Part 135 (1/2)

when I said I was going for a drive.”

”I had a pretty good idea.”

”Why did you come?”

”I didn't want you to go alone.”

She stiffened. It was only a barely perceptible movement, but he sensed

her shoulders straightening, her chin firming. ”I'm not fragile,

Michael.”

”Okay. I wanted to be with you.”

She turned. His eyes were kind, like his father's, but in them she

could still see the boy who had driven her home from the beach. Degree

by degree her body relaxed. ”Thanks.”

She turned the car and followed his directions. The roads didn't seem

familiar. She'd thought they would. It occurred to her, and made her

feel foolish, that she would never have found the house on her own. They

didn't talk now, except for Michael's occasional ”turn right,”

”bear left,” but listened to the soft, soothing sounds of Crosby,

Stills, and Nash through the car speakers.

He didn't have to tell her to stop. She recognized the house. It was

like a picture, developed and stored in her mind. It was very much the

same as it had been, secluded by trees, hedges, the winter bloomers of

the hills. It was rustic, as only the wealthy could afford. Redwood

and sheets of gla.s.s, terraced lawn falling into woods and stream.

She saw, as Michael did, the sign speared into the ground that

proclaimed the house up for sale.

”We could call it fate,” he said, and touched her arm. ”Do you want to

go in?”