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  “I’m in love.”

  The back door slammed coincidentally with Greta’s going perfectly still. “I’ve known you for a long time, Michael, but I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you say that.”

  “Say what?” Pat asked, sauntering in with a six-pack under his arm.

  “Michael’s in love.”

  “Ahhhh. New book idea?”

  Michael smirked. “Not exactly.”

  “No? Gee, it would be interesting. Taking participatory research to its limits.”

  “Pat,” Greta scolded, “he’s serious.”

  “He can’t be serious. He told me once that he’d never fall in love.”

  “I was ten years old at the time,” Michael muttered, more for Greta’s information than in self-defense.

  “And one hell of a ladies’ man even then. But cool. Real cool. Babe, you shoulda seen him.”

  Michael dropped his chin to his chest in an exaggerated gesture of defeat, but he was grinning. “I taught you everything you know, didn’t I, pal?”

  “Welllll, I don’t know if that’s an accurate—”

  “Okay, you two. Pat, give Michael his beer and go sit down. Michael, tell me. Who is she?”

  “She’s a super lady.”

  “No name?”

  “Not yet.” He looked from one to the other of his friends. “I trust you guys completely, but it’s just that, well, she’s very special and very vulnerable and the situation is really awful.”

  Greta could only imagine one really awful situation. “She’s married.”

  “You got it.”

  “Oh, Mike, I’m sorry.”

  Michael snorted. “Not half as sorry as I am.”

  Pat was leaning forward, rolling his beer can between his hands. “How’d you meet her?”

  “Innocently. On the beach. She was just standing there and I went up to her. She looked sad and alone. We started talking. She’s beautiful. I mean, not in the physical sense—well, she is that, too—but from the inside out. She’s gentle and bright. She looks at you and you want to melt because there’s something there that’s afraid and shy but so generous and in need of a friend.” He wore a look of despair. “I swear I was half in love with her even before I saw the damn ring.”

  The room was filled with silence in the aftermath of Michael’s confession. Finally Pat sat back in his seat. “It sounds like you’ve got it bad.”

  “Do you see her often?” Greta asked.

  “No. But every time I do it’s worse.”

  “What’s the state of her marriage?”

  “I think it’s got problems, but I’m really only guessing. Once in a while she lets something slip.”

  “Does she know how you feel?”

  “She knows that I like her, but I doubt she knows the extent of it. At least she hasn’t put a name to it. She’s down on herself right about now and I think the last thing she’d dare guess was that a man she’d just met was in love with her.”

  “How does she feel about you?”

  “Right about now I think she feels confused. She’s so innocent; that’s one of the incredible things, Greta. We’ve just kind of fallen into this thing and she’s so unsuspecting that it goes on and on and we fall deeper and deeper. The excitement is there for both of us when we see each other after being apart. She holds my hand. She lets me hug her. Very innocently. She trusts me as a friend. But I’m afraid, because lately…” He grew quiet, absently rubbing the moisture that had collected on the side of the beer can.

  “Geez, don’t stop now.”

  “Pat, pleeze. What, Mike? What’s happened?”

  He took a swig of beer. “Well, I think she’s beginning to feel physical things that she doesn’t expect or want. It probably frightens her. Hell, it frightens me. And I’m not sure just where it’s going to end.”

  “She’s married. You’d never do anything…” Greta began, only to be silenced by Michael’s pained expression.

  “You both know me as well as anyone does. You know where I’ve come from. You know how I feel about homewreckers. I saw what happened to my mother when Dad took up with Deborah; I’d never want to cause that kind of hurt. But, God, I’ve never seen it from this side before. I mean, if the woman is unhappy and we can give something to each other…”

  “You’re right,” Greta declared, “you are in trouble.”

  “I feel—” he threw a hand in the air, continuing his outpouring of thoughts as though Greta had never spoken “—torn by the whole thing. Oh, not when I’m with her. When we’re together I can’t think of anything but the pleasure I feel, the pleasure she seems to feel. But when she’s gone and I stand back and see the whole situation, it scares the hell out of me. I don’t want to come between her husband and her, but I’m not sure that there’s that much of substance between them. It seems more like a marriage of convenience, which, good soul that she is, she’s trying to make work.”

  “How long has she been married?” Pat asked.

  “Eight years.”

  “Any kids?”

  “No.”

  “Statistically speaking, if there are problems, she’d be ripe for divorce.”

  “Perhaps statistically, but there are other factors at work here. Her family is strong and prominent.”

  Greta groaned.

  Michael shot her a knowing glance. “To make matters worse, her father and mine aren’t exactly admirers.”

  Pat grimaced. “You do pick ’em.”

  “No, Pat. She’s different from any woman I’ve ever known.” He gave a sheepish grin. “I could elaborate, but I’ve already said enough. I’ll be boring you pretty soon.”

  “You won’t bore us,” Greta soothed. “I just wish there were something we could do to help.”

  “There is,” he responded, realizing that the idea was coming only as he spoke but instantly liking it. “You can be her friend.”

  “Will we meet her?”

  “She’ll be here on and off through the summer. I’d like to bring her over one day. She’d enjoy it here.”

  Pat scanned the room. “This place isn’t exactly the natural habitat for people from prominent families.”

  Michael didn’t need to look around. He knew that the two-bedroom house was small, that the furniture was worn, the decor plain. He also knew that neither Greta nor Pat came from prominence, that Pat worked his tail off as a tuna fisherman, that the McCabes would never be wealthy, nor did they want to be. “She’s had the other, and something’s missing. I’m not sure she’s ever been in a home. A real home. That’s what you’ve got here.”

  Greta took a deep breath. “So you want to make a point. Isn’t that playing a little dirty?”

  They were too close friends for Michael to be offended. “I’m not out for points. I just want to see her smile. I want to share something with her. I want her to relax and have fun.”

  “What about her husband?” Pat injected. “Won’t he question where she’s going and why?”

  “He’s a busy man in the city. If his past behavior is any clue, I have a feeling she may be up here alone more often than not.”

  “I feel a little like a conspirator in crime,” Greta moaned.

  “Is it a crime to make someone happy?” Michael asked with such poignancy that neither McCabe could hold out against him.

  “Of course not. And of course you can bring her here.”

  Pat agreed. “Hell, I’m curious to see the woman who’s finally brought you to your knees.”

  “She has done that.” Michael mused, “The question is whether I’ll ever be able to stand again.”

  five

  dANICA CHOSE HER TIME WELL, WAITING FOR A moment when Blake was relaxed and in as good a mood as possible. It came when Marcus was driving them home from a cocktail reception in Concord. The reception, a gathering to honor one of Blake’s prominent friends in the business community, had been successful. Blake was seated beside her in the back of the Mercedes. He had no briefcase with him, no pape
rs to read, and the drive home was going to take a good thirty minutes.

  “Blake?”

  “Hmmm?”

  She knew his mind was elsewhere, but then, she couldn’t ask for miracles. “I’ve been thinking.” He said nothing, so she went on, schooling her tone to one of quiet conviction. “I’ve decided to spend the summer in Maine.”

  She looked over at him, but his expression was hidden by the night. So much the better, she mused. She wanted nothing to rob her of her confidence. And she did feel confident on this matter. She had given it much thought, much thought since their return from Kennebunkport three weeks before.

  “The entire summer?”

  “It makes sense. July and August are always quieter around here. Everyone is away.”

  “I can’t spend the entire summer in Maine. July and August will be hectic for me. The convention’s coming up.”

  If it hadn’t been the convention, she felt sure it would be something else. She had been through summers in Boston before. Blake kept himself occupied, leaving her to wither, to suffer the heat or to frequent the country club. Neither option appealed to her. She would have loved to go to the beach, but Blake disliked public crowds. The same applied to a stroll through the Marketplace, a cruise in the harbor or an evening on the Esplanade.

  When she had pushed for the house in Maine, she had hoped she and Blake would both escape there. His initial reaction to the place, though, hadn’t been promising. And then there’d been this political campaign, which would complicate things all the more. “I haven’t forgotten the convention. And it’s another reason why it’d be silly for me to stay around. You’ll be busy, but what will I do?”

  “There are certain times when I’ll want you with me.”

  She knew about those and had allowed for them. “I’ll drive back whenever you want. And you can come up when you’re free.”

  She held her breath, half expecting him to object. After all, it would mean that they would be separated for the bulk of two months. Deep down inside, she half hoped he’d object. It would be nice to know that he would miss her.

  “Is that what you want?” he asked evenly.

  “It’s not what I want,” she returned, unable to hide her frustration. “What I want is for the two of us to spend the summer there together. But you can’t do that, can you?”

  “You know I can’t.”

  It occurred to her that he did that a lot—said “you know” this or “you know” that—and it annoyed her. It was a way of shifting blame, of evoking guilt, of putting her down. Too often that you-should-know-better tone of his made her feel like a child being chastised, and she resented it.

  “You know, Blake,” she began, purposely copying his tone, “if you really wanted to, you could. Many a man does, particularly one in as secure a position as you.”

  “This summer’s different.”

  “Is it?” She listened to herself and realized that it wasn’t often she spoke up to him. Once started, she couldn’t help herself, though she kept her voice low. “You don’t like it up there, do you?”

  “Of course I do. It’s a lovely place.”

  She knew he was patronizing her. “You were bored the whole time we were there. You were happiest when you were in the den going through papers or talking on the phone.”

  He didn’t deny it and she wondered, as she had so often since their return, what he had thought of their lovemaking that night. He hadn’t touched her since, which wasn’t unusual for him. Nor had he said anything immediately after. He had rolled onto his side of the bed and gone to sleep.

  “I love my work. You should be grateful. If I was bored and frustrated, I’d be impossible to live with.”

  “I sometimes wish that would happen. Maybe then we’d fight at least. It’s so hard to get a rise from you, Blake. Does anything upset you?”

  He gave a dry laugh. “If I let every little thing upset me, I’d never have gotten to where I am today.”

  “Not every little thing. How about one big thing?”

  He seemed to hesitate longer than usual. “Yes, there have been big things that have upset me, but not for long. Nothing’s accomplished by getting upset. You have to think clearly. You have to analyze the facts and your options. You have to make decisions and see them through.”

  “Spoken like the successful businessman you are,” she murmured. In truth, she had been thinking about their relationship when she had asked if anything ever upset him. He had chosen to respond in terms of work. It was typical.

  “Danica,” he sighed, “is something bothering you?”

  “Why would you think that?” Her sarcasm sailed over his head.

  “You sound as though you resent my work.” Still he didn’t raise his voice. She wished she could have attributed that fact to Marcus’s silent presence in the front seat, but she knew better. Marcus was the perfect chauffeur, trained to be blind and deaf as the situation demanded. Besides, it was raining, and the steady patter on the roof served as static to diffuse their low-spoken words. “I’ve worked hard to get where I am. You, of all people, should understand that.”

  There it was again. She gritted her teeth. “Why me, of all people?”

  “You come from a family where achievement is highly prized. Your father has worked hard for years to cement his position.”

  “That’s right. And in doing so, he sacrificed a good many of the finer things in life.”

  “I don’t know about that. It seems to me he has pretty much everything he wants.”

  That, in a nutshell, was what was wrong, Danica realized. It had less to do with William Marshall being satisfied than with Blake Lindsay identifying with the components of that satisfaction. She seemed to be the one marching out of step in the parade.

  “Power,” she sighed in defeat. “He has power.”

  “Isn’t that what it’s all about?”

  Staring at her husband’s smug profile in the darkness, she knew there was no point in continuing the discussion. He didn’t see the way she did; it was as simple as that. Perhaps it was her own fault, she mused. She had married a man so like her father that she was bound to suffer the same frustrations she had known growing up. A psychiatrist would have a field day. On the other hand, it didn’t take a psychiatrist to explain why she’d done it. All her life she had wanted her father’s approval. Marrying Blake and being the perfect corporate wife had fallen within that realm.

  How to cope. That was the issue she faced. In actuality, she followed Blake’s formula to the letter. “You have to think clearly. You have to analyze the facts and your options. You have to make decisions and see them through.”

  The fact was very simply that she was involved in a marriage that gave her little reward or pleasure. The options were also simple, since she couldn’t quite abide by the concept of divorce. The decisions, ah, those were harder to reach.

  She rose to the occasion. First, she realized that she had to accept Blake for both his strengths and his weaknesses. What he lacked on the human side of the scale he made up for as a provider, as a man well-known and respected among his peers.

  Second, she realized that she was, at some point, going to have to look for work. It might take time, both to secure a job that would conform to her life-style and then to garner the courage to confront Blake with her decision, but she was increasingly convinced as each day passed that it was the wisest course open to her.

  Third and finally, she was going to Maine. She had thought it all out. She wanted to be away from the city, away from the emptiness that seemed to characterize her life there. She wanted fresh air, open space, time to herself in a less prescribed environment.

  She had also thought a great deal about Michael, and specifically, her attraction to him. In the weeks since she had seen him, she had put into perspective what she’d felt that day on the beach. She liked him very, very much. He stirred her in ways that might have been wrong if she hadn’t been so committed to her marriage. True, she fantasized about
him, but that was okay. The reading she had done—and she’d done a great deal of it on the subject since that last trip north—had said that fantasizing was normal and, in its way, healthy. Put in its proper place, it could do her no harm.

  Michael knew the facts of her life, that she was married, that she could never offer him more than a friendly hug or companionable hand-holding. God only knew she needed both of those things. Should she deprive herself of a very lovely, very warm, close relationship?

  Her real source of protection, though, came from something that was as yet only the merest suspicion, the faintest hope. She was overdue for her period, and she had always been punctual to the day. If she was pregnant, her problems might be solved. Not that she set great stock in Blake’s attentiveness as a father—nothing he had done in recent years as a husband had warranted such faith. But she would be a mother, and a whole new world would open to her.

  Thus fortified, she headed for Maine on the twenty-third of June. It was a Friday morning. Blake, surprisingly enough, was accompanying her, taking the Mercedes while she drove the Audi so that he could return to Boston the following day. He had said that he wanted to see her settled, and indeed, she had brought along several cartons of things—clothes, a stereo, records, books—so his help was appreciated. He hadn’t even suggested that Marcus do the dirty work; perhaps he had known she would have insisted on doing it herself given that particular choice. Then again, perhaps he felt guilty.

  He was a fine caretaker; she had to say that much. And though she sensed his accompanying her was more a conciliatory gesture than anything else, she couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Ironically, Blake was more satisfied than she had ever seen him in Maine. He patiently helped her unload what she had brought, spent several hours out on the deck with her explaining all he would be doing back home that would keep him from joining her for several weeks at least, took her into Ogunquit for dinner, and was perfectly amiable the whole time. He made no attempt to touch her that night, and she felt no urge for him to do so, but he did kiss her sweetly before he set off the next day, and he did promise to call every few days.