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The Unmarried Bride
Emma Goldrick


A Strange State of Affairs Sharing the same island hideaway with gorgeous Selby Farnsworth and his mischievous son wasn't Abby's idea of heaven - especially with all the chaos created by the two Farnsworth men. TLC was in short supply and Abby seemed destined to dole it out in large doses.Selby, in return, seemed determined to dazzle her with kisses. Slowly but surely, the island was becoming paradise. Until a throng of reporters showed up demanding to know what Congressman Farnsworth was doing there - and just who was the lovely woman with him? And that's when Selby told them Abby was his wife!







The Unmarried Bride

Emma Goldrick






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#u5223517d-cdc5-5ba3-a040-d86b2fdc380f)

CHAPTER TWO (#ub516bd0b-8a62-5f14-a982-3472577c28fb)

CHAPTER THREE (#uec26a0ef-e7a7-53b6-8a2f-d2c7c325d4c9)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


ABIGAIL CONSTANCE SPENCER arched her back to relieve the strain, swept up her skirts under her, and sat down on the stone step that guarded the front porch. Behind her, through the open door, the hall gleamed and the kitchen sparkled. This morning at six Abby had looked pert and determined, while the house had looked as if Attila the Hun had dropped by; now, in the softness of a late summer twilight, the house sparkled and gleamed, while Abby drooped.

She dropped her head forward on to her arms, her straw-blonde hair falling like a mist around her head. It had all been worth it, she told herself. Uncle Theodore, after eighty-nine cantankerous years, had upped and died, leaving the tiny island and his good wishes to his great-grandniece Abigail Spencer.

‘My house and anything she can find in it,’ his will said. ‘She is the only relative I have who refuses to bicker with me.’ It must have been sarcasm, she chuckled to herself. Of all his living relatives, Abby was the one Uncle Teddy had spent years carefully avoiding, which made the bang-up arguments he was always seeking with other family members impossible with her. And besides, she liked the old codger.

Certainly he would never have considered it an advantage that his house stood isolated at the top of one of the two small hills on Umatec Island, looking down on to the hurrying waters of Narraganset Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. Isolated, but picture-perfect for a woman who made a precarious living reviewing the endless horde of mediocre novels that rolled off the presses, all for the edification of the readers of the Washington Sunday Mirror.

She had come late in the holiday season because of Aunt Letty. Great-aunt Letty, that was. ‘You’re worn to a frazzle, girl. Practically all bones, you are. You suffer from over-management,’ her great-aunt had lectured. ‘Your mother, your brothers, that crazy newspaper editor—all of them sworn to manage your life for you. Go up to Umatec, and relax.’

So here I am, Abby told herself. Bound and determined to relax. Just as soon as I get all those little jobs finished, I’m determined to relax!

Soft fur caressed Abby’s ankle. She opened one green eye. Cleo, her almost pure-bred collie, was rubbing the silver-grey fur on top of her head against Abby’s bare feet. ‘Pure-bred,’ Abby said, teasing. ‘Hah! Your father was a sheep-dog and your mother came from the South Sea Islands—or something.’ Her dog stared at her from solid green eyes, and turned disdainfully away.

Uncle Teddy had hated dogs! He had certainly been far out to sea concerning Cleo, she thought. Despite the complimentary thought the collie offered one very snobbish sneer down her long nose and wandered away. Tired, Abby dropped her head on her arms again and closed her eyes. How about that? she told herself. Even your own dog won’t talk to you! And then she dozed.

‘What are you doin’ to my house?’ An insistent male demand, coming just forward of her chin. Abigail snapped her head up and opened one eye. Umatec was one tiny spot of an island, one of the chain of Elizabeth Islands that stretched from the underflank of Cape Cod down into Long Island sound. Certainly it was no place to expect a determined four-foot taffy-headed male dressed in a nondescript pair of swimming-trunks and a belligerent look. The look covered more than the swimming-trunks did.

Abby had seen her share and more of belligerent males; it was one of the reasons she had fled the city with her bulging briefcase. Nothing seemed to sting the psyche of endless male detective story-writers more than to read her usually gentle comments in the Sunday Mirror. Why her editors referred to her as the ‘vitriol lady’ she could never understand. And if the writers ever discovered that Cicero was a female the skies would fall.

But this particular male, although out of place, did not seem large enough to cause any serious trouble. She bit on the challenge. ‘As it happens, it’s my house, young man, and I’m cleaning it. Just what the devil are you doing here?’

The freckled face screwed itself up. ‘No, it ain’t your house. I live here. Me and my dad.’ And then a wave of suspicion. ‘Did my dad sell you my house?’

‘I don’t suppose he did.’ Abby patted the step beside her in a tacit offer of debate. The little boy looked her up and down cautiously and backed off one step. He folded his hands behind his back, as if he was not willing to take any chances with the woman in front of him.

‘I inherited this house—and the island too, for that matter, from my uncle Theodore,’ Abby continued. ‘And now that I’ve got the house cleaned up I intend to live here.’

The boy’s upper lip began to quiver. ‘You can’t do that to my house,’ he said. ‘I’m gonna tell my dad. He’ll have you arrested and thrown in gaol. What do you think about that?’

‘I can’t say that I’m terribly pleased. Where is this dad of yours? Hiding?’

‘My dad is the strongestest man in the world. He wouldn’t hide from no girl.’

Abby stood up slowly. His eyes traced her movement. Without heels Abigail was just slightly over five feet ten. In her favourite two-inchers she could look down on many a six-footer. The boy was impressed. He backed off a step or two. ‘An’ he’s awful brave, too. He wouldn’t be scared by no girl. Not even no big girl,’ he amended.

‘Well, I’m sure he wouldn’t,’ Abby assured the boy. What do you suppose? she asked herself. Eight years old? Hard to tell. Abby was the only female in an extended family, all of whose members thought it proper for females—meaning Abigail—to fetch and carry, mind their manners and be otherwise unobtrusive. So she had some perspective on the dominant male. And consider. He thinks his big old dad might have sold his house out from under him. How about that for confidence?

‘I’m thirsty and tired and dirty, and I need a bath—in my bathtub, young man. Why don’t you run along to wherever this daddy of yours is located?’

‘Boy, you’re gonna be sorry.’ The boy backed off another couple of paces, almost tripping over Cleo, who had been attracted by the voices. The dog was no tiny thing. In fact, Cleo could weigh in as a junior-weight wolf, but hadn’t the energy to be mean. The boy, not understanding all this, saw only Cleo’s outside frame and sharp teeth, not the tender soul within. He gulped, glared at the pair of them, then abandoned the field. As he disappeared over the top of the hill Abby could faintly hear him yell, ‘You’re gonna be sorry! You just wait!’

Her dog gave her a quizzical look—the sort that might be interpreted as, Well, what have you done now, Abigail Spencer?

‘If I knew I’d tell you. It’s all fairly confusing as there isn’t enough room on this island for a mouse to hide away all day. He seemed to be talking as if there was some permanence to his visit. Oh, well.’ Abby shook her head and headed back into the house. ‘I’m going to have a bath. And I might take a look in the other bedrooms to see if anything is happening. Care to join me?’

Cleo understood words like ‘bath’ and ‘dinner’, even though the need for a bath was totally beyond comprehension. But she was a willing companion, no matter what the object. The pair of them strolled into the house and up the stairs. As they went into the hall Cleo found her little yellow ball, her favourite toy, and picked it up.

At the top landing Abby stopped and contemplated. It was a huge house, with rooms to spare, all built as additions on the original salt-box. Most of the floors of the additions did not quite match the original construction. As a result there were steps up or down, or slanted floors galore at the junction-points. But the upstairs hall, part of the original construction, looked to be smooth and level and about the size of two lanes at a bowling alley.

Uncle Teddy had been as eccentric as his house. In the course of a wild and woolly life he had won and lost four fortunes, and on the day he died, fighting all the way, he had been drawing up a scheme to make another. His house was built for a monarch, but Uncle had hardly occupied it for more than a summer month each year. And, with the flavour of the turn of the century, it was referred to as a summer cottage.

Abby stroked Cleo’s neck. ‘And he would have made another fortune too, if time hadn’t run out on him.’ The dog woofed agreement. They walked to the end of the hall and looked in the rooms along the way. Abby hadn’t cleaned any of the other bedrooms other than the one she normally used when she came to Umatec Island. Her assigned room was the one furthest from the bathroom, but she had always enjoyed the walk down the hallway. She found luggage and signs of inhabitation in two of the other rooms. Someone was evidently living, very neatly, in Uncle Theodore’s old room and someone else was living, fairly messily, in the room next to hers. Interesting.

The bathroom took up the entire east end of the house. The tub was big enough for three or four and made of Vermont marble. It stood on a two-foot platform above the tiled floor. The entire east wall was glass. The old man had liked to soak in his tub with a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other, and watch the boats go up the channel.

‘Dancing girls,’ Abby said, chuckling. ‘Oriental music. Houris?’ Her dog, who had followed close behind her, backed off into the corner next to the door. ‘Some day,’ she mused, ‘I’m going to find out just what a houri is.’ She had a vague idea from reading translations of The Thousand and One Nights, but could never drive herself to actually look up the word, afraid the dictionary might tell her more than she cared to know.

Abby turned on the hot-water tap. From a distance she could hear a click and a roar as the generator came on line. In a moment the hot water poured out of the ornate spout very satisfactorily.

‘I’ll say one thing for Uncle Teddy,’ she told her dog. ‘He never stinted on something he really wanted.’ Cleo laid her head on the cold floor between her front paws. Abby swayed to what she thought was oriental music, and slowly stripped as she gyrated and sang. It was more Hawaiian than oriental, but for a girl who hardly ever stirred more than twenty-five miles from Washington it was a good approximation. A hot bath was the Spencer family recipe for relaxation from cares and Abby was falling into the family habit and forgetting the unexplained people on the island. They could wait—the bath, however, was a necessity!

With a copious gesture she sprinkled bath powder over the water. There were three different kinds. She used some of each. Suds swelled up and over the sides of the tub as she climbed in, sat down, and sighed with relief. The suds came up past her chin. She shovelled a path for herself, and then leaned back and closed her eyes.

The warmth welcomed her, soothing her body and her mind. Gradually her hands drifted smoothly down her long, soft curves. She sighed again, and blew away a suds-cloud that threatened her nose. ‘There’s no doubt about it,’ she told Cleo. ‘I’m in love with Harry Farnsworth.’ And again she sighed at her foolishness. Harry Farnsworth was a character in one of Selby Jones’s detective stories. A fictional character. Tall, blond and powerful, with a sabre scar high on his right cheek. How stupid can a girl get, to fall in love with a fictional character? Disgusted with herself, she pushed it all out of her mind, and began scrubbing.

The sound of a door slamming brought her up sharply. Umatec was too small an island for more than one house. The only thing that came to mind was the small boy and the owners of the luggage in the bedrooms. Access to the island is by small boat only and I know I didn’t invite anyone, she thought. So why should I lock the doors? The little boy—where the devil did he come from? And this father he was bragging about? An escaped criminal from the maximum security prison?

Footsteps. They rattled up the bare wooden stairs and then disappeared into the depths of the hall carpet. Oh, God! Abby sank down into the suds, wishing for a periscope or a weapon—or both. Her hands slid around the sides of the tub. Nothing.

‘So. That’s where you’re hiding.’ An indignant accusation levelled by an angry little boy.

‘I am not hiding, I’m bathing. What the devil are you doing in my bathroom? And what, may I ask, is your name?’

‘My name is Harry. My father is coming. You’d better get out of there. If he finds you there—lordy, if he finds me here!’

Abby sat up and pushed the suds away from her face. The little fellow was trembling. Scared, or just cold? He was barefoot, and still wore nothing but the tatty bathing suit.

‘Your father won’t hurt you,’ she said. ‘That’s against the law.’

‘Law? My father doesn’t care about no laws. And you don’t know him. He’ll murder me when he catches me.’

‘I find that hard to believe,’ Abby said. ‘After all, we live in a civilised community.’

‘Yeah, civilised. I used some of his good paper to draw on yesterday and he’s just found out. He’ll kill me, lady. Believe! Where can I hide?’

‘He wouldn’t dare—’ Abby stopped in mid-sentence. Somebody dared. The downstairs door slammed again. Really slammed, so that parts of the old house shook.

‘Harry? Harry!’ There were noises as the man downstairs stomped through the living-room, the kitchen, the study, and back to the foot of the stairs.

‘Harry Farnsworth, you’d better get down here before I tan your hide. Harry!’

Harry Farnsworth? It couldn’t be, but there it was. I’m dreaming, Abby told herself. Dreaming it all! Harry Farnsworth is a fictional character in a book!

But the boy believed that Harry was reality. He listened for a moment as the footsteps came up the stairs—heavy footsteps, something on the order of King Kong. The boy looked around for a place to hide. The footsteps reached the upper landing. The next scene was choreographed out of an old Bixby movie. The boy looked over his shoulder at the sudsy tub, then back towards the stairs. Abby, on cue, not willing to share her tub, came up out of the water covered from head to toe with suds, slipped on the marble floor, and skidded off into a corner. She clutched madly as she skidded, and came to a halt with two massive bath-towels wrapped around her.

The boy screwed up his courage and jumped head first into the tub, instantly disappearing into the blanket of suds.

‘Well, I thought the boy was lying,’ drawled a deep male voice, supported by a massive pair of shoulders and as stern a look as Abby had seen since she left St Alban’s Catholic high school. The good Mother Superior, somewhat puzzled by the gangling size of the girl, had spent years trying to convert her into a neat, obedient doll. With not much luck. And now this—whatever—and in her bathroom! She jerked herself up to a sitting position and brushed away enough suds to be able to see clearly.

‘And just what the devil are you doing in my bathroom?’ she demanded.

‘Your bathroom.’

‘My bathroom. This isn’t Highway Ninety-five. And I’m taking a bath.’

‘Your bathroom?’

‘We said that once. Is there something wrong with your hearing?’

‘That’s possible,’ he said.

Such a nice voice, Abby told herself. If I weren’t so angry with him I’d—well, I won’t! Good-sized, too. Well proportioned. Nice tan. An outdoor man. So maybe we could talk this out?

‘My bathroom,’ she said. ‘My uncle left it to me. I mean not just the bathroom, but the house and the island and—well, everything. And now if you would kindly remove yourself I’ll get dressed and—what are you doing?’

‘You claim you’re taking a bath, but you’re sitting in the corner,’ he said menacingly. ‘So why is there another hand in the tub? And if the other half of this act is my son Harry there’ll be hell to pay.’ He came up on to the pedestal step and bent over the tub.

‘No,’ Abby protested. ‘Don’t—’

Cleo had been following the play of the game, and thought she understood the rules. She came up to her feet, walked over behind the man and barked. A very impressive bark, Cleo’s, one that might have come from any self-respecting monster. The man hesitated.

‘Does he bite?’

‘All the time. She bites all the time.’

‘Harry. Come out of there!’ No longer a gentle voice, but rather the kind that tamed hurricanes.

‘Oh, no,’ Abby said. ‘She—’

Whatever nonsense Abby thought her dog would get into was hardly comparable to what actually happened. One more ‘woof’ and Cleo reared back on her hind legs and gave the man a considerable bump on his posterior. It was not an excessively strong attack, but he was already half bent over the tub, and Cleo did the rest. He tottered for a moment, then came head first into the tub. A wave of water came over the edge and splashed down on to the tile floor, taking some of the suds with it. With a squeak of alarm Abby struggled to her feet, wrapped herself securely in the towels, and sidled towards the door.

‘Gotcha,’ the male voice in the tub commented. The boy appeared, coming up out of the suds, suspended by his father’s right arm. A second or two later the man appeared, spitting suds in all directions. He groped for the wet step and set the boy down on the floor. As soon as Harry’s feet hit the floor he started running. But his father maintained a grip on his bathing suit. The lad was making running motions but getting nowhere. The man emerged. Another wave of water splattered out of the tub. Abby, too astonished to notice anything else, just stood there. That last splash of water had washed away almost all the suds on the floor. The man stared at her, while firmly holding the boy’s head in the other direction. ‘Put something on!’ he commanded.

Up to that moment Abby Spencer had been riding high on her anger. Now, with the man’s remark, she looked hastily down. The towel covered her. Not artistically, perhaps, but covered. Her only hope was disdain. ‘As it happens, Whoever-you-are, I’m a good deal better covered than either one of you.’

His father took a good long look, then pushed the boy towards the door. ‘Out, son.’

That’s all he can do, Abby thought. While I’m standing here shivering he’s chasing the boy out of the room. ‘You could go yourself,’ she muttered at him. The towel was slipping off her left shoulder. His eyes bugged.

‘Look, Mrs—’

‘Miss,’ Abby said. ‘Miss.’ And then very slowly, ‘Would you do me the favour of getting out of my bathroom?’ It wasn’t exactly a polite question. The bath-sheet was soaking wet and clinging to her frame like a piece of wet tissue—very revealing and form-fitting. She could see by the look on his face that the towel promised much more than she was even willing to think about. But if she was going to think about it he just about fitted her dream qualifications.

‘Daddy?’ The boy twisted around to see the goings on, and was immediately twisted back again by his father.

‘I’m sorry, Miss—’

‘Spencer,’ she yelled at him. ‘Now will you get out of here?’

‘Out of here? Oh, yes.’ A big grin sparkled across his face, lighting him and half the world. He looked boyish—no longer threatening. He left the room, shepherding his son in front of him. Taking his own darned time about it too, Abby told herself.

He left the door open as he marched his son out in front of him. A chill raced up Abby’s spine. She wrapped the bath-sheet more securely around her. The chill was not entirely due to the wind blowing into the room, she assured herself. A large portion of it was due to the man himself. Not a man, but rather this man. He was having an effect on her that she wasn’t sure she wanted. And yet—?

Not being the tidiest person in her family, Abby turned the switch that emptied the tub, and then looked around at the flood of water on the floor. For some reason it seemed to be eddying over into the corner. Closer inspection showed that a drain was built in that corner and the floor was slightly tilted. ‘Oh, Uncle Teddy,’ she giggled. ‘Just what were you up to in this magnificent tub?’

From downstairs there came the noise of harsh words. It seemed that little Harry was listening while his father did all the talking. Curiosity had always been one of Abby’s major weaknesses. She hurried down the hall to her bedroom, drying herself while she went, and when she reached her room she snatched up a green floor-length beach-robe. Cleo padded docilely along beside her.

No reason to dress, she told herself. He won’t be around that long. She fastened the robe, made a vague effort to dry her hair, but gave it up in disgust. Curiosity and anger were driving her much faster than beauty. Together she and Cleo went down the stairs as fast as they could walk.

The men were making themselves at home in the living-room. Or, as Abby called it, the blue room. It was a dark room with few windows and many drapes, all blue. It gave the appearance of a cave, a blue cave. Since there was no electric power available on the island except from the house generator, the room was softly lit by a pair of propane-powered lamps.

The two males had evidently run through their arguments. The elder was sitting in one of her over-stuffed chairs. He was still soaking wet and he was towelling the boy, who stood between his legs with a big grin on his small face.

‘There,’ the boy said. ‘There’s four of us here in this room and only one of us is wearing shoes. Take your shoes off, Daddy.’

‘Four of us?’

‘Yeah. You, me and her and her dog.’

‘Ah, I forgot the dog. But no, I can’t do that,’ the man returned. ‘She—will be leaving any minute now, and she’ll need my help. That’s what men do for women—they help.’

Abby walked over to the huge couch and sat down, pulling her feet up beneath her. She had walked down the stairs torn between curiosity and growing anger that anyone would be on her island and disturb her peace. ‘Now then, Mr—?’

‘Farnsworth,’ he answered the prompt. ‘Selby Farnsworth. And this is my son Harry—’

‘My name is Henry,’ the child interrupted. ‘Henry Farnsworth.’

A fine pair of liars, both of you, Abby thought. How could he have got the child so well-trained? Harry Farnsworth is a fictional character. Who should know better than me? Selby Jones had written three books and she had panned the first two while the third was—well, almost perfect.

‘Farnsworth,’ she mused. ‘It seems to me that that’s a name I’d choose if I was going to hide out. So tell me, Mr Farnsworth—’ and you could hear the question mark in the name ‘—how long have you been on the island? I’ve been cleaning the house all day and I’ve not seen hide nor hair of either of you. This is a very small island. I can’t believe you’ve been on my island all day without coming up to the house.’

‘My son and I have been on the island for three weeks,’ the man retorted. ‘We went over to Hyannis to do some shopping and sightseeing. I have a lease on this island and this house for six weeks, ending on September fifteenth.’

‘I don’t see how that’s possible,’ Abby said. ‘We’ve got three weeks until September fifteenth and I certainly haven’t signed any lease with you. I don’t intend to wait that long to be rid of you, either. You’d just better pack and leave. You can take the boat you came over in from Hyannis today and go back to the mainland. And while you’re there maybe you should just sit down and check your so-called lease.’

‘I don’t have a boat. We hired someone to drop us off here and I’ve hired him to come again in three weeks on the fifteenth to pick us up. I don’t need to check the lease,’ he snapped. ‘It’s all legal and above-board. I made sure of that before I signed it.’

‘My dad’s a—’

‘Harry, shut up!’

The boy clapped his hands over his mouth. ‘We ain’t s’posed to tell,’ he added in a little whisper.

‘I’m a lawyer. I’ve already checked the lease.’

‘I can see that you must have.’ Abby restrained a grin. It was fun to be talking to this—lawyer. ‘And who signed the lease?’

‘Miss Spencer,’ he said, and then sat up and looked at her suspiciously. ‘Miss Abigail Spencer?’

‘Did Miss Spencer sign it? A.L. Spencer?’ He nodded. ‘Was she a little old lady? White hair, a little thin on top? Stands about five feet three? Looks like a chipper little bluebird?’

‘Exactly. What are you trying to tell me?’

‘Nothing particularly important,’ Abby said, teasing him along. ‘As it happens, I’m the only Abigail in the Spencer family. You’re talking about my great-aunt Amaryllis Letitia. Too bad. Aunt Letty loves to play the horses. I suspect she and your money are already down in Florida, or wherever the ponies are running these days.’

‘Then you’re the one that—’

‘Inherited this place, lock, stock and barrel,’ Abby said. ‘My house, my island—’

‘An’ don’t forget the treasure,’ the boy said. ‘There’s a big treasure here, ain’t there?’

‘I haven’t any idea if there is any treasure. My uncle used to say there was but he wasn’t willing to let anyone come and dig for it. “My treasure”, Uncle Teddy used to say—’ A dull sound in the background interrupted her; the windows rattled in their frames. ‘He was a peculiar fellow, my uncle. But he left this island to me.’ Abby got up and went to the window. ‘Look, it’s getting pretty late, and from the looks of things there’s a storm brewing out there. Hadn’t you two better start thinking of how to be on your way?’

‘On our way hell,’ the man said. ‘You—at least your family—owes me three more weeks of living on this island, and I mean to have it.’

‘Sue me,’ Abby prompted.

‘I will,’ he returned. ‘We’re not leaving this island until our lease is up.’ A crash of thunder sounded from outside. Abby walked back to the window and pulled back the drapes. Low dark clouds were racing across the sky, bending the few island trees before them.

‘Looks like a north-easter,’ Abby commented as she dropped the drapes. ‘I wouldn’t put a dog out on a night like this. You can spend the night. Lord knows we have plenty of rooms. Tomorrow we’ll talk it over like sensible adults, and see what we can see.’

‘My boat isn’t coming back until September fifteenth,’ he reiterated. ‘We’re staying at least that long.’

‘I can take you back to the mainland tomorrow. I have a little runabout. And don’t shout at me. I don’t happen to be a lawyer, but I do know my rights.’ She dropped on to the old-fashioned ottoman and regretted it immediately. The thing seemed to have been stuffed with horsehair.

The boy squirmed around, a cherub smile on his full-fleshed face. ‘That oughta be fun,’ he chortled. ‘Do you own that little white boat with the yellow stripe on it?’

‘Why did you ask?’ Abby pulled herself up to her feet. ‘What is it about that little white boat with the yellow stripe that makes you so happy?’

‘Well, whoever left it in the cove didn’t tie it up very well. When I seen it half an hour ago it was drifting out in the channel.’

‘Drifting?’ Abby liked nothing better than a calm, peaceful life. Boats didn’t drift, not when they were the only means of getting off Umatec Island. Strange men didn’t appear out of the storm and declare themselves to be fictional characters. Women like me—all twenty-nine years of me—don’t find themselves marooned on a deserted island with a little boy and a pirate, she told herself.

Harry’s father looked down at him with a very suspicious look in his eyes. ‘The boat just drifted away?’

‘Well, it certainly got loose. The rope came all apart and it just drifted away.’

Abby looked at them both. ‘I tie my lines with good knots,’ she said. ‘The knot didn’t come out by itself.’

‘Harry,’ his father said accusingly. The little boy blushed and stubbed his toe on the floor.

‘Well, I just had to see what it was, you know. It had a engine and it was floating nice and I thought I could get in and maybe take a little ride. And—’

‘And what?’ his father asked in the tone used in a courtroom to ask the accused when he had stopped beating his wife.

Abby winced in sympathy. There seemed to be very little compassion in that voice and Harry looked as if he needed very large doses of compassion and love on a daily basis. Even an amateur like Abby could tell that this little boy was on an emotional see-saw. He smiled and laughed and then was so serious and so angry. He bounced emotionally and it was very erratic. She didn’t think that Selby Farnsworth, no matter how good-looking, was the ideal person to deal with Harry’s problems.

‘The motor wouldn’t start,’ the boy replied firmly. ‘I untied the knot and the darn motor wouldn’t start. It’s all your fault, lady. It’s not fair, keepin’ a boat when the motor don’t start. There’s laws against that!’

The anger which had sparked his father’s face faded into a grin. ‘There probably is a law,’ he conceded. ‘Lord knows there seem to be more laws than people nowadays. So what did you do next?’

Zeus, Abby told herself. Sitting up there on Mount Olympus ready to cast a thunderbolt or two? Her eyes studied his face. Burned by the outdoor sun, smooth skin sporting a Roman nose, and a—dear God—a scar just under his left eye!

‘I—uh—just climbed over the side and swam back to shore,’ the boy said. ‘It was all because of that darn motor. It wouldn’t start. It ain’t my fault.’

‘Oh, boy,’ his father said. ‘It’s been a whole week of “one of those days”.’

Abby looked at both of them and swallowed her tongue. Out of the corner of her eye she just happened to see the look on the elder Farnsworth’s face. Glee? Anticipation? Satisfaction?

‘Well, Miss Spencer,’ he said. ‘That just about wraps it up, doesn’t it? None of us can leave without a boat. Your boat’s probably down off Cutty Hunk by now, and ours won’t be back for another three weeks or more. So, unless you’ve got some magic signal to summon help, I guess we’re all stuck here together, right?’

‘Now just a darn minute,’ Abigail Spencer said firmly. ‘Let’s not get carried away here. I’ve agreed that you can stay overnight. After that, well—’

The grin vanished from his face, to be replaced by a predatory look. His teeth gleamed in the soft light of the room. He’s looking for a place to bite, Abby told herself as she squirmed back in her chair, as far away from him as she could get.

‘Let me explain something to you,’ he said. Abby ducked away from the voice of doom. All her relationships with lawyers had been uniform—uniformly bad.

‘First of all,’ he continued, ‘if we don’t get occupancy of this island until September fifteenth, I will certainly file a civil suit against your aunt Letty. For triple damages, of course.’ He used a finger to mark an illusionary figure one in the air.

‘And then I think we might institute some criminal charges. Using the mails to defraud. Yes, that’s a nice one. Ten years in the slammer, as I recall. And then there’s the matter of embezzlement. Not to be overlooked, that. Probably another two years or so. And I’m sure I can think of a few more items, given a moment or two.’

‘You—you wouldn’t—’ Abby stammered hopefully. ‘She’s a sweet little old lady, and—’

‘And she’ll be a lot older when she comes out,’ he added. ‘No doubt about it. I’ll have her little posterior in a sling, lady, unless—’

‘Unless?’ Abby’s voice broke into a squeak.

‘Unless we get to stay here until September fifteenth.’

Abby choked on her own hurried breath. ‘So stay,’ she half whispered. ‘So stay and be happy. Aunt Letty’s too old for gaol sentences!’

‘How kind you are.’ That grin returned. ‘How about that, Harry? The lady wants us to stay.’

‘I don’t know that she means it,’ the boy returned.

‘She means it,’ his father assured him. ‘Or else! Now then, lady, we are all here together. Don’t you think that as our hostess you should start making us dinner?’ Mr Farnsworth had put the persuasive tone into his voice, as if to try and make her feel that she would either be obliged to cook or she would want to cook for his son and himself.

Abby had never felt that cooking dinner was a gender-orientated task. ‘I’m not hungry tonight and you aren’t really here at my invitation. So if you want to eat dinner the kitchen is down the hall.’

‘Harry and I have been surviving on peanut butter sandwiches and I’m sick of them,’ he said. ‘And you did invite us.’

‘Didn’t you bring anything else to eat?’ Abby forced herself to ask, trying hard not to offer any of the food she had brought over with her.

‘We brought only canned goods and, since neither of us likes washing dishes, we eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.’

‘I like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,’ Harry contributed to the conversation.

‘Well, there you are. Enjoy your meal, gentlemen. I’ll see you in the morning.’

Before either of them could tell her anything more that she didn’t want to hear, she scuttled out of the room and back up the stairs. Cleo paced along behind her. The dog was older than anyone cared to think, and running upstairs was difficult. As Abby ran she could hear the sound of their male laughter, and no amount of holding her hands over her ears could shut it out.

She almost tripped over her trailing robe, but managed to catch herself on the smooth oak banister. She thought for a moment that the man was surely going to blister the boy’s bottom; instead the laughter rolled on. And I, she told herself bitterly, am the butt of it all. Well, we’ll see about that.

Her door slammed behind her, almost amputating Cleo’s tail. A very satisfactory slam. Just enough to relieve her tensions. Just barely enough. And how would your Sunday-school class react to all of this? It was a thought somewhat stronger than she could bear. She walked over to the bed and fell across it, peering towards the half-open window. The boy she could understand. She had ten of them just like him in her Sunday-school class. But the father?

He was more than she could handle, even on her best day, this Selby Farnsworth. He wasn’t handsome, not on your life. Too rugged. Too outdoorsy for a girl who spent most of her life among books. Too darn sure of himself. And a lawyer to boot? Lord protect us! she thought. But maybe—only a couple of weeks? Just long enough to teach him a lesson? Hit him in his ego, the way I handle my brothers. That ought to do the trick!

A lawyer, she mused; that ranked him just below used-car salesmen and just above politicians on her personal list. She giggled at the idea. The curtains swayed in the wind, and a thin spray of water reached as far as the bed.

‘Oh, hell,’ she muttered, and dashed to close the window. Oh, hell? ‘Yes,’ she said firmly as she eased the window down. ‘Oh, hell! A girl is entitled to at least one swear word now and then. Especially in the privacy of her own room.’ Cleo, who had been lying down in the corner listening, made a funny noise, almost like laughter.

There were a few of her things piled at Abby’s feet. She looked down. A suitcase, a bag of fruit, and a— She gulped. It was decision time already. ‘So, unless you’ve got some magical signal to summon help, I guess we’re all stuck here together, right?’ he had said, and then that funny laugh and that leer.

‘Well, we can call for help,’ she said, giggling. ‘But you’ll never know, Mr Know-it-all Farnsworth. Not until I’m ready to tell you.’ With a very large grin on her face she picked up the leather case containing her portable cellular telephone and her big battery-operated AM-FM radio. She made sure they were both turned off, then stored them on the upper shelf of her wardrobe.

With this happy thought she took a piece of fruit from the bag and one of the manuscripts she had to read with her to bed. She would just read a while and then she’d have to go and wash her hands. The orange was a particularly juicy one.

‘Yes, Mr Selby Farnsworth, now we play the game my way,’ she murmured.




CHAPTER TWO


ON THE way back from the bathroom that evening, Abby passed by Selby’s door and heard a familiar ‘tap, tap, tap.’ There was a light under the door and inside a typewriter was being used. She knew the sound well.

‘Selby Farnsworth. If you aren’t Selby Jones, the author of my favourite hero, I’ll be darned,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve come all the way up here to write a book. There’s no doubt about it. Is there no limit to your cleverness? You’re a lawyer and a writer, perhaps something else as well? I wonder what?’

Quietly, so as not to give the whole show away, she stole back to her own room and walked in, closing the door behind her. Cleo was already coiled up on the throw-rug by the bed. Abby had to climb over the dog to get into the bed and once she was in she knew she would have difficulty getting to sleep. It was too early for her to go to bed! Besides, there were too many secrets to be analysed. Nevertheless, in the middle of her argument, sleep came quietly over her and in just a few seconds she was out.

It was the noise that woke her up. What was it? Someone was crying just outside her door. Someone who was trying to smother the noise. Cleo was awake as Abby pulled herself out of bed, awake and shuffling to the door to sniff at whatever might be outside. Haunts? Abby asked herself. Of course not! That was one thing which Uncle Teddy would have never allowed in his house.

She unlocked her door and pulled it open. Little Harry Farnsworth was sitting on the top step of the stairs, nestled hard up against the newel post of the mahogany banister. He was crying, a soft, muted cry as if he wanted to ease his agony without letting the world know he was hurting.

After a moment’s consideration, Abby padded over to the head of the stairs and sat down beside him. He stirred a little—just enough to give her sitting space. She put her arm around him. His head lifted away from the newel post and leaned on her. A soft, sweet head was resting on her breast, crying softly.

‘What’s the matter, Harry?’ she murmured.

‘I don’t know,’ the boy said. ‘I was dreaming about—about—well, you wouldn’t care about that. You don’t have to sit with me. You could go back to bed. I’m all right.’ There was a large amount of pride in his voice, more than his age or size should have contained.

‘I’m sure you are,’ Abby said. She applied a little pressure and pulled the boy against her until the whole length of him was resting against her body. The sobbing gave way to intermittent tears. ‘Do you want me to call your dad?’

‘No!’ said the boy sharply. ‘Not that! He’d be awful mad.’

The crying had stopped completely. He rubbed his nose with one hand and poked at his eyes with the knuckles of the other, still leaning against her. She could feel the muscles in his body relax. Silence played across the room. Nothing but the sound of the storm could be heard.

As the wall clock struck the quarter-hour he lifted his head out of the warm, soft nest between her breasts.

‘You know, you’re awful soft. My daddy is hard, like iron. I think my mommy used to be soft like you.’

Wordlessly, Abby stroked his shoulder and brushed his hair out of his eyes. She maintained the pressure that kept him against her and waited. By the next striking of the quarter-hour, he was asleep. His features were marked by tears but there was a little smile on his face.

‘What do I do now?’ Abby muttered.

She almost jumped out of her skin when a deep voice behind her said, ‘Now you pick him up and put him back in bed.’

She turned around and looked over her shoulder. Selby Farnsworth, dressed in the bottom half of an old pair of pyjamas, was staring down at her, brooding over the pair of them. She looked back at him for a moment or two and then sighed. ‘I can’t—he’s too heavy for me.’

He stepped down a stair or two to position himself in front of them and reached down gently to pick up his son. As his arm encircled the child the back of his wrists touched and then caressed her breasts. Abby took a deep audible breath as all her systems snapped to attention, and then he was gone.

She trailed after him into the boy’s room. He put the child down gently, arranged the blankets over him, checked the window to make sure it was shut and then tiptoed out into the hall. Abby took a moment to lean over the bed and kiss Harry’s forehead. He stirred uneasily, which made her back up hurriedly.

‘Go’nite, Mommy,’ Harry murmured.

Abby moved quietly out into the hall, and in the darkness ran into Selby. His arms came around her, perhaps to steady her, or perhaps—oh, stop that, she told herself angrily, stop romanticising.

‘Does he always have nightmares like this?’ she whispered.

‘No,’ he said bitterly. ‘I almost had him over these dreams. Thanks for your help.’

To be totally honest, it didn’t sound as if he really meant any thanks at all. It was almost as if he was embarrassed to have his son be the centre of such notice, Abby told herself. And he’d said dreams, not nightmares.

‘I couldn’t just leave him there, crying,’ she snapped, just barely remembering to keep her voice down. ‘Any woman would have gone to comfort him.’

‘That’s what you think,’ he said disgustedly. ‘His mother wouldn’t.’ And he marched smartly down the hall towards his own room.

As she stood watching him move away from her, her hands doubled into fists. ‘I could give you such a whack,’ she whispered. But the lessons on ladylike behaviour which her mother had drilled into her as a child all came to mind and so, with only some mild swearing under her breath, she returned to her room.

Sleep, this time, did not come quietly, or gently. She finally fell asleep and wrestled with her own terrible dream, which lasted until morning. In that dream she was chasing Selby Farnsworth with a big stick and she finally caught him. But before she had the satisfaction of whacking him the dream came to a halt, and then went back to its beginning, like a recorded tape whose end had been spliced to its start to make a circle. She never did get to whack him—hip and thigh, as the Bible would have it. It was frustrating, it was tiring and it was totally unsatisfactory!

Abby opened one eye and looked out of the window at a weak sun trying to rise over the hills of Martha’s Vineyard island. Time to get up, she grumbled to herself. Her sheets were all in twisted skeins around her legs. She had to unwind them before she could set a foot on the floor.

If I don’t get up and make a real breakfast he’s going to make some of those peanut butter and jelly sandwiches he threatened me with last night. And that, my girl, is something up with which you shall not put! she told herself.

She swung herself up out of the bed, sleepily staggered over to the window, raised the blind and threw the window open. There was a fine wind coming in from the east, bringing with it the flavour of sea and shore and all the world of fishing. Gulls haunted the stern of one of the passenger ferries which ploughed the waters north of them from Woods Hole to Martha’s Vineyard and back again. Here and back and the birds followed along, having learned long ago that the best of food came off the stern of one of these vessels after the breakfast or dinner meals.

Resolving to get going, Abby looked around her, found her robe and slippers, gathered up her underclothes, and padded down to the ornate bathroom. There was not a sign of life from either of the other two bedrooms. Which is just as well, she told herself. The last thing I need is to have two strange men following me around while I’m showering.

So she went as quietly as possible into the bathroom and started the shower. The quick response of the electric generator soon gave her hot water with enough to spare. She soaked under the pleasure of it and then was reminded by a movement outside the bathroom door that her time was fast fleeing. She stepped out, dried off, climbed into her undies and slipped into a pair of blue jeans and a light yellow blouse. Her hair was more than she could handle so she left it the way it was. Raggedy Ann, she told herself and laughed. Raggedy Ann looking for Raggedy Andy. Stop this, Abigail, she chided herself. There is more to this whole family set-up than you know. Something is seriously wrong and you may not wish to be dragged into this whole mess. But a little voice in her subconscious whispered that if there was trouble ahead little Abby Spencer would be among the first to offer to help. She blamed her mother for this affliction of hers—offering to help. Along with the ladylike lessons, her mother had been, and still was, big on simple kindness and the proverbial helping hand.

She picked up her night things and went out into the hall again. Her dog was waiting with her yellow tennis ball clenched between her teeth.

‘Come on, girl,’ she said softly. ‘Downstairs. Breakfast. If you don’t put that darn ball away you won’t eat.’

Breakfast—that was the magic word. The dog lifted up her ears, hiked herself up to her feet and raced, if that was a word that could be used about Cleo, to the head of the stairs. She turned, looking for praise. Her play-ball dropped out of her mouth and went merrily bouncing down the dark stairs. They both could hear the ball bouncing at least partway down the staircase. They made their way down, with Abby holding tightly on to the banister on one side, and Cleo’s collar on the other. Neither she nor Cleo could find the yellow ball. Cleo sat down at the foot of the stairs and mourned.

‘I didn’t throw it,’ Abby said. ‘Don’t expect me to go fetch it for you. Come on.’

Her ‘woman’s best friend’ offered a little growl. Abby stamped her foot on the dull linoleum. Complaining was acceptable; threatening was prohibited. They both knew the rules, but Cleo was standing up for her own principles.

‘Breakfast,’ Abby announced heartily. Cleo wavered. Caught between principle and practicality, the dog gave up and followed her mistress down the hall. It had been almost twenty-four hours since Cleo had eaten and any word having to do with food was welcome and eagerly anticipated.

Breakfast? Abby asked herself as she led the way down to the kitchen. What in the world have we got to eat?

There had been something nagging her all night, despite the bad dream with Selby Farnsworth. She had brought enough food for herself to last ten days. There certainly wasn’t enough to last for three weeks, especially for three people. Unless there was some way to call for a boat, the food was going to be getting scarce after a few days. But she’d keep her secret for at least a couple of days.

There was a propane refrigerator in the far corner of the kitchen, fed through a flexible tube that ran out to the back of the house. When she had first come in the day before, she had packed all her perishables in it, fired the cooling pilot light and then had gone off and forgotten it.

Now she opened the door carefully. A blast of cold air struck her face. Inventory: two dozen eggs, a rasher of bacon, sausages galore, bread for toasting. That last was a problem. The only way she could make toast was over the flames in the fireplace, and that fire was now only a glowing ember or two. After a ten-minute struggle Abby gave up.

She had been a girl scout, but as she recalled she had only been awarded the badge for sewing, and had to get her mother to sew it on for her. While she pondered on the problem of toast, Harry wandered into the kitchen. He looked hungry and just a little intimidated by the presence of Cleo. Abby smiled at him because he was really just a little boy. He was in the process of growing in his adult teeth; there were a few missing from the line up. There has to be a way to get on his good side, she told herself. With all of the training I’ve had there must be something I can try.

‘Are you gonna cook breakfast?’ Harry asked. ‘Have you fed the dog? She won’t eat me, will she?’

‘Cleo?’ Abby answered. ‘My dog never eats my friends. She only eats people who aren’t my friends. She and I have an agreement on that subject. But I’m glad you reminded me. I haven’t fed her this morning and she probably is hungry.’

Harry shrugged his shoulders, stubbed his toe on a worn section of the linoleum and looked up at her with a wicked little gleam in his eyes. ‘Could I be a friend of yours? Can I help feed her?’

‘Well,’ Abby drawled it out, ‘perhaps, maybe; it would depend.’

‘Depend on what?’

‘Well, it depends on how you treat me. Friends treat friends nicely. You haven’t been that nice to me so far. Are you going to be friendly to me? We have to work through the friend part first and then we’ll talk about you feeding her.’

‘I don’t mind,’ the boy said. ‘I ain’t scared of that.’ He had both hands behind his back and he was very slowly moving across the carpet towards her, very, very slowly.

Cleo watched him carefully. As he got close enough to be within her attack range she came up to a half-crouch and growled a little. Harry came to a complete stop and the look he gave to Abby was one of, You told me it was OK, so what did I do wrong? Abby smiled and reached out to pat the old dog on the head. ‘That’s enough, Cleo. That’s enough. This is a friend. Now, Harry, hold out one hand in front of her nose. Don’t touch her.’

The boy gulped and then carefully, as if he were guarding a treasure, moved his left hand from behind his back. It was still clutched in a fist and he extended it slowly in the dog’s direction. Cleo came all the way to her feet, looked up at her mistress and then back at the boy. She took a couple of sniffs at the proffered hand and after a moment the old collie licked the knuckles.

‘There you are,’ Abby said. ‘You have been identified as a friend of mine, which makes you a friend of Cleo’s. OK?’

‘I suppose you and me can be friends. Are you gonna cook breakfast or feed Cleo first?’

‘I suppose I could start our breakfast if you’ll go upstairs to my bedroom and get her bag of food. Once you get it down here, you can put some in a bowl for her along with some water. You will have helped to feed her at that point and you will have become one of Cleo’s best friends. She loves anyone who feeds her. The quickest way to Cleo’s heart is through her stomach.’

She set the bread aside while Harry clumped up the stairs and she reached for the eggs. The propane stove chirped on without a bit of trouble. In a moment or two she constructed a fine bunch of fried eggs, sunny side up. Just enough, she thought to herself, and turned around with the platter in both hands, moving in the direction of the kitchen table.

She hadn’t heard Harry come back down the stairs so she was startled when she saw a different male face sitting at the breakfast table, beaming at her and her dish of eggs. She stopped with one foot still in the air. ‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ she said suspiciously.

‘No,’ he admitted. There was a very insincere grin on his face. ‘No, I was afraid that if I made a noise you might be surprised and drop something. My, that looks nice.’

‘If she dropped the plate then we don’t get anything nice to eat,’ the boy said as he came back into the kitchen with the bag of dog food.

‘I’ve got to teach you better, boy,’ his father grumbled. ‘Don’t play Abraham Lincoln. You don’t have to be all that honest.’

‘Yes, he does,’ Abby insisted. ‘And, besides, after he’s finished feeding the dog, there’s just enough food here for Harry and me.’

She put the platter down in front of her own space, shovelled an egg and a sausage on to the boy’s plate and put it at the open space at the table. Harry was very busily filling the bowls Abby had found with dog food and water. He was looking very serious about this task and was very gratified when Cleo shouldered him out of the way to get at her food. All of the good food smells had been driving her crazy and she was hungry!

‘I guess that means that she likes me, huh?’ It sounded to Abby as if Harry Farnsworth needed someone to approve of his actions. He needed to be praised.

‘Yes. I guess that means that you are one of the top people on Cleo’s list of friends and you did that very well. I didn’t realise that the bag was so big. How did you get it down the stairs?’

‘I just bumped it down the stairs,’ Harry semi-bragged. He had done something good and she had noticed. She was someone he liked for some reason. The fact that she had a dog was a big point in her favour, but he liked her anyway.

‘Then why don’t you sit down and eat your breakfast while it’s hot?’ She turned around and went back to the frying-pan, which was still sizzling with bacon. By the time she had settled that and had returned to the table again, all the rest of the food had disappeared.

‘Which one of you?’ she said, eyeing them both disgustedly. ‘Which one of you ate my breakfast?’

‘Not me,’ the boy said. ‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that.’ He ducked his head so that he would not be looking at his father.

‘Well,’ Selby said, ‘if he’s innocent, and you’re innocent, I guess I’m the guilty party.’

‘You’ve got a nerve,’ she growled at him. ‘You threaten me with a peanut butter sandwich and now you expect me to cook something deliciously delightful for your breakfast?’

‘That is exactly what I hoped for,’ he said, and made no attempt to hide the twinkle in those big brown eyes.

‘I have a good mind,’ she told him, her green eyes sparking, ‘to dispossess you right this minute. You’ve got enough nerve to—’

‘Watch the bacon,’ Harry yelled at them both. Abby wheeled around. She had spooned the rest of the bacon to the top of the chopping-board to let it drain off. While the pair of them were arguing, Cleo had slithered by them, flat on her stomach, and then leaped up to seize the bacon and the paper on which it was drying.

Dog food was fine for those rainy days when there was nothing around to scrounge, but the aroma of bacon was a siren call to Cleo. If there was bacon around and no one was watching, then she would make a try for it. The dog was making no effort to share. She saw it as only right that she be entitled to anything she could snatch—and bacon was fair game. Four big gulps and it was all gone. Abby, hands on hips, turned to search the two innocent faces. ‘Why is it,’ she asked the world around her, ‘that I’m beginning to feel put upon?’ She could feel the colour of anger as it flashed up into her cheeks. Anger, and something else she had learned in her high school drama club, was helping her put colour in her face. How to cry without even trying. And Abby Spencer was very good at it. Very good indeed. She was counting on it to make a very big impression.

She managed to pull one chair away from the table. Her tall figure collapsed into it for a moment, and then she straightened her back and closed her eyes. Think sadness, she commanded. Scenes flashed in front of her eyes, but she dispatched them one after another. Finally she found the one she wanted. She pictured herself standing on the hillside on Grandfer’s farm, on the warm autumn day when her pony had broken its leg and had to be put down.

The scene solidified. She could remember every sound, every wind-blown smell, the soft muttering of the sheep. And then the sound of the gun. Abby held that sound close to her heart. The tears began. Solemn, quiet tears oozing up from under her eyelids, and running down her cheeks, one or two at a time, and then in full flood.

‘Now look what you done,’ the boy said fiercely.

‘Pay it no mind,’ his father said. ‘Women cry for no reason at all.’

‘She had a reason,’ the boy snapped. ‘I’ve told you before. This is a nice one, and you made her cry. Why?’

‘Maybe you’re right, Harry. I didn’t think she’d cry. Let me see if I can stop the tears.’

‘You’d better,’ the boy threatened.

Abby, doing her best to keep the tears rolling, was startled to hear the boy crying as well. The kitchen door slammed as Harry ran out, leaving her alone with Selby. Not exactly what I planned, Abby told herself. She threw in a couple of additional sobs.

There was movement, and a strong arm came around her shoulders. She cracked one eyelid. Selby was kneeling at her side, trying to get a big handkerchief out of his pocket. ‘I don’t understand,’ he murmured. ‘A girl as big as you are, crying?’

I’ll show you big, she thought as she turned up the sobs and slumped over, resting all of her hundred and thirty-five-pound weight against him. It took but a moment for her to realise she had made a terrible mistake. He liked having her lean on him. He especially liked the softness of her full breast, falling haphazardly into the cup of his hand.

‘Don’t.’ She struggled to sit up, but the cold intervention of the world around her ruined her comfort. With a little gasp she fell back into his arms. ‘Don’t,’ she repeated in a soft, pleading whisper.

‘Don’t?’ He pulled her closer, gently massaging her breast, and then said, ‘Oh. You mean this?’ His right hand pulled her up, his left hand continued to gently support her breast.

‘I mean don’t!’ This time indignantly. She wrenched herself away from him. His right hand came loose. His left hand seemed to twitch for a moment, and then he helped her to stand. She was still quivering. She clutched her fists and thrust them down along the seams of her jeans. Her whole body shook, until the muscle tension brought her under control.

‘Don’t you ever touch me like that again,’ she spat.

He held his hand up before him, still flexing the fingers. ‘It was delightful,’ he announced.

‘I didn’t enjoy it,’ she lied. She might have said more, but Harry came back into the room. There was a moment or two of silence then Harry said,

‘I had enough breakfast for the day. Now what am I gonna do?’

His father looked at him seriously, as if he was debating the subject. ‘Well,’ Selby said, ‘I know what I’ve got to do. I’ve got to redo those pages you used to colour on yesterday. Maybe Abby can think of something for you both to do.’

‘Why should I be the one to come up with entertainment ideas? I have work to do too, you know. Very important work!’

Selby looked over at her, and there was a tug at the corner of his mouth, as if he couldn’t resist laughing, but had to. ‘Yes. But we have a small problem,’ he said. ‘Someone has to entertain Harry and I’ve got a living to make. I’m sure you could fit childcare into your schedule.’

‘Oh? What gave you that misguided idea?’ Abby pounced on his last statement. She might not be a rabid feminist but she did hold that talent and drive were neither gender-orientated nor segregated. Women did not have to be the child-tenders. But the look on Harry’s face soon shut her up. He looked as if he had heard this argument about who was going to look after him before and it made him feel like a package no one wanted.

‘I’ll tell you what, nobody has to entertain me. I’ll go fishing by myself. You two can work all you want. Don’t think about me. I’ll go fishing!’ With that Harry ran out of the kitchen with a very set look on his face.

Abby slumped back in her chair and glared at Selby. ‘You brought the kid out to this island. Why did you do that if you weren’t going to spend time with him?’

‘I spent all day yesterday with him,’ Selby flashed at her.

‘Do you honestly think that one day is enough? What did you do for the first three weeks you were here?’

‘We did things together,’ Selby defended himself. ‘It’s different for men; we don’t have to be together all the hours of the day. And, besides, Harry is getting to be a big boy and big boys like to investigate on their own.’

‘If you both have been here three weeks then Harry must know the island very well. There’s not that much of it to investigate.’ Abby was getting more and more angry on Harry’s behalf with this whole conversation.

Stop it, she told herself, this is not helping anything and you know you want to help.

‘I suppose I could start my work tomorrow. I’ll go fishing with Harry,’ Abby said after she had mastered her anger.

‘That’ll be nice,’ Selby said, looking as if he had been giving himself instructions to calm down. ‘Especially considering the fact that Harry doesn’t know anything about fishing. If you two catch something it would enlarge our larder. Harry and I both love fried fish.’

‘I have always hated fried fish,’ Abby said, ‘and I don’t see any reason why—’ And she stopped at that point. Sucker, she told herself. He’s just trying to jolly you into looking after the boy full time. His father was staring at her with a look that said, Of course you will. Abby felt stalled between announcing, ‘The hell you say,’ or going along with the game to see what else might develop. She was fairly sure, however, what was going to develop and that it would involve Harry and herself doing things together. Her own work would suffer. Her editor would want her head on a pike. Oh, well, in for a penny.

‘Yes,’ she finally said, ‘Harry and I will go fishing. What are you going to be doing?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I have a great deal of work to do. I need to rewrite some pages that were lost to the world of adolescent art and they have to be replaced so that I can finish this paper.’

‘I heard you last night,’ Abby chipped in. ‘Is this going to be a long paper? What are you writing? Do you think it will ever be published?’

‘Published? Please—I’m writing something for a legal case I’m working on. Well, it’s a very long argument and I have to keep at it, so I’ll put my grind to the nosestone while you two have all the fun in the world.’

‘Yes, I can bet you will,’ Abby said sarcastically. ‘Put your nose to the grindstone, I mean.’ Another discouraged sigh. ‘I don’t suppose you would consider that I have a great deal of work to do myself?’

He waved her off. ‘Surely not as important as mine, my dear.’ There was a suave tone in his voice. Like a travelling salesman, Abby thought. He’d make a good Hellfire and Damnation preacher. Or perhaps a politician—no, nothing that bad. Like all non-politicians in Washington, Abby could be either a devoted follower, or a member of a ‘hate’ group. Usually she fitted under the latter label.

‘And just what,’ Abby said indignantly, ‘do you suppose will happen to all the work that I brought with me? I have to get it done. There’s a deadline and I need peace and quiet.’

‘Oh, you don’t need that much time,’ Selby said. ‘Anyone of your calibre, any good red-blooded American woman can do this kind of thing easily. Besides, that’s what New Englanders do best, isn’t it, fishing?’

‘Let me remind you,’ Abby said very firmly, ‘that I come from Washington, DC, not New England.’

‘Oh, that slipped my mind,’ Selby said. ‘Slipped my ever-loving mind. My apologies. But you will take the boy fishing.’

‘I will take the boy fishing. I said so once before. We will be back at noontime. You will make the lunch. It will not be peanut butter sandwiches. And you will look around for Cleo’s ball. She’ll go whompers if we can’t find it.’

‘Did you hear that, Harry?’ the man said loudly.

‘Yeah, I heard it.’ A tear-stained Harry came into the room. ‘I wasn’t gonna go until I got Cleo to come with me.’

‘A boy and his dog,’ Selby said softly. ‘I remember those days with my dog Sam.’

There was a look on his face that was at odds with the impression Abby had been forming of him. It looked as if he cared about his son and just didn’t know how to go about connecting with him. ‘It will not be peanut butter sandwiches, and I must find Cleo’s ball. This lady must have been a drill sergeant.’

‘I heard it,’ the boy said. ‘I hope—I hope it works out right. I think the ball might taste better than the peanut butter. But I do want to go fishing.’

‘Well, then,’ Abby said, ‘what we need are a couple of fishing poles, some bait—did you bring any bait, either of you?’

‘Not me,’ Selby said. ‘What is it, this bait business?’

‘Oh, my lord.’ Abby sighed as she pushed her chair away from the table. ‘I am very suspicious, Mr Farnsworth. Sometimes you seem to know everything in the world and sometimes you don’t seem to know anything at all.’

‘Ah. I have had many women tell me that,’ Selby said. ‘It’s a failure in my system some place. Harry, all the fishing gear is out in that hut behind the house. Do you want to go get it?’

The little boy jumped up, wide-eyed, expectant, and went out as fast as his legs could take him.

‘Now, what is all this?’ Abby said. ‘Some sort of condition that you are setting?’

‘Sit down, Abby,’ he said. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about.’

‘I’m not sure there is anything I need to listen from you about.’

‘Abigail, I want to talk to you about Harry.’

‘You want to talk to me about Harry? About how he behaved last night? About how he went off to bed all by himself? How there was not an adult in sight to tuck him in, wish him well, tell him a story? Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?’

‘Lord, I never imagined all that,’ Selby said. ‘And yes, that is partly what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s a difficult thing—a little boy who can’t sleep through the night. Who wakes up crying as he goes around the house looking for—’

‘Looking for what?’ Abby interrupted.

‘Looking for his mother,’ Selby said. ‘I want to thank you for the kindness and consideration you showed last night and I want to thank you for the future kindness I am sure you will show him. I have a troubled little boy and I don’t know everything there is to know about handling him. He was given to his mother by the courts after our divorce five years ago. After a long struggle I’ve finally been given visitation rights. I’ve only a short time to get to know the boy—and I’m desperate. Will you help?’

And with a plea like that, Abby told herself, how could I not?




CHAPTER THREE


ABBY pushed her chair back again and stood up.

‘You don’t have to know anything much about raising children,’ she said. ‘What you have to do is love him and show it. You have to give him some prime-time acceptance. You have to be with him when he needs you. We used to call that “parenting” in the old days. I don’t suppose you know much about that?’

‘Well, that’s true,’ he said. ‘I don’t know much about parenting. That’s all it takes? Love? Kindness?’

‘TLC,’ Abby said. ‘Tender loving care. Well, now. While we’re gone, you might perhaps do the dishes. Wash the pots, clean the sink and generally look over the house. We’ll be back soon.’

‘What a bargainer you are,’ he said, but there was a smile hiding in back of his voice. ‘All this just for a fishing trip?’

‘All this because of a fishing trip,’ she said firmly. ‘Now don’t stand around. Get whistling.’

‘Wait just a darn minute,’ he objected. ‘You are going to walk off with my son to go fishing and have all that fun, and me, I have to just stand around here and imagine what I am supposed to do?’

‘What you imagine? I was under the impression you couldn’t come because of a case you have to finish preparing,’ Abby queried as she started to walk by him. ‘Tender loving care, that’s all you need—oh, and a washcloth to get the dirt off him occasionally.’

‘Hey, wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Tender loving care—does that include—?’

By this time, Abby was all the way past him, and suddenly his long arm came around her, pulled her back until she was facing him.

‘What is it that you want?’ she said, stringing the words out harshly.

‘I want a sample, a bit of instruction,’ he said. There was a guileless look on his face, as if he was the perfectly innocent victim of all the world’s harsh ways.

‘A bit of instruction?’ she asked. ‘What in the world are you talking about? What’s so hard about caring for Harry?’

‘Well, I know the first part,’ he said. ‘I suppose you know the last. It goes like this.’ Both his arms tightened around her, holding her helplessly against him. One of his hands came free and a finger went under her chin, tilting it upwards. He bent further and touched her lips with his, just a gentle touch.

‘Tender loving care,’ he said, almost in a whisper.

‘Yes,’ Abby said, ‘but I—’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘Hang on. I’ll get it right this time.’

He bent to kiss her. The world seemed to fall quiet all around them, as if they were at the dead centre of a hurricane, in the eye. She felt she had complete control of her world, except that nothing was paying any attention to her needs. She thought to scream for help, but she was rolled up in the warm, peaceful sharing of herself. When he finally broke contact all that warmth and peace faded away. She moaned for its recall, without success.

‘Hey, I’ve got a talent for kissing, haven’t I?’ he said cheerfully.

‘I don’t know what you’ve got,’ Abby said, trying to appear angry as she pushed away from him. ‘It may be smallpox, for all I know. But I don’t want to catch any more of it. Goodbye, Mr Farnsworth.’ She stomped out of the kitchen and let the swinging door slam behind her.

Behind her, in the kitchen, Selby Farnsworth stood with a smile on his face. ‘Tender loving care,’ he said to anyone who wanted to listen. He rocked back and forth on his heels for a moment and shoved his hands into his pockets. There was a bemused expression on his face. Something had happened that he hadn’t expected. He was a man with a great deal of experience—with women. But just this quick touching of lips with this




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