Changes by Danielle Steel Page A

that it was unused. Not only that, but that it had been Anne's.
    And beyond that was a handsome library done in dark greens, which was obviously Peter's sitting room. There were walls and walls of books, a small mountain of chaos on the desk, and on one wall an oil portrait of Anne, and double French doors leading into their bedroom, which Peter now slept in alone. It was all done in beige silk, with French commodes, a beautiful chaise longue, and the same rich curtains and sconces and another beautiful chandelier. But there was something about the place that made one want to take off one's clothes and dance around, and defy the formality of it all. It was almost too much, no matter how beautiful it was, and the more Melanie saw, the more she felt that it just didn't look like him.
    They took another staircase upstairs then, and on this floor everything was brightly colored and fun, and the open doors showed three large, sunny children's rooms. The floor of Matt's was littered with toys, and Mark's half-closed door showed total chaos within, and the third door was ajar and all Mel could see was a huge white canopied bed, and a woman's back as she lay on her side on the floor near the bed. At the sound of their footsteps in the hall, she turned and stood up, whispering something into the phone and then hung up. Melanie was astonished at how tall and grown-up she looked. If this was his middle child, it was difficult to believe that she was not yet fourteen. She was long and lanky and blond, with a shaft of wheat-colored hair like Val's, and big wistful blue eyes. But most of all she looked like the photographs of Anne that Mel had just seen.
    “What are you doing inside?” Peter searched her eyes and Mel felt them both grow tense.
    “I wanted to call a friend.”
    “You could have used the phone at the pool.”
    She didn't answer him at first and then she shrugged. “So?”
    He ignored the remark and turned to Mel. “I'd like you to meet my daughter, Pam. Pam, this is Melanie Adams, the newswoman from New York I told you about.”
    “I know who she is.” Pamela didn't extend a hand at first, but Mel did, and she shook it at last, as her father began to seethe. He never wanted it to be like this between them, and yet it always was. She always did something to get him upset, to be rude to his friends, to make a point of not cooperating when there was no reason for her not to. Why, dammit, why? They were all unhappy that Anne had died, but why did she have to take it out on him? She had for the last year and a half, and she was worse now. He told himself that it was the age, that it was a passing phase, but sometimes he wasn't so sure.
    “I was wondering if you could lend Mel a bathing suit, Pam. She left hers at the hotel.”
    There was a fraction of a moment of hesitation again. “Sure. I guess I could. She's”—she hesitated on the word, Mel was by no means large, but she wasn't as rail thin as Pam—“she's bigger than me though.” And there was something else too, a look that had passed between them that Pam didn't like. Or more exactly the way her father looked at Mel.
    And Mel quickly understood. She smiled gently at the girl. “It's all right if you'd rather not.”
    “No, that's okay.” Her eyes searched Melanie's face. “You look different than you do on TV.” There was no smile in the girl's eyes.
    “Do I?” She smiled at the slightly uncomfortable but very attractive young girl. She looked nothing like Peter, and there was still an undefined childishness about her face, despite the long legs and full bust, and body that had already outstripped her chronological age. “My daughters always say I look more ‘grown-up’ on TV.”
    “Yeah. Sort of. More serious.”
    “I think that's what they mean.”
    The three of them stood in the pretty white room, as Pam continued to stare at Melanie, as though looking for an answer to something in her face. “How old are your daughters?”
    “They'll be