Snowflakes on the Sea. Linda Miller Lael
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were, but I’m sure they didn’t include a sexual marathon.”
Mallory’s chin trembled slightly. Was he really concerned for her health? Or was he fulfilling his needs in someone else’s bed? He’d denied having an affair, but it didn’t seem likely that he would admit to anything of that sort when he knew his wife had been hospitalized only a few days before.
Taking no apparent notice of her silence, Nathan kissed Mallory’s forehead in a brotherly manner and released his hold on her shoulders. “There’s a nice fire going in the living room,” he said, sounding determinedly cheerful. “Why don’t you curl up on the couch and read or something?”
Mallory had several “or somethings” in mind for the living room sofa, but they certainly didn’t include reading. With a proud lift of her chin, she turned and marched out of the kitchen without a word.
The living room was a warm and welcoming place, however, with its window seats and sweeping view of Puget Sound. Mallory couldn’t help feeling soothed as she entered. She stood still for a long time, looking out at the water and the snowy orchard that had been her father’s pride. When he wasn’t piloting or repairing his charter fishing boat, Paul O’Connor had spent every free moment among those trees, pruning and spraying and rejoicing in the sweet fruit they bore.
Presently, the snow began to fall again. Mallory took a childlike pleasure in the beauty of it, longing to rush outside and catch the huge, iridescent flakes on her tongue. Too tired for the moment to pursue the yearning, she perched instead on a window seat, her knees sinking deep in its bright polka-dot cushions, and let her forehead rest against the cool dampness of the window glass.
She sensed Nathan’s presence long before he approached to stand behind her, disturbingly close.
“I’ve got some business to take care of, pumpkin,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back later.”
Mallory’s shoulders tensed painfully, and she did not turn around to look at her husband. She had a pretty good idea of what kind of “business” he had in mind, but she would have died before calling him on it. If she was losing her husband, she could at least lose him with dignity and grace.
But she was entirely unprepared for the warm, moving touch of his lips on the side of her neck. A shiver of delightful passion went through her, and she was about to turn all her concentration on seducing Nathan then and there when he suddenly turned and strode out of the room.
Mallory closed her eyes and didn’t open them again until she’d heard the distant click of the back door closing behind him. She cried silently for several minutes, and then marched into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face until the tears had been banished.
On the back porch, Mallory exchanged her sneakers for sturdy boots and pulled on one of the oversize woolen coats that hung on pegs along the inside wall. The garment was heavy, and it smelled comfortingly of pine sap, salt water and tobacco. Wearing it brought her father so near that Mallory almost thought she might turn around and see him standing in the doorway, grinning his infectious grin.
Outside, the tracks in the deep, crusted snow indicated that Nathan had brought his Porsche to the island the night before. The car was gone now, and so was Cinnamon.
Mallory crammed her gloveless hands into the pockets of her father’s coat and frowned. “Rat fink dog,” she muttered.
A stiff wind was blowing in from the Sound, churning the lazy flakes of snow that were still falling in furious white swirls. Mallory turned her back to the wind and started toward the wooded area that was the center of the island.
Here, there were towering pine trees, and more of the Douglas fir that lined Mallory’s driveway, but there were cedars and elms and madronas, too. Under the ever-thickening pelt of snow, she knew, were the primitive wild ferns, with their big, scalloped fronds.
Privately, Mallory thought that the ferns were remnants of the murky time before the great ice age, when the area might well have been a jungle. It was easy to picture dinosaurs and other vanished beasts munching on the plants while volcanoes erupted angrily in the background.
Mallory marched on. The mountains were minding their manners now, with the exception of one, but who knew when they might awaken again, alive with fiery violence? Unnerved by Mount Saint Helens, many scientists were pondering Mount Rainier now, along with the rest of the Cascade range.
As Mallory made her way through the thick underbrush, a blackberry vine caught at her sleeve, eliciting from her a small gasp of irritation and then a reluctant smile. How many times had she ventured here as a child, armed with an empty coffee can or a shortening tin, to pluck the tart late-summer berries from their wicked, thorny bushes?
The thought made Mallory miss her mother desperately, and she hurried on. The motion did nothing, though, to allay the loneliness she felt, or banish persistent memories of Janet’s warm praise at the gathering of “so many very, very fine blackberries.” After the fruit had been thoroughly washed under cold water, Mallory’s mother had cooked jams and jellies and mouth-watering pies.
At last, Mallory emerged on the other side of the island’s dense green yoke, and Kate Sheridan’s A-frame house came into view. She should have called before dropping in on this busy woman who had been her mother’s dearest friend for so many years, she realized, but it was too late to consider manners now. Kate was standing on the deck at the back of the house, smiling as she watched Mallory’s approach.
She waved in her exuberant fashion, this trim, sturdy woman, and called out, “I knew I was right to wrench myself away from that wretched typewriter and brew some coffee!”
Mallory was warmed by this enthusiastic greeting, but she was chagrined, too. Kate Sheridan was the author of a series of children’s mystery novels, all set in the Puget Sound area, and her time was valuable indeed. Pausing at the base of the snowy path, Mallory deliberated. “I could come back another time,” she offered.
“Nonsense!” Kate cried, beaming. “I wouldn’t dream of letting an interesting guest like you escape. But I warn you, Mallory—I intend to pump you for information about the things that nasty character you play is planning!”
Mallory assumed a stubborn look as she tromped up the wooden stairway leading to Kate’s deck, but she knew that her eyes were sparkling. Her friend’s undisguised interest in the plot line of the soap opera amused her deeply.
“My lips are sealed,” Mallory said with appropriate drama, knowing all the while that she would tell Kate everything if pressed.
Kate laughed and hugged her, but there was a brief flicker of concern in her intelligent hazel eyes. “You look tuckered out, Mallory,” she observed in her direct way.
Mallory only nodded and was infinitely grateful when Kate let the subject drop there and pulled her inside the comfortable house.
Kate Sheridan’s home was a lovely place, though small. The opposite wall of the living room was all glass and presented a staggering view of the Sound. At night, the lights of Seattle were often visible, dancing in the misty distance like a mirage.
There was a small fireplace on the back wall near the sliding glass doors that opened onto the deck, and a crackling fire danced on the hearth. The furniture was as simple and appealing as Kate herself; the chairs and sofa were shiny brown wicker, set off by colorful patchwork-patterned cushions. Kate’s large metal desk and ancient typewriter looked out over the water, an indulgence the gifted woman often bemoaned but never altered. She was fond of saying that she spent more time gazing at the scenery than working.
Of course, her success belied that assertion; Kate’s writing obviously did not suffer for her devotion to the magnificent view. If anything, it was enhanced.
“Sit down,” Kate ordered crisply as she took Mallory’s bulky coat and hung it from a hook on the brass coat tree near the sliding doors. “Heavens, I haven’t seen you since Christmas. It’s about time you had some time off.”
Mallory, settling into one of the wicker chairs, didn’t point out