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“Hi, Mike,” said Selena. “How's Connie?”

“Fine,” he answered, “and I have strict orders to bring you home with me. Connie always makes hot buttered rum for everyone on the day of the first snow. Come on, get your coat. The car's right outside.”

Selena turned her eyes away from his. “I can't,” she said. “I've got to get home to Joey. It's snowing.”

“Selena,” said Mike, and his voice was very gentle as he put his hand on her arm, “come with me. It'll be all right. When I saw that it was going to snow, I told Joey to go right to our house from school. He's there now, with Connie and Allison. Come on, Selena. It'll be all right.”

She looked up at him, her eyes darker than ever, dark with remembered fear and horror and pain.

Mike Rossi picked up her coat and helped her into it. There was in his way of doing this something of the bullying gentleness of a nurse with a convalescent patient.

“Come on,” he said. “You're staying for dinner, too. I'll drive you home, afterward, if you want to go.”

Selena's hands fumbled blindly with the buttons on her coat, and as they left the shop she tried the front door carefully before she followed Mike to the car.

Time had been good to Michael Rossi. His shoulders were still broad and straight under the dark cloth of his coat, and, if there was a slight thickening at his waistline, it was only his wife who knew of it and laughed at him in the privacy of their bedroom.

“Is my Greek God getting a little old and paunchy?” Constance teased, and smiled at him in a way she knew he found challenging.

He took her hands and pressed them against him. “Paunchy, eh?” he said, laughing. He smiled into her eyes, returning her challenge.

“Show-off,” she said. “Always strutting around like a bantam rooster.”

Constance broke loose from him and made a dash for the bathroom, but she was not fast enough. He grabbed her again and held her tightly while she struggled, laughing, against him.

“I don't strut,” he said. “Take it back or you'll rue the day.”

“Never, never, never,” cried Constance, and squealed and kicked when he began to tickle her, his hands moving all over her body.

Her struggles loosened the belt of her robe, and he stripped the garment from her.

“Stop it!” Constance yelled. “Stop it at once!” She tried to sound severe but did not succeed.

As Mike kissed her his fingers began to unbutton her pajama coat; then he slowly pushed the coat off her shoulders and she let it slide down her arms and fall to the floor. His hand found the tie of her pajama bottoms, he eased them over her hips until they slithered down around her ankles. Then he lifted her up and out of the crushed circle of pink silk and carried her to the bed.

“You are nothing but a big corny Greek, Mike,” she said, and was surprised to hear how her voice shook. I sound like a frightened bride, she thought.

His lips brushed against her nipples, his mouth caressed her. “And you,” he whispered, “are nothing but a pure and innocent Peyton Place housewife.”

“What are you going to do about it, Mike, an old man like you?” she said, her voice slow and teasing.

“I shall corrupt you,” he said, and when he bent toward her again her body twisted and she flung her arms over her head.

“Ask me for it,” he demanded, his voice harsh.

“Go to hell. I'll never ask you!”

“Yes, you will,” he said, “oh yes, you will.”

“Make me,” she cried. “Make me, darling, make me.” And then, quickly, “Now, darling. Now.”

“Say it, damn you. Say it to me now!”

Constance arched her body and twisted it in the effort to get even closer to him. Her hands clutched him and she threw her head back.

“Say it,” he repeated, his voice low and savage.

The words tore from her throat, anguished, as if they were the last words she would ever utter.

When it was over he held her in the curve of his arm, and she felt protected from the whole world and safe against all its dangers.

“You're never the one to go to sleep first,” she murmured drowsily against his shoulder.

“It's ungentlemanly,” he replied. He stroked her hair and smiled in the dark. “Besides, only old men go to sleep on their women.”

Constance sighed, and just before falling asleep she said, “Everybody knows Greek gods never grow old.”

Mike kissed her gently and thought, There is nothing in life that's better than this, lying beside the woman you love, in your own bed, in your own house.

The house was still the same white, green-shuttered house that it had always been, and, in spite of Mike's marriage to Constance, the townspeople still referred to it as “the MacKenzie Place.”

“Don't let that bother you, darling,” Constance had told Mike. “Long after everyone thought I'd become a MacKenzie, they still called this house ‘the Standish place.' Don't worry. It'll happen. One day, everybody'll say ‘Rossi house.'”

“I should live so long,” said Mike ruefully.

Mike had gone to Leslie Harrington, who knew more about real estate than anyone in Peyton Place.

“Listen, Leslie,” he had asked, “what do you think Connie's house is worth?”

“Connie's house?” asked Harrington. “What the hell are you talking about, Mike. You and Connie and Allison aren't going to leave town, are you?”

“You ought to learn to mind your own business, Leslie,” said Mike. “But if it's any satisfaction to you—no, we aren't about to leave town. Now, how much is Connie's house worth?”

“Well,” Leslie hedged, “real estate values went up with the war and all. But Connie's house, well taken care of as that's always been—let's see. Hm-m, well, I'd say, off-hand, that I'd go eighteen five on it.”

“Jumping Jesus!” roared Mike. “Eighteen thousand five hundred dollars! Where the hell do you think you are? Downtown Dallas?”

Leslie Harrington leaned back and smiled. “Nope,” he said, “but if I was Connie, I'd never take a nickel less.”

Mike had gone back to Constance and said, “Darling, will you please sell me your house for, God help us all, eighteen thousand five hundred dollars?”

“What ever in the world for?” she asked, puzzled.

“Never mind why,” he told her. “Just will you?”

“Yes,” she said.

Mike took every cent he had managed to save and made a down payment on Constance's house. Then he borrowed the rest and finished paying for it. And when everything was done, he held the new deed, with his name on it, in his hand.

“Leslie,” he asked. “Is it my house now?”

Leslie Harrington leaned back and smiled. “Yes, Mike, it is. And Connie got a good price, too, even if I do say it myself.”

“Well, if it's really mine, I want to give it away as a gift,” said Mike.

The chair in which Leslie Harrington had been leaning back fell forward with a thump.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked.

“It's my house,” said Mike, “and I want to give it to Connie for her birthday.”

“Well, of all the goddamned foolishness I've ever heard of,” roared Leslie, “this beats it all. You didn't have to buy the goddamned thing. We could have changed the deed to read so that your name was on it. You didn't have to go through all this nonsense.”

“It wouldn't be the same,” said Mike.

So it was done, and Mike brought the new deed home to his wife and it read:
KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS
, That I, Michael Rossi of Peyton Place, State of New Hampshire, for the sum of one dollar and other good and valuable considerations to me in hand paid by Constance Standish MacKenzie Rossi of Peyton Place, State of New Hampshire, do hereby give, grant and convey to her, her heirs, successors and assigns forever, in fee simple, absolute, all that certain tract of land, with the buildings and improvements thereon, situate in Peyton Place, State of New Hampshire.

Constance burst into tears. “You nut,” she wept. “You didn't have to go through all that nonsense.”

But her tears were tears of pride and happiness, and she held her husband very tightly.

“Thank you, darling. Thank you.”

“Well,” said Mike and grinned down at her, “it's nothing to cry about. Listen, do you think people will start calling this the Rossi Place now?”

Constance went to the sideboard and fixed a drink for her husband.

“Nope,” she said cheerfully, “they won't. Not for a while.”

She took a sip from his glass before she handed it to him.

“But I'll know, darling,” she said. “I'll call it the Rossi Place for the rest of my life.”

And now Mike's car drew up to the house he had bought from his wife and given to his wife. He looked at it with proprietary eyes. It had never seemed to him his own until he had given it to Constance. What made it his was that he had earned the right to give it away.

“Here we are,” Mike said, and Selena's head jerked around, her eyes frightened and startled. His voice had brought her back to the reality of Peyton Place. In her thoughts she had been worlds away. Only daydreams now could protect her from the horrors of memory.

She walked up the path in front of the MacKenzie Place and the front door opened quickly, revealing Allison's delighted smile.

“Selena!” cried Allison MacKenzie. “For Heaven's sake, we've been waiting and waiting for you to get here. Hi, Mike.” Allison put up her cheek to be kissed. “Did you bring the milk?”

“Yes, my darling daughter,” said Mike and slapped Allison on the behind. “Now everybody inside. It's cold and it's gonna snow, sure'n hell.”

“Hello, darling,” said Constance, and came to put her arms around her husband and then Selena. “Come on in. Shut the door. Listen, I've got the most divine brew brewing. If you have just one cup of it, you can't possibly catch cold. It's my own secret potion, handed down to me from my great-great-grandmother, who was a witch. Guaranteed protection against head colds and malignant spirits.” She put her hand on Selena's arm.

Selena Cross looked across the room to where her brother, Joey, sat waiting for her. The living room was bright and warm. The blaze from the fireplace cast warm dancing shadows on everything.

“Come and sit down, Selena,” said Constance.

Selena stood in the doorway of the living room, and Joey stood up.

“Hi, Joey,” she said.

“Hi, S'lena,” said Joey. “It's snowing.”

“Yes, Joey,” said Selena. “It's snowing.”

There was a little pause, and neither Mike, Constance nor Allison then could find anything to say. Selena's presence had, for a moment, brought the darkness of unhappiness into that light, gay room. They shared her pain, they stood around her like bodyguards fearful of assassins. They could think of nothing to say that would release Selena from the strain of memory and the pain of loss. Finally, Mike broke the tension.

“Good weather for a hot buttered rum,” he said. “And, as for you, Joey, I've got a dozen Cokes with your name written all over them.”

Selena held Allison's hand, and finally she sat heavily and gratefully on a chair by the fire.

Thank you, she cried inside herself. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for still loving me. You are the only people who care.

It was not the kind of love she wanted most, but it was better than nothing.

I
T WAS A LITTLE
after eleven o'clock that same night when Mike Rossi stopped his car in front of the Cross house, and Selena and Joey got out.

“I'll come in with you, Selena,” said Mike. “I'll help Joey to get a fire going.”

Selena stopped him with a gesture of her hand. “No, thanks, Mike,” she said. “We'll manage. Thanks anyway.”

Mike did not insist. “All right, then.”

“Run up ahead and turn on some lights, Joey,” said Selena, and when her brother had gone she turned back to Mike. “Good night,” she said. “And thank Connie for me again. It was kind of her to have us. Tell her it'll be my turn next time.”

“Anytime, Selena,” said Mike. “You know that. Good night.”

Selena waited until he had turned his car around and headed for his own house before she walked up the path to her front door.

“I started a fire,” said Joey.

“We'll have some hot chocolate,” said Selena.

“And a game of checkers, Selena.”

“It's too late, Joey. School tomorrow.”

“Not if the snow keeps up all night.”

“All right,” Selena said, relenting, and went toward the kitchen. “I'll be right with you.”

Would it be better if we talked about it? Selena wondered as she heated milk. But what words did one say to alleviate a horror-filled memory?

The first time it had snowed after Lucas Cross's death, Selena had not realized, at first, what was happening to her. It had been late afternoon, she remembered, when it started. It had begun as it did today, with the first snowflake flattening itself against the front window of the store. Selena had watched it and suddenly she had been filled with an unreasoning, all-consuming panic. She had run to the telephone and called Constance Rossi.

“I'm closing the store early,” she told Constance, unable to keep her voice from trembling.

“Selena! What is it? Are you ill? I'll be right there.”

“No. No, please, Mrs. MacKenzie,” cried Selena. “It's just that it's snowing and I have to get home to Joey.”

“Quick, Mike,” Constance said to her husband. “Get the car. We've got to go to Selena.”

“What's happened?” asked Mike.

“I don't know,” said Constance. “But Selena sounded hysterical, and she called me Mrs. MacKenzie. She said she had to hurry home to Joey because it's snowing.”

But when Constance and Mike Rossi arrived at the Thrifty Corner, the shop was in darkness.

“Oh, darling,” cried Constance. “Please hurry.”

The car skidded on the new-fallen snow as Mike wrenched the wheel and headed for Selena Cross's house.