Ammie, Come Home by Barbara Michaels

will come back here and wait for Sara. When do you expect her home?”
    â€œFive, or thereabouts. But Pat—”
    â€œI want to talk to her,” Pat said quietly. “That’s all, just talk. Maybe then we can determine whether she needs a neurologist or a psychiatrist or a gynecologist, or just a good swift kick in the pants.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œTheorizing without sufficient data is the most futile of all occupations, Ruth. Wasn’t it Sherlock Holmes who said that? It applies to practically everything in life. Now go up and get some clothes on.”
    Ruth went. After her hysterical plea for help, she could hardly refuse to follow his advice. She wondered, as she dressed, what weird combination of motives had prompted her to call him instead of the family doctor. Some of them were reasonably obvious. Others….
    She examined the image in her mirror. It looked abnormally normal, all things considered; trim and tailored in a powder-blue suit, silvery hair serene; carefully applied makeup had even diminished the bruise around her eye.
    Others…. Her uncontrolled thoughts ran on. Other motives might be in doubt. But one was clear. She had instinctively summoned Pat because he was an expert on the subject that haunted her—literally and terribly. Despite what seemed to her a series of betraying admissions, he had not sensed her true fears—because, she thought bitterly, no sane person would ever conceive of such things. He believed that she had called out to him because she needed him, not as a professional, but as a man.
    Â 
    IV
    The sunset was splendidly ominous—indigo and purple clouds rimmed with gold against a pale, clear green sky. The leafless branches of the big oak stood out black against the glory; their complex patterns had an austere mathematical beauty.
    Ruth had reached the stage of irrational nervousness when the slightest phenomenon seems prophetic. When the wineglass, one of an old, cherished set, slipped from her hand and shattered musically on the coffee table, she bit her lip so hard that it bled.
    Pat bent to collect the pieces. Then they heard the front door open.
    Sara was—Sara. But she was not alone. Ruth recognized Bruce’s affected speech with mingled exasperation and relief. One could hardly speak candidly to the girl in his presence. On the other hand, it was good to know that Bruce had been with her. Especially with night drawing in.
    Now why, she wondered, did I think of that?
    Pat’s greeting to Sara was, on the surface, casual and without innuendoes. Sherry was offered and accepted; the two young people sat down; Bruce suggested a fire, and was graciously permitted to build one. The darkness fell with winter rapidity, and they sat by the light of the leaping flames and talked about nothing.
    Ruth was silent; light conversation seemed impossible. The devil that Pat had exorcised by the simple fact of refusing to see its possibility slid slyly back, hovering in the gathering shadows. Yet whenever she looked at Sara her brain staggered at the incongruity of it all. Miniskirts and long black leather boots do not suit the supernatural.
    As the minutes wore on Ruth felt the tension mounting. Her own silence fed it; so did Bruce’s uncharacteristically monosyllabic speech. He sat on the edge of his chair and never took his eyes off Sara. The girl was nervous too; she moved too much, twitching at her skirt, stroking the leather of her boots. She had developed a slight stammer, the first time Ruth had ever noticed any such trait.
    â€œIt’s dark,” Ruth said suddenly. “Let’s have some light.”
    Pat’s hand caught her arm as she started to rise. He alone seemed unaffected by the strain.
    â€œThe firelight is pleasant,” he said. “Leave it.”
    The words, with their bland assumption of authority, would have irritated Ruth at any other time. Now the sudden need that had sent her groping for