inadequate word.
"Yes," she replied. "I liked the man I thought he was, just a common, ordinary man who liked to go fishing and listen to soft music, and watch the waves at night. What a pity," she finished unsteadily, "that he turned out to be an illusion."
"The blonde?" Brenda fished.
"Guess."
She shook her head. "Sorry. Why didn't he tell you who he was?"
"Ask him."
"Did you?"
Madeline shrugged. "What would have been the use? I don't have champagne tastes."
"Most of us," Brenda reminded her, "could acquire them pretty easily to land a man like that."
"I don't think so," she smiled. "I'm still that much a romantic that I think love comes before money."
Brenda met her eyes squarely. "Tell me you weren't in love with him."
The words went all the way to her soul. She finished her coffee and stood up. "We'd better get back to work or we'll be like Mr. Richards—out hunting work."
"Go ahead, ignore me," Brenda said. "You can't ignore your heart, though." And it was true.
She worked late that night, to keep busy, to keep from going home. There was an emptiness inside her that had nothing to do with a lack of food. It was a lack of hope that was killing her.
She stared blankly at her typewriter. McCallum. McCallum. Had it only been a few weeks since she sat here and wondered what he looked like? Had it been such a short time instead of the lifetime it seemed to be? Her mind went stubbornly back to their first meeting, and every cryptic remark he'd made suddenly became crystal clear. Beside the stream, when she'd asked him name, and he'd replied, "you really don't know, do you?" it was because he thought she was playing games. But this was a far more serious game then she could have realized and losing brought a terrible penalty with it.
It was the end of so many things. Of companionship on night when the loneliness got up and breathed in her living room. Of impromptu picnics and rides in the darkness and plane-trips to out-of-the-way places, and that deep, lazy voice drawling in her ear over the phone....
She choked back a sob. Most of all, she'd miss those unexpected phone calls, when he'd invite her over for a steak or just a little conversation, and she could sit and watch him without him knowing it, imprint his dark, hard face on her memory so that she could remember it perfectly when he was not around.
Setting her lips in a thin line, she finished the letter she was working on, folded it, put it in the envelope and stamped it. No more looking back. If she was to keep her sanity, no more look back!
She broke the resolution the minute she turned into her driveway, feeling cold chills run up and down her spine as she saw the black Mercedes sitting in the driveway across the hedge.
With resignation, she sped her little car up under the carport, jumped out and opened the door with speed that would have done credit to a track runner, got inside the house and locked the door. But she needn't have bothered. There were no heavy, measured footsteps following her. The phone wasn't ringing either, although she spent the first hour at home waiting for it to.
"For that, I'd need a miracle," she told Cabbage with a sad smile. "I've burned my bridges, Cabbage, and now I don't know how I'm going to get across the gorge."
She was turning back to the stove, where she was just starting a couple of hamburger patties, when there was a jaunty ringing of the doorbell.
Her heart was in her throat, her face a study in abject pleasure, she ran to throw open the door... and found on the other side of it not Cal, but Cousin Horace.
"Why, cousin Madeline, as I live and breathe!" he said enthusiastically, and flashed her a toothy grin under eyes as brown as his father's.
"Horace, as I die and suffocate!" she returned with a forced laugh, measuring him. "Thinner than ever, I see."
He touched his blond hair where it was beginning to recede at the hairline despite the fact that he was only thirty years old. "Well, I still have a
"Yes," she replied. "I liked the man I thought he was, just a common, ordinary man who liked to go fishing and listen to soft music, and watch the waves at night. What a pity," she finished unsteadily, "that he turned out to be an illusion."
"The blonde?" Brenda fished.
"Guess."
She shook her head. "Sorry. Why didn't he tell you who he was?"
"Ask him."
"Did you?"
Madeline shrugged. "What would have been the use? I don't have champagne tastes."
"Most of us," Brenda reminded her, "could acquire them pretty easily to land a man like that."
"I don't think so," she smiled. "I'm still that much a romantic that I think love comes before money."
Brenda met her eyes squarely. "Tell me you weren't in love with him."
The words went all the way to her soul. She finished her coffee and stood up. "We'd better get back to work or we'll be like Mr. Richards—out hunting work."
"Go ahead, ignore me," Brenda said. "You can't ignore your heart, though." And it was true.
She worked late that night, to keep busy, to keep from going home. There was an emptiness inside her that had nothing to do with a lack of food. It was a lack of hope that was killing her.
She stared blankly at her typewriter. McCallum. McCallum. Had it only been a few weeks since she sat here and wondered what he looked like? Had it been such a short time instead of the lifetime it seemed to be? Her mind went stubbornly back to their first meeting, and every cryptic remark he'd made suddenly became crystal clear. Beside the stream, when she'd asked him name, and he'd replied, "you really don't know, do you?" it was because he thought she was playing games. But this was a far more serious game then she could have realized and losing brought a terrible penalty with it.
It was the end of so many things. Of companionship on night when the loneliness got up and breathed in her living room. Of impromptu picnics and rides in the darkness and plane-trips to out-of-the-way places, and that deep, lazy voice drawling in her ear over the phone....
She choked back a sob. Most of all, she'd miss those unexpected phone calls, when he'd invite her over for a steak or just a little conversation, and she could sit and watch him without him knowing it, imprint his dark, hard face on her memory so that she could remember it perfectly when he was not around.
Setting her lips in a thin line, she finished the letter she was working on, folded it, put it in the envelope and stamped it. No more looking back. If she was to keep her sanity, no more look back!
She broke the resolution the minute she turned into her driveway, feeling cold chills run up and down her spine as she saw the black Mercedes sitting in the driveway across the hedge.
With resignation, she sped her little car up under the carport, jumped out and opened the door with speed that would have done credit to a track runner, got inside the house and locked the door. But she needn't have bothered. There were no heavy, measured footsteps following her. The phone wasn't ringing either, although she spent the first hour at home waiting for it to.
"For that, I'd need a miracle," she told Cabbage with a sad smile. "I've burned my bridges, Cabbage, and now I don't know how I'm going to get across the gorge."
She was turning back to the stove, where she was just starting a couple of hamburger patties, when there was a jaunty ringing of the doorbell.
Her heart was in her throat, her face a study in abject pleasure, she ran to throw open the door... and found on the other side of it not Cal, but Cousin Horace.
"Why, cousin Madeline, as I live and breathe!" he said enthusiastically, and flashed her a toothy grin under eyes as brown as his father's.
"Horace, as I die and suffocate!" she returned with a forced laugh, measuring him. "Thinner than ever, I see."
He touched his blond hair where it was beginning to recede at the hairline despite the fact that he was only thirty years old. "Well, I still have a
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