Snowflakes on the Sea (7 page)

“
Talk
to the man, Mallory. Make him listen, even if you have to throw a screaming fit or insult his band to do it!”

It was the only sensible course of action, and Mallory knew it. Too many times, all during her marriage to Nathan, she had stepped aside when other demands were made on him, however intrusive and unreasonable, content to wait her turn. A hot blush of anger crept up from her collarbone into her cheeks, and she drew a deep breath.

Her turn had come.

“I see I’ve gotten through,” Pat said, rising purposefully from her chair. “He’s over at the other house, I assume?”

Mallory nodded, the high color of outrage still pounding in her cheeks.

Pat collected her coat and scarf from the hall closet and came back into the kitchen. “I’ll spend the night over there, since I can’t quite face fighting my way through downtown Seattle tonight. And you, Mrs. McKendrick—you get Nathan on the phone and tell him to get over here, in no uncertain terms!”

Mallory felt some of her determination drain away. Nobody
told
Nathan McKendrick to do anything, and Pat knew it as well as she did. “But if he’s busy—” she wavered, hating herself all the while.
Busy doing what?
taunted a voice in her mind.
Holding Diane’s trembling hand? Soaking in the hot tub?

Pat pressed her lips together in undisguised annoyance. “Stop with the peasantlike awe, will you, Mallory?” she snapped. “Nathan is a man, not a god. It’s high time he turned some of his energy into his marriage, and if you don’t tell him that, I will!”

Mallory bit her lower lip, but she was already making her way to the telephone when Pat left the house. Her hands trembled a little as she dialed the number that would connect her with her husband.

One of the band members answered in a lazy drawl. “Yeah?”

“This is Mallory,” Mrs. McKendrick said bravely. “I would like to speak to Nathan, please.”

“Oh—Nate. Yeah. Well, he’s not around right now.”

Mallory felt a growing uneasiness quiver in the pit of her stomach. “Where is he?” she asked stiffly.

There was a long, discomforting pause. “Diane was freaking out, so he took her back to Seattle.”

Mallory drew a deep breath and let her forehead rest against the kitchen wall. “What do you mean, ‘Diane was freaking out’?”

“I don’t know—like, she was just losing it, you know? Really coming undone.”

“There must have been a reason,” Mallory insisted.

Another pause. “Like, I’ll have Nate call you when he gets back, all right?”

“Don’t bother,” Mallory snapped. And then, without pausing to give the matter further thought, she left the telephone receiver dangling, strode into the bedroom and began flinging the few things she’d unpacked back into her suitcases.

Twenty minutes later, with Cinnamon sitting happily in the back seat, Mallory drove her sleek black-and-white Mazda onto the passenger ferry that would carry her back to Seattle.

The huge vessel, capable of transporting both pedestrians and motorists, had always reminded Mallory of an old-time riverboat, with its railed decks and dozens of windows. Normally she loved to stand on the highest deck, watching the magnificent scenery pass and feeding chunks of snack-bar cinnamon rolls to the gulls, but today it was bitterly cold and she didn’t even bother to get out of the car and climb the metal stairs leading to the lower deck. She simply sat behind the wheel, Cinnamon patient behind her, and stared beyond the other cars parked in the bowels of the craft to the water ahead.

The snow was still falling, and Mallory watched in aching silence as the huge, intricate flakes, so beautiful and perfect, came down to the salty waters of Puget Sound and were dissolved. The snowflakes, like the love she and Nathan shared, were at once breathtakingly beautiful and temporal.

Mallory lowered her head to the steering wheel, and she didn’t lift it again until the great horn sounded, announcing that Seattle was just ahead. When the ferry docked, Mallory collected her scattered emotions and concentrated on the task of driving. Navigating in the storm-plagued city would require all her attention.

Pat had certainly been right about the traffic conditions, and the next half hour was harrowing. Mallory was pale with exhaustion when she finally drew the small car to a halt in front of the expensive apartment complex in the city’s heart and climbed from behind the wheel.

The doorman, George Roberts, rushed toward her. “Ms. O’Connor! I thought you were on the island—”

With an effort, Mallory returned the man’s warm smile. She saw no need, the way things stood, to correct his use of her name. “Is Mr. McKendrick at home?” she asked, hoping that the vast importance of the matter didn’t show in her face.

George shook his head, and wisps of powdery snow flew from the brim of his impeccable visored hat and shimmered on the gold epaulets stitched to the shoulders of his coat. “No, ma’am, he isn’t,” he answered, stealing an unreadable look at Cinnamon, who was whining to be let out of the car.

Mallory turned her head to take one more look at the busy, storm-shrouded Sound.
Snowflakes on the sea,
she thought, aching inside.

M
allory hooked Cinnamon’s leash to her collar and flipped the seat forward so that the dog could leap out onto the paved driveway and wriggle in the joy of sudden freedom. “If you would?” she said to George, indicating the car.

George Roberts nodded, smiling. “I’ll have it parked for you, Ms. O’Connor. Is there any luggage?”

Mallory was already leading a delighted Cinnamon toward the well-lighted, posh lobby of the building. “There is,” she called over one shoulder. “But please don’t worry about it now. I’ll get it in the morning.”

No one inside the building looked askance at Mallory and her canine companion, and no comments were made during the elevator ride either, though there were a surprising number of people crowded inside. Mallory liked to think that they were being kind—pets other than birds or tropical fish were strictly forbidden by general agreement—but she knew the real reason was simply deference to Nathan. After all, he owned the building.

On the top floor, Mallory fumbled with the keys for several seconds, her hands numbed by the cold outside, and then managed to open the double doors leading into the penthouse. She paused in the lighted, marble-floored entryway, her eyes rising to the polished antique grandfather clock opposite the door. It was still very early—what was she going to do with the rest of the evening?

Mallory sighed as Cinnamon whimpered beside her; in her turmoil she’d forgotten how very inconvenient the high-rise apartment building would be for the poor creature, who was used to roaming the island at will. With glum resignation, Mallory locked the penthouse again and pushed the button that would summon one of the two elevators serving the building.

The doorman raised a curious eyebrow when Mallory and Cinnamon stepped out into the snowy night so soon after going in. But he said nothing.

Mallory walked Cinnamon until she could bear the stinging cold no longer, and then went home again. After feeding the dog two cans of liver pâfaté in the enormous kitchen, Mrs. Nathan McKendrick marched down the hallway to the plush master bedroom and began shedding her clothes.

Looking up at the huge skylight over the bed, at the shifting lace of glistening snow, Mallory felt tears smarting in her eyes. How many times had she and Nathan made love in this bed, with the sky stretched out above them like a beautiful mural? She swallowed hard, tossed back the covers of the oversize round bed and crawled between icy satin sheets. Cinnamon settled companionably at her feet with a canine sigh, her nose resting on her red, shaggy paws, her great weight causing the mattress to slope slightly.

In spite of everything, Mallory laughed. “You lead a tough life, dog,” she said, reaching out to switch off the lamp beside the bed. “Sorry we were out of caviar, but such is life.”

Cinnamon made a contented sound and went to sleep.

Mallory, however, spent several hellish hours just staring up at the moving patterns of eiderdown snow on the skylight. She’d been wrong to leave the island without a word to anyone; she knew that now and guessed that she’d known it all along.

The thing was, she just hadn’t been able to face another night of waiting for Nathan.

So what do you call this?
she asked herself ruthlessly.
Aren’t you waiting, even now, for him to call or show up? Preferably with some convincing reason for leaving the island with Diane and not even bothering to let you know first?

Mallory turned restlessly onto her side. Why should she have left word for him? Hadn’t he been equally thoughtless?

Her stomach twisted into a painful knot. It was possible that Nathan wouldn’t even know she was gone for hours yet, and that was the hardest thing of all to bear.

She buried her face in the smoothness of her pillow and cried until her throat was raw. Then, fitfully, she slept.

Nathan glanced at the clock on the Porsche’s dashboard and grimaced. Damn, it was late.

Diane flung a petulant, sidelong look in his direction as he guided the car down the ferry ramp and into the still-crazy Seattle traffic. Her face was pale and pinched with residual shock, and her hands were clasped, motionless, in her lap.

High drama,
Nathan thought bitterly.
God, she should have been an actress.

“This is all a bad dream,” she said in a stricken, whispery voice.

Nathan shifted gears and reminded himself that she’d had a hard night. She’d been so upset by his decision that he’d taken her from the island to Tacoma, where her parents lived, thinking that she needed to be close to someone who cared about her. But her parents had been away, and they’d missed the connecting ferry to Seattle finding that out.

He sighed. “Listen, Diane—I’m sorry you had to hear the news from the guys in the band. I really am—”

Diane drew in an audible breath calculated to inspire guilt and lifted her chin in theatrical acceptance of a cruel fate. “One way or the other, we’re all fired. I don’t see what it matters that I heard it from them and not you.”

Nathan had no answer for that; he concentrated on the road ahead. The traffic lights were mere splotches of red or amber or green, dimly visible in the swirling snow, and the tires of the Porsche weren’t gripping the pavement all that well.

“You’re doing this for Mallory, aren’t you, Nathan?” Diane demanded, after some moments of silence.

Nathan stiffened but didn’t look away from the traffic. “Mallory is my wife,” he replied flatly.

Diane made a disdainful sound. “Wife! Good Lord, Nathan, you’re insane to give up your career for
her!
”

Nathan tossed one scathing look in Diane’s direction. “Watch it.”

She subsided a little. “Why? Nathan, just tell me why. If she loved you, she—”

“I’m tired, Diane,” he broke in, and his tones proved it. “I’ve got more money than I can spend in a lifetime, and I’ve done everything I set out to do, musically, at least. Now I intend to straighten out my marriage.”

“You have no marriage!” Diane cried in a hoarse, contemptuous whisper. “You and Mallory are a joke!”

Nathan’s fingers tightened dangerously on the leather-covered steering wheel, but he maintained control. “Your opinion of my marriage couldn’t matter less to me, Diane.”

There was still a tinge of hysteria in her tone when she spoke again. “So you’re doing the farewell concert here, and that’s it? No television specials, no tours, no records?”

“I’ll record, and I suppose I’ll write songs, too. But I’m through chasing fans all over the world.”

“How do you plan to make records without a band?” Diane demanded, her voice rising.

Nathan sighed. “If the guys are available, we’ll work together.” He looked again at Diane and saw exactly what he’d feared he would—hope. Why couldn’t she just find another job and let the thing drop? She was a gifted press agent, and she wouldn’t be out of work long. Although Nathan had always disliked her on a personal basis, her recommendation would be a good one.

“Then I could keep doing your press work—”

“No.”

Diane seethed in electric silence as Nathan guided the car up a slight hill into the residential section where her sister lived. Because Diane’s work kept her in Los Angeles most of the time, she didn’t need a permanent place in Seattle.

When he drew the Porsche to a stop in front of her building, he faced her. “Good night, Diane. And I’m sorry.”

Diane’s lower lip trembled, and she tossed her magnificent head of hair in a kind of broken defiance. The motion filled the chilly interior of the car with the flowery, somewhat cloying scent of her perfume. “Not half as sorry as you’re going to be, Nathan McKendrick,” she vowed.

Nathan rested his head against the back of the car seat, sighed and glowered up at the leather upholstery in the roof. “What is that supposed to mean, pray tell?”

There was a note of relished power in her tone. “I built you up, Nathan. I can tear you down.”

“How melodramatic,” he retorted in sardonic tones. “For all the world like a scorned lover.”

Diane wrenched open the car door and scrambled out to stand, trembling, on the snowy sidewalk. Her eyes glittered, scalding Nathan in blue fire. “How long do you think that naive little wife of yours will last under a full-scale press attack, darling?”

An explosive rage consumed Nathan’s spirit, and his jaw tightened until it ached. Still, he managed to keep his hands on the steering wheel and his voice even. “If you do anything to hurt Mallory, Diane—
anything
—you’ll spend the rest of your shallow little life regretting it.”

Diane smiled viciously. “Or savoring it. Good night, handsome.”

Wondering why he hadn’t fired Diane years ago, Nathan watched until she had disappeared inside her sister’s apartment building. Then another glance at the dashboard clock made him groan. Why the hell hadn’t he called Mallory before leaving the island? God knew what she was thinking by now.

Turning the Porsche back toward the waterfront in a wide, deft sweep, he swore under his breath. He could stop and call now, however after-the-fact the gesture might be. But Mallory was probably asleep. No, he would just get back to the island as soon as he could and they would talk in the morning.

Seething, Diane Vincent unlocked her sister’s front door and stormed into the apartment, not even bothering to turn on a light. In the room Claire kept just for her, she flung down her purse, wrenched off her coat and angrily punched out a familiar number on the telephone beside the bed.

“I know it’s late!” she seethed, when the recipient of her call grumbled about the time. “Did you find someone?”

The affirmative answer made Diane smile. Without even saying goodbye, she hung up.

Cinnamon awakened Mallory early the next morning, bounding up and down the length of the big bed and occasionally plunging an icy nose into her mistress’s face.

Grumbling, Mallory crawled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. It was as large as the living room in the island house with its garden tub, hanging plants, cushioned chairs and gleaming counters.

After a quick shower, Mallory dressed in gray wool slacks, a red turtleneck sweater and boots. Two more cans of pâfaté were sacrificed to Cinnamon’s hearty appetite, and then it was time for another walk.

The telephone on the hallway table rang as they were going out, but Mallory didn’t answer. In fact, she didn’t even look back. But a half an hour later, with Cinnamon’s morning walk accomplished, Mallory found herself at loose ends. Still shivering from the bite of the winter wind, she choked down one slice of whole wheat toast and a cup of tea.

After that, she went into the study, a spacious room equipped with two glass desks that faced each other, and flipped on the television set. “Tender Days, Savage Nights” was on, and she watched herself steal a diamond bracelet and the heroine’s husband, all in the space of an hour.

And then Cinnamon was hungry again. She stood by, watching, as the beast happily consumed two cans of imported lobster.

“This will never do, you know,” she informed the Setter as she poured scalding water over the dish the dog had eaten from and placed it inside the dishwasher. “So don’t expect gourmet fare. From here on out, it’s good old canned dog food, all the way.”

Cinnamon whimpered and tilted her beautiful red-gold head to one side, as if to protest this projected change in the menu.

Mallory reached down to pet the dog and sighed. She’d kept all thoughts of Nathan carefully at bay, but now they were suddenly streaming into her mind and heart like some intangible river.

She wandered into the mammoth living room, with its massive ivory fireplace and thick silver-gray carpeting. Snow drifted past the slightly rounded floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Seattle’s beleaguered downtown area and the waterfront.

Her thoughts spanned the angry waters to the small island, invisible in the fury of the day. Surely Nathan was there, angry but safe—

The shrill jingle of the telephone made Mallory start. She steeled herself. This time, she would have to answer it.

The walk to the telephone table beside Nathan’s favorite chair seemed inordinately long.

“Hello?” she ventured, turning the cord nervously in her fingers.

“Hi, babe,” Brad Ranner greeted her, his voice full of pleased surprise. “How long have you been back in the big city?”

Mallory swallowed, sank onto the sturdy suede-upholstered arm of Nathan’s chair. “Since last night. Why?”

“Mallory, haven’t you heard? There isn’t any phone service to the island, and the ferries aren’t running, either. I called on the off chance that you might have come back to town earlier than you planned.”

Mallory felt a swift stab of alarm. Except during labor strikes, the ferries
always
ran.

Brad seemed to sense her agitation. “Relax,” he said. “You’re back in civilization yourself. That’s what counts.”

His insensitive comments taxed Mallory’s strained patience. “Brad, I have a number of friends on that island, and I think Nathan is there, too. What if someone is sick or—or—”

Brad’s tone was soothing. “Honey, take it easy. The Coast Guard will check things out. You know that.”

Mallory did know, and she was comforted. Besides, the islanders were independent sorts, and they would look after one another. “How are things on the set?” she asked in order to change the subject.

“Everybody is excited. Mall, I have
great
news. That’s one of the reasons I called. I’d like to tell you in person, though. Is it all right if I brave the treacherous roadways and drop in?”

Mallory closed her eyes for a moment, summoning up her courage. “Brad, about the show—I—”

“We’ll talk when I get there,” Brad broke in cheerfully. And then, before she could say a word in response, he hung up.

Will we ever,
Mallory thought, one hand still resting on the telephone receiver.
And you’re not going to like my end of the conversation at all.

Two minutes later, Mallory was in the bathroom, applying makeup. No sense in greeting Brad with her wan, tired face and having to endure the inevitable you-haven’t-been-taking-care-of-yourself lecture.