Chill Factor (10 page)

"Then accept my apology for them."

"Trust me, it's not that important. But I wondered," he began,
then
hesitated.

"What?"

"I wondered if… if the reason for him avoiding me
was that you might
have mentioned me to him."

She ducked her head. "No. That is, not until yesterday."

He said nothing in response to that, so after a long moment,
it was
left to her to fill the ponderous silence. "I was surprised to see you
in town. Haven't you run out of things around here to write about?"

"It's not subject matter that's bringing me back, Lilly."

The bait he'd thrown out was dangerous but enticing and
impossible
to resist. She raised her head and looked across at him. He said, "I
sold an article about our day on the river."

"I know. I read it."

"Yeah?" he asked, obviously pleased.

She nodded. "That water sports magazine and mine have the same
publisher, so I receive complimentary copies. I was thumbing through an
issue and spotted your byline." Actually, she'd been perusing that and
similar magazines for months, wondering if he'd written and sold an
article about the kayaking excursion.

"It was great writing, Tierney."

"Thanks."

"Truthfully. Your descriptions were vivid. They captured the
excitement we experienced. Catchy title, too. 'The Tempestuous French
Broad.' "

He grinned. "I thought that would grab those not in the know.
You
had to read the article to learn that's the name of the river."

"It was a good piece."

"It was a good day," he came back in a low and stirring voice.

Early June, last summer. They'd been two of a dozen people
who'd
signed up for a daylong white-water kayaking excursion. They'd met on
the bus that transported the group several miles up-river, where they
put in for the wild ride through several Class Three and Class Four
rapids.

Equally skilled, they'd fallen into a natural comradery,
especially
after discovering that their careers were, as Tierney had put it,
"kissing cousins." He was a freelance writer who sold articles to
magazines; she was a magazine editor.

When the group put ashore for lunch, they separated from the
others
and sat together on a large boulder that was cantilevered over the
rushing water below.

"You're editor in chief?" he exclaimed when she told him the po
sition
she held.

"Going on three years now."

"I'm impressed. That's a slick publication."

"It started out as a magazine for the southern woman. We now
have
national distribution, and the numbers are increasing with each issue."

Smart
contained features on home
decorating, fashion, food,
and travel. Its target reader was the woman who combined home-making
with a career, who wanted it all and made it happen. An article might
be about how to convert carry-out dinners into gourmet delights simply
by adding a few spices from the kitchen pantry and serving the meal on
good china, or a preview of shoe trends for the upcoming season.

"We certainly don't exclude stay-at-home moms from our
readership,"
she'd explained, "but our focus is on the woman who wants to succeed in
the office, plan the perfect family vacation, and host fabulous dinner
parties she can throw together at a moment's notice."

"Is that possible?"

"You'll find out how in the July issue."

Laughing, he had toasted her success with his water bottle.
The sun
was warm and the conversation relaxed. They developed an easy
I-like-the-looks-and-sound-of-you rapport. As much fun as they'd had in
the river before lunch, they were a bit reluctant to resume when the
guide announced an end to the lunch break.

Throughout the afternoon, they chatted when they could,
although
they were forced to concentrate on the challenge of the sport. But they
were constantly aware of each other. They communicated with hand
signals and smiles. Their admiration for each other's skill allowed for
good-natured teasing when one or the other went belly-up.

He shared his sunblock cream when she discovered she'd come
away
without any. But he also shared it with two college girls who flirted
with him shamelessly and strove all day to attract his attention.

When they put in at the area where they'd left their cars that
morning, Lilly went her way
,
he went his.
But after
stowing his gear in his Cherokee, he jogged over to her. "Where are you
staying?"

"Cleary. I'm there most weekends during the summer. I have a
cabin."

"Nice."

"Yes, it is."

The college girls pulled their open Jeep even with them. "See
ya
later, Tierney," the driver said.

"Uh, yeah, sure."

"You remember the name of the place?" the other asked from the
passenger seat.

He tapped his forehead. "Committed to memory."

Ignoring Lilly but grinning conspiratorially at him, they
drove
away, raising a cloud of dust.

As he waved them off, he shook his head. "Party girls, begging
for
trouble." Then he turned back to Lilly and smiled. "It hurts my manly
pride to admit it, but you bested me with your rodeo moves coming
through that last Class Four."

She gave a mock curtsy. "Thank you very much. Coming from
someone as
skilled as you, that's a real compliment."

"The least I can do is buy you a congratulatory drink. Can we
meet
somewhere?"

She nodded toward the wake of dust created by the girls' Jeep.
"I
thought you had plans."

"I do," he said. "I plan to see you."

Her smile faltered. She got busy searching for her car keys.
"Thank
you, Tierney, but I have to decline."

"Oh. What about tomorrow night?"

"I'm sorry, I can't." She took a deep breath and looked up at
him.
"My husband and I have a dinner engagement."

His smile didn't falter, it collapsed. "You're married." He
said it
as a statement, not a question.

She nodded.

He glanced down at her empty ring finger. His expression, a
combination of bewilderment and disappointment, spoke volumes.

And then for the longest time they simply stared at each other
bleakly, saying nothing, communicating only with their eyes while the
fading sun coming through the trees cast dappled shadows over their
unhappy faces.

Eventually, she extended her right hand. "It was wonderful
meeting
you, Tierney."

He shook her hand. "Same here."

"I'll watch for your articles," she said as she got into her
car.

"Lilly—"

"Good-bye. Be safe." She closed her car door quickly and drove
away
before he could say anything more.

That was the last time they'd had any contact until yesterday,
when
she spotted him across Main Street in downtown Cleary. Dutch bumped
into her as she came to a sudden halt on the sidewalk. "What are you
looking at?"

Tierney was just about to climb into his Cherokee when he
happened
to glance her way. He did a double take. They made eye contact, and it
held.

"Ben Tierney," she said, replying absently to Dutch's
question. Or
perhaps she was just speaking aloud a name that for the past eight
months had never been far from her mind.

Dutch followed her gaze across opposing lanes of traffic and
the
median in between. Tierney was still standing there, half in, half out
of his car, looking at her as though waiting for a signal as to what he
should do.

"You know that guy?" Dutch asked.

"I met him last summer. Remember the day I kayaked the French
Broad?
He was in the group."

Dutch pushed open the door to the attorney's office where they
had
an appointment to sign the closing papers on the sale of the cabin.
"We're late," he said and ushered her inside.

When they left the office a half hour later, she found herself
looking up and down Main Street for the black Cherokee. She would have
liked to say hello at least, but there was no sign of Tierney or his
car. But now, when he was sitting four feet from her, she found it
difficult to look at him and was at a loss over what to say.

Feeling his gaze on her, she looked across at him. He said,
"After
that day on the river, I called your office in
Atlanta
several times."

"Your articles wouldn't be for my readership."

"I wasn't calling to peddle an article."

She averted her head and looked into the empty fireplace.
She'd
swept the ash out of it that morning, which seemed now like a very long
time ago. Softly she said, "I knew why you were
calling.
That's why I couldn't take your
calls.
For the same
reason I couldn't meet you for a drink after our kayaking trip. I was
married."

He stood up, went around the coffee table, and joined her on
the
sofa, sitting close and forcing her to look at him. "You're not married
now."

William Ritt smiled up at his sister as she cleared away iris
plate.
"Thank you, Marilee. The stew was
excellent
.
"

"I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"I've been thinking about running a daily special on the lunch
menu.
Something different for each day of the week. Wednesday meat loaf.
Friday crab cakes. Would you agree to sharing your stew recipe with
Linda?"

"It's Mother's recipe."

"Oh. Well, she's past caring if you share it, isn't she?"

To anyone else's ears the words would have sounded harsh, but
Marilee knew the reason for William's insensitivity and couldn't fault
him for it. Their parents were deceased, but neither was missed
.
One had been completely indifferent, the other unconscionably selfish.
To them, treating their offspring with love and affection had been an
alien concept.

Their father had been a stern and taciturn man. A mechanic by
trade,
he would get up before dawn every morning and make the trip down the
mountain into town to the automotive shop where he worked. He returned
home in time for dinner, which he ate methodically. He grumbled answers
to direct questions but otherwise had nothing to say that wasn't a
criticism or a reprimand. After dinner he took a bath, then retired to
his bedroom, closing the door behind him, shutting out his family.

Marilee had never seen him derive pleasure from anything
except the
vegetable garden he cultivated each summer. It was his pride and joy.
She was seven years old when her father caught her pet rabbit nibbling
at a cabbage plant. He'd wrung its neck right in front of her and made
her mother fry it for their supper. Marilee considered it poetic
justice when he dropped dead of a heart attack while hoeing a row of
onions.

Their mother had been a complainer and a hypochondriac who
referred
to her husband as an uncouth hillbilly behind his back. For forty years
she made sure everyone knew that she'd married far beneath her. Her
misery was the focus of her life, to the exclusion of all else.

When failing health made her practically bedridden, Marilee
took a
semester's leave of absence from Cleary High School to tend to her. One
morning when Marilee tried to awaken her, she discovered that her
mother had died in her sleep. Later, while the minister consoled her
with platitudes, Marilee's only thought was that a woman as embittered
and self-absorbed as her mother hadn't deserved such a peaceful
departure.

The two children of these emotionally disabled people had
learned
early in life to be self-sufficient. Their family home had been on the
far side of Cleary Peak, away from town, isolated from neighborhoods
where children played together. Their parents had been lacking in
social skills, so neither she nor William had been taught them. The
ways and means of how people interacted had been awkwardly acquired in
public school.

William was a good student who'd applied himself to
scholastics. His
efforts were rewarded with excellent report cards and prizes for
achievement. He tried to make friends with the same kind of
determination, but his overzealous attempts usually had the opposite
result.

Marilee had found the nurturing that was missing from her own
life
in the pages of books. William, being several years older, was the
first to learn to read. She prevailed upon him to teach her, and by the
time she was five years old she was reading literature that would
challenge some adults.

With the exception, of the years they were at college, she and
William had lived in the same house all their lives. After their mother
died, he decided it was time they move into town. It would never have
occurred to him that Marilee might have plans of her own. Nor did it
occur to her to live independently of him. Actually, she'd been
thrilled at the prospect of leaving the ugly, sad dwelling on the
mountain that evoked so many unhappy memories.

They bought a small, neat house on a quiet street. She made it
into
a comfortable home, full of color and light and potted plants, which
had been missing in the house of her upbringing.

But after the last curtain was hung and the last room
arranged,
she'd looked around and realized that nothing except her surroundings
had changed. Her life hadn't taken an exciting, new direction. Her rut
was prettier and better furnished, but it was still a rut.

As for the family homestead on the mountain, she would have
sold it,
or let it rot until the wilderness claimed it. But William had other
ideas.

"The storm is going to suspend your work on the house for a
while,"
she remarked now as she wiped the dining table with a damp cloth,
sweeping cornbread crumbs off the edge into the palm of her hand.

From behind his newspaper he said, "True. It may be days
before
anyone is able to navigate the main road. The back road up to our place
will take even longer to clear."

The back road to which he referred snaked up the west side of
the
mountain, which was always the colder, the darker, and the last to show
signs of spring. "As soon as the road reopens, I'd like you to take me
up there," she said. "I want to see what you've done with the place."