Snowflakes on the Sea

He reached out, cupped her chin in one hand. “I know, Mall. Forget it.”

Mallory couldn’t “forget it”; there was too much that needed to be said. “I was here, Nathan—right here, on the island. I spent Christmas Eve with Trish and Alex, and the next day with Kate Sheridan. I—”

His index finger moved to rest on her lips. “It’s all right, Mallory.”

She drew back from him, more stung by some of the things Diane had implied than she would have admitted. “What did you do over Christmas, Nathan?”

He looked away. “I drank a lot.”

“No Christmas tree?”

“No Christmas tree.”

Mallory sighed wistfully. “I didn’t put one up, either. But Trish had a lovely one—”

Suddenly, Nathan was staring at her. She knew he was thinking of the beautiful tree ornaments she’d collected in every part of the world, of the way she shopped and fussed for weeks before Christmas every year, of the way she always threw herself into the celebration with the unbridled enthusiasm of a child. “No tree?” he echoed in a stunned voice that was only part mockery. “No presents?”

Mallory had received a number of gifts—a silk blouse from Kate, books from Trish and Alex, a gold chain from Nathan’s sister Pat—but she saw no point in listing them aloud. The package Nathan had sent was still stored in a guest room closet at the Seattle penthouse, unopened.

She lifted her coffee cup in a sort of listless toast. “Just call me Scrooge,” she said.

3

Fortunately, Nathan dropped the touchy subject of that Christmas just past—the first Christmas since their marriage that the McKendricks had spent apart—and said instead, “Your turn to cook, woman.”

Mallory glanced at the small electric clock hanging on the wall near the telephone, and started guiltily. Lunchtime was long past. “And cook I will,” she replied.

In the next few minutes, Mallory discovered that her husband had done a remarkable job grocery shopping; the cupboards were full. She was humming as she assembled sandwiches and heated soup, regardless of the fact that she had absolutely no appetite.

While Mallory labored over that simple midday repast, Nathan fidgeted at the table. He looked almost relieved when the telephone rang, and moved to answer it with a swiftness that injured his wife. Was it so hard for him to talk to her that he was grateful for any excuse to avoid it?

“Hello,” he muttered, and then, as Mallory watched, she saw him turn his back to her, saw the powerful muscles stiffen beneath his shirt. “Yes, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said in a low voice. “Yes, Diane is supposed to stay there. The band is coming, too—they’ll all be there before nightfall, I suppose. No, get extra help if you need it—”

Mallory set the sandwich plates down on the table with an eloquent thunk and whirled angrily to ladle hot soup into two bowls. Nathan was talking to his housekeeper, giving her orders to make Diane Vincent and the others comfortable in the sprawling Spanish-style villa on the other side of the island. His villa.

“Damn!” she muttered. She should have known that there would be no private time for the McKendricks—Diane and the band would see to that.

“Right,” Nathan said, turning to scowl at Mallory, as though reading her inhospitable thoughts. “Hell, I don’t care. Whatever’s in the freezer—”

“What?” Mallory grumbled. “No lobster? No filet mignon?”

“Shut up!” Nathan rasped, and then he colored comically and glared at Mallory. “No, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said into the telephone receiver, “I wasn’t talking to you. Well, they usually bring their wives, don’t they?”

“Whip out the satin sheets!” Mallory said, gesturing wildly with a soup spoon in one hand and a tuna fish sandwich in the other.

Nathan gave his wife an evil look and then grinned. “Oh, and one more thing, Mrs. Jeffries—put satin sheets on all the beds.”

Mallory stuck out her tongue and sank into her chair at the table with as much visible trauma as she could manage.

Clearly, Nathan was enjoying her tantrum. She knew that she was behaving like a child but couldn’t seem to stop. He ended the conversation with an additional order, meant to make his wife seethe. “We’ll need lots of towels for the hot tub, too.”

“We’ll need lots of towels for the hot tub, too!” Mallory mimicked sourly. “God forbid that Diane Vincent should have to drip-dry!”

Nathan was chuckling as he bid his housekeeper farewell and hung up. “Mellow out, Mall,” he teased, grasping the back of his own chair in both hands and tilting his magnificent head to one side in a mischievous manner. “I’m not planning an orgy, you know.”

“Why should you?” Mallory shot back. “The stage is already set for one!”

Nathan’s eyes darkened, and the mischief faded from their depths, displaced by impatience. His voice was a sardonic drawl, and he made no move to sit down and share the lunch he’d all but ordered Mallory to prepare. “This is enlightening. I didn’t think you gave a damn what went on at Angel Cove. You so rarely condescend to put in an appearance!”

Mallory swallowed miserably, all her saucy defiance gone. It was true that she avoided the magnificent house at Angel Cove—there were always too many people there, and there was always too much noise. “Sit down and eat,” she said in a small voice.

Surprisingly, Nathan sat down. There was a short, awkward pause while he assessed the canned soup and slap-dash sandwiches. The fare was no doubt much more appetizing at Angel Cove.

Mallory mourned, feeling wearier than ever, as she dragged her spoon listlessly through her soup. She felt Nathan’s gaze touch her, and involuntarily looked up.

“You didn’t decorate a Christmas tree?” he asked incredulously.

There was no point in trying to skirt the issue; she had known it would come up again. She swallowed the pain that still lingered from that lonely holiday and answered the question honestly. “No.”

“You?” Nathan pressed, no trace of his earlier irritation showing in his handsome, sensitive features.

Mallory nodded. “As far as I’m concerned, Christmas just didn’t happen this year.”

His eyes searched her face. “What about the things I sent? Did you get the package?”

Mallory managed a stiff smile. “I put them in one of the guest rooms, in a closet,” she said, thinking of the large parcel she hadn’t had the heart to open. “You got your gifts, didn’t you? I mailed early—”

“Good Lord,” Nathan breathed, shaking his head. It was clear that he either hadn’t heard her question about the carefully chosen gifts she’d sent to him or didn’t mean to answer. “Which closet?”

Mallory shrugged, though nonchalance was the last thing she felt. “You are a man of many closets,” she remarked lamely.

“Mallory.”

She frowned at him. “The room Pat sleeps in when she stays at the penthouse.”

Nathan looked thoughtful, and a long silence followed. Finally, when both husband and wife had finished pretending to eat, he stood up, scraping his chair against the linoleum floor as he moved. “I don’t think you’re up to greeting the band,” he said in a voice that was gruff and tender at the same time. “Not tonight, at least.”

I’ll bet you were counting on that, Mallory thought, but she only nodded, relieved that she could deposit the remains of her lunch in Cinnamon’s bowl and spend some time gathering her scattered thoughts and emotions. “Say hello for me,” she mumbled, holding back tears as Nathan bent to brush her cheek briefly with his lips.

When he was gone, Mallory ambled aimlessly into the living room where she went through the contents of several bookshelves and found nothing she wanted to read. She was being stubborn and stupid, and she knew it. Damn, anybody with any guts at all would have gone over to the villa on the other side of the island and—

And what?

Mallory flung out her arms and cried out with self-mocking drama, “God, I’m so depressed!”

There was no answer, of course, but Mallory’s gaze fell on the video recorder hooked up to her portable television set, and she remembered her favorite remedy for depression—old Jimmie Stewart movies.

Five minutes later, she was curled up on the sofa, immersed in the opening, snowy scenes of It’s a Wonderful Life.