The Silver Bough by Lisa Tuttle Page B

day pack, and she got them out. She stared across the curving harbor, at the houses and buildings that lined the other shore, and lifted her eyes to the gentle, undulating line of hills. It was a lovely line. She began to trace it, then shaded in the dips and hollows of the hills, added the outlines of a few houses, and sketched a palm tree in the foreground, for perspective. She began to add a few more details, becoming so absorbed that she hardly noticed when the waitress brought her food to the table. On top of the highest hill was a transmitting tower—presumably for television and radio, although it had so many different attachments and extensions that it might have been a telephone mast as well. She’d ignored it when she’d started sketching in the line of the hills; but she wondered if she should put it in, for truth, or leave it out for beauty’s sake. Would that spikiness add interest or spoil the composition? Her hand hovered above the page.
    “You’re an artist.”
    The low male voice so close to her ear made her jerk; there, in place of the tower, was a jagged pencil slash.
    “Oh, now you’ve spoiled it—I’m sorry!”
    “It’s not spoiled, it’s only pencil, and it’s not anything—I’m not really an artist.” She flipped the cover shut to end the discussion, but he didn’t move away, and she had to look up at him. This was the chance she’d hoped for, but she couldn’t think of a thing to say.
    Her look seemed to be enough. She saw the pupils of his eyes expand: He liked what he saw. He touched the back of the chair beside her. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
    She shrugged.
    She was intensely aware of his nearness as he settled into the chair: the heat of his body, his leg barely an inch away from hers, the faint sigh of his breath. He was staring at the table, not looking at her, and she let her eyes trace his strong profile, drinking in his rather exotic features. The line of his nose and chin made her think of old Mayan sculptures, but there was more delicacy to his bone structure. She wondered if he was half-Indonesian, or Hawaiian, or what. She couldn’t work out if he had any sort of accent.
    “I saw you yesterday,” she said.
    “Oh? Where?”
    “On the road. I was on the bus that passed you.”
    “That was you!” Their eyes met and once again she felt the powerful tug of pure, physical desire. “I remember. I felt like I knew you. Like we’d met before.” He looked puzzled, which made him seem both younger and more ordinary.
    “So did I,” she said eagerly. “But I’m sure I’d remember if we had. This is my first time in Scotland.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe we met in California? I used to go there every year to visit my grandparents. San Diego—but also L.A. Have you been there?”
    “Oh, yes. I’ve been just about everywhere.” He sounded vague, distracted, and he looked at the table, not at her.
    “Where are you from? I can’t pin down your accent. You don’t sound American—
or
Scottish.”
    “I’m not, quite.”
    “So what are you?”
    He turned his head and gave her a wistful, curiously sweet smile. “Desperately hungry, if you want to know the truth. Are you going to eat that?”
    It was her sandwich he’d been staring at, and she thought she could take it that it had been the chief attraction all along; those four neat triangles of toasted bread and tuna mayonnaise meant more to him than anything about her. Chastened, embarrassed, she gave a sharp hoot of laughter. “Go ahead. I don’t want it.”
    He didn’t need to be asked twice. He picked up one segment and devoured it in two bites, then did the same to a second. She sipped her drink and watched him eat, wondering if she looked like a pushover, or if he was really so desperate. When he’d finished the whole sandwich, he polished off the garnish of cucumber, cress, and tomato slices and sighed. It was a sigh more of sadness than satiation.
    “Do you want more?”
    He hesitated,