Michael, have I mentioned that you’ve been more crabby than usual?”

  He pulled a piece of hard candy out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth. “Quit smoking.”

  The candy was lemon. She caught just a whiff. “So I noticed. How long?”

  He scowled at some leaves that skimmed across the lawn. They were brown and dry and seemed to have a life of their own. “Couple weeks. I’m going crazy.”

  She laughed sympathetically before she tucked her arm into his. “You’ll live, darling. The first month’s the toughest.”

  Now he scowled at her. “How would you know? You never smoked.”

  “The first month of anything’s the toughest. You just have to keep your mind occupied. Exercise. We’ll jog after lunch.”

  “We?”

  “And we can play canasta after dinner.”

  He gave a quick snort but brushed the hair back from her cheek. “You’ll cheat.”

  “See, your mind’s already occupied.” With a laugh, she turned her face up to his. He looked a bit surly, but on him, oddly, it was attractive. Placid, good-natured good looks had always bored her. “It won’t hurt you to give up one of your vices, Michael. You have so many.”

  “I like my vices,” he grumbled, then turned his head to look down at her. She was giving him her easy, friendly smile, one she sent his way rarely. It always made him forget just how much trouble she caused him. It made him forget he wasn’t attracted to dramatically bohemian women with wild red hair and sharp bones. “A woman who looks like you should have several of her own.”

  Her mouth was solemn, her eyes wicked. “I’m much too busy. Vices take up a great deal of time.”

  “When Pandora opened the box, vices popped out.”

  She stopped at the back stoop. “Among other miseries. I suppose that’s why I’m careful about opening boxes.”

  Michael ran a finger down her cheek. It was the sort of gesture he realized could easily become a habit. She was right, his mind was occupied. “You have to lift off the lid sooner or later.”

  She didn’t move back, though she’d felt the little tingle of tension, of attraction, of need. Pandora didn’t believe in moving back, but in plowing through. “Some things are better off locked up.”

  He nodded. He didn’t want to release what was in their private box any more than she did. “Some locks aren’t as strong as they need to be.”

  They were standing close, the wind whistling lightly between them. Pandora felt the sun on her back and the chill on her face. If she took a step nearer, there’d be heat. That she’d never doubted and had always avoided. He’d use whatever was available to him, she reminded herself. At the moment, it just happened to be her. She let her breath come calmly and easily before she reached for the doorknob.

  “We’d better not keep Sweeney waiting.”

  Chapter Three

  The streets are almost deserted. A car turns a corner and disappears. It’s drizzling. Neon flashes off puddles. It’s garish rather than festive. There’s a gray, miserable feel to this part of the city. Alleyways, cheap clubs, dented cars. The small, neatly dressed blonde walks quickly. She’s nervous, out of her element, but not lost. Close-up on the envelope in her hands. It’s damp from the rain. Her fingers open and close on it. Tires squeal off screen and she jolts. The blue lights of the club blink off and on in her face as she stands outside. Hesitates. Shifts the envelope from hand to hand. She goes in. Slow pan of the street. Three shots and freeze.

  Three knocks sounded at the door of Michael’s office. Before he could answer, Pandora swirled in. “Happy anniversary, darling.”

  Michael looked up from his typewriter. He’d been up most of the night working the story line out in his mind. It was nine in the morning, and he’d only had one cup of coffee to prime him for the day. Coffee and cigarettes together were too precious a memory. The scene that had just jelled in his mind dissolved.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” He reached his hand into a bowl of peanuts and discovered he’d already eaten all but two.

  “Two full weeks without any broken bones.” Pandora swooped over to him, clucked her tongue at the disorder, then chose the arm of a chair. It was virtually the only free space. She brushed at the dust on the edge of the table beside her and left a smear. “And they said it wouldn’t last.”

  She looked fresh with her wild mane of red pulled back from her face, comfortable in sweater and slacks that were too big for her. Michael felt like he’d just crawled out of a cave. His sweatshirt had ripped at the shoulder seam two years before, but he still favored it. A few weeks before, he’d helped paint a friend’s apartment. The paint smears on his jeans showed her preference for baby pink. His eyes felt as though he’d slept facedown in the sand.

  Pandora smiled at him like some bright, enthusiastic kindergarten teacher. She had a fresh, clean, almost woodsy scent. “We have a rule about respecting the other’s work space,” he reminded her.

  “Oh, don’t be cranky.” It was said with the same positive smile. “Besides, you never gave me any schedule. From what I’ve noticed in the past couple of weeks, this is early for you.”

  “I’m just starting the treatment for a new episode.”

  “Really?” Pandora walked over and leaned over his shoulder. “Hmm,” she said, though she wondered who had shot whom. “Well, I don’t suppose that’ll take long.”

  “Why don’t you go play with your beads?”

  “Now you’re being rude when I came up here to invite you to go with me into town.” After brushing off the sleeve of her sweater, she sat on the edge of the desk. She didn’t know exactly why she was so determined to be friendly. Maybe it was because the emerald necklace was nearly finished and was exceeding even her standards. Maybe it was because in the past two weeks she’d found a certain enjoyment in Michael’s company. Mild enjoyment, Pandora reminded herself. Nothing to shout about.

  Suspicious, Michael narrowed his eyes. “What for?”

  “I’m going in for some supplies Sweeney needs.” She found the t
urtle shell that was his lampshade intriguing, and ran her fingers over it. “I thought you might like to get out for a while.”

  He would. It had been two weeks since he’d seen anything but the house and grounds. He glanced back at the page in his typewriter. “How long will you be?”

  “Oh, two, three hours I suppose.” She moved her shoulders. “It’s an hour’s round trip to begin with.”

  He was tempted. Free time and a change of scene. But the half-blank sheet remained in his typewriter. “Can’t. I have to get this fleshed out.”

  “All right.” Pandora rose from the desk a bit surprised by the degree of disappointment she felt. Silly, she thought. She loved to drive alone with the radio blaring. “Don’t strain your fingers.”

  He started to growl something at her back, then because his bowl of nuts was empty, thought better of it. “Pandora, how about picking me up a couple pounds of pistachios?”

  As she stopped at the door, she lifted a brow. “Pistachios?”

  “Real ones. No red dye.” He ran a hand over the bristle on his chin and wished for a pack of cigarettes. One cigarette. One long deep drag.

  She glanced at the empty bowl and nearly smiled. The way he was nibbling, he’d lose that lean, rangy look quickly. “I suppose I could.”

  “And a copy of the New York Times.”

  Her brow rose. “Would you like to make me a list?”

  “Be a sport, will you? Next time Sweeney needs supplies, I’ll go in.”

  She thought about it a moment. “Very well then, nuts and news.”

  “And some pencils,” he called out.

  She slammed the door smartly.

  Nearly two hours passed before Michael decided he deserved another cup of coffee. The story line was bumping along just as he’d planned, full of twists and turns. The fans of Logan’s Run expected the gritty with occasional bursts of color and magic. That’s just the way it was panning out.