Hours to Cherish by Heather Graham

while,” she murmured, lifting the counter hatch and striding by him.
    She didn’t pause as she walked across the tiny bridge, nor did she dare look back until she had entered the rear doors of the lodge. She could just make out his form, seemingly magnified by the mist of spray from the tinkling waterfalls.
    Oh, God, why did he come back? she wondered desperately.
    At that moment she turned and ran, hoping she would encounter no guests. In that respect she was lucky. She didn’t encounter a single soul as she raced through the main house to the left wing and her own door. She closed it behind her, as if barricading herself against an attack, her heart thundering. But no one was behind her; Clay hadn’t chased her. Still, she was careful to bolt her lock.
    When she felt her breathing return to normal, she moved away from the door. She automatically began to pull the pins from her hair, scattering them haphazardly as she did so. Things will work out, she tried to assure herself. I do love Jules, and Clay is wrong, Jules will stand beside me. Oh, God, I’ll never sleep, he has made me feel like a volcano about to explode and I can’t stand thinking about him but I can’t forget him and when I think about him I think that I want him again.
    No, she reprimanded herself, a lifetime isn’t worth a few minutes of pleasure, a marriage has to exist outside of the bedroom, but oh, lord, would I love to be with him again and why am I such a fool to feel this way. I can’t help what I’m feeling; my body won’t let me. I will never be able to sleep.
    But as she paced, she dragged a nightgown from her closet and carelessly shed her black halter-dress to drag the thin peignoir over her head, and out of habit her pacing took her to the bathroom, where she almost made her gums bleed by viciously scrubbing her teeth and then turned her face pink by attacking it with her washcloth.
    She paced the huge bedroom again with her thoughts running rampant, thinking she should have perhaps dressed in a bathing suit and returned to the pool—surely Clay would be gone by now—to work off steam in a series of energetic laps.
    But she found herself yawning instead, and then curling into her bed. It’s stupid to try, she thought, plumping her pillow, all I’ll do is lie here—and think back all those years to the days when I was a wife, sleeping beside him.
    But she didn’t suffer the torment of memory anymore, because surprisingly her head had barely hit the pillow before she was deeply, soundly, out, her sleep undisturbed by dreams or sounds.
    Cat was dreaming and the dream was pleasant. It was a vague dream, undefined, but she could feel the warmth of the sun and hear the delightful cascade of the waterfall bubbling. The dream slowly faded with the irritation of a persistent rapping sound. Cat fought the sound for a while, but it drove away the pleasant, relaxed sensations of the dream. Her eyes flickered and opened, and then she realized someone was knocking at her door.
    “Yes?” she murmured sleepily, blinking to clear her vision.
    “It’s me, chérie, Jules. May I come in?”
    “Oh! Jules!” Cat brushed her disheveled hair from her face and rubbed her eyes. Was it that late? She had slept so soundly.
    “Just a second!” she called, about to leap from bed and grab her robe.
    She never made it off the bed. She froze in shock and disbelief as the bathroom door suddenly flew open and Clay—sans beard and with little white flecks of shaving cream still specking his face—strode quickly toward the door, clad only in a large white towel knotted low over his hips. “Don’t bother, darling,” he said cheerfully, “I’ll get it.”
    And before her benumbed senses could respond, the door opened. A half-naked Clay was facing a dumbfounded Jules.
    “Oh,” Clay said, his tone deeply laced with regretful sorrow, “you must be DeVante. I’m Miller. Cat’s husband. Sorry we had to meet this way. Cat should have had a chance to