Snowfire

It wasn’t difficult. Her surroundings were so familiar that it was easy to find another outlet for her thoughts. Incredible as it seemed, little had changed in the eleven years since she was here last. The room had been redecorated, of course, and the sofa, on which she was reclining so unwillingly, had been re-covered. But the tall cabinets that had contained Sally’s collection of Waterford crystal were still there, along with the writing-desk in the window where Keith used to keep the accounts. Even the ornaments adorning the Victorian mantel were pieces Conor’s parents had collected on their frequent trips to the Continent. They used to spend their summers camping in the south of France, she remembered. She had even gone with them a couple of times, when Conor was six or seven years old.

’I’ll get the coffee,’ he said now, as if realising she needed a few minutes to relax. ‘I won’t be long. I was making a pot before—well, before I saw you.’

Olivia didn’t have time to think of a response before he had left the room. In any case, she was still stunned by the fact that the house had evidently not been sold, after all. Her grandmother had never mentioned it before she died, and Olivia had never thought to ask. But then, after moving into the nursing home, Mrs Holland had lost touch with many of her friends. She hadn’t even attended Sally’s and Keith’s funeral.

Taking a deep breath, Olivia used her hands to ease herself to the edge of the sofa. Then, with some trepidation, she lowered her feet to the floor. Her leg still hurt, but the pain was bearable now. An indication that she was improving, she thought wryly. If only it had improved earlier, before she had got herself into this predicament.

’What are you doing?’

Conor’s impatient voice arrested her appraisal of her condition. Not that it mattered really. There was no way she could leave here without his co-operation. Even if she insisted on taking a taxi, she would have to use his phone.

Now Conor came into the room carrying a tray bearing two beakers, a cream jug, and a pot of coffee. Hooking a low end-table with his foot, he positioned it near the sofa, then set down his burden before subsiding on to the seat beside her.

His weight brought a resulting depression in the cushions, and Olivia had to grasp the arm of the sofa closest to her to prevent herself from sliding towards him. It was a timely reminder—if any were needed—that Conor was no longer the skinny youth he used to be. Without his jacket, which he had apparently shed somewhere between here and the kitchen, his upper torso was broad and muscular beneath the knitted shirt he was wearing. She couldn’t help noticing his legs, too, as she shuffled uneasily towards her end of the sofa. Spread as they were, to allow him easy access to the coffee, one powerful thigh was barely inches from the hand with which she was supporting herself. She knew a momentary urge to spread her fingers over his thigh, but happily that madness was only fleeting. It was just so amazing to remember him as a child and compare that image with the man he was now.

’Cream?’ he asked abruptly, and Olivia blinked.

’Oh—no. Just black,’ she said hurriedly. Maybe the strongly flavoured brew would help to normalise the situation. Just at the moment, she had a decided feeling of light-headedness.

’So,’ he said, after handing her the beaker of coffee, ‘d’you want to tell me what you’re doing here?’

Olivia cradled her cup between her palms, and cast him a sideways glance. He wasn’t looking at her at the moment, and she was grateful. It gave her an opportunity to study his features without fear of apprehension, and she needed that. Dear God, she thought, her gaze moving almost greedily over lean cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a wide, thin-lipped mouth—she had not dreamed he could be so familiar to her, not after all these years. But he was. Older, of course, and harsher; but essentially the same. She wondered how long he had been in England. Not too long, she guessed, judging by his tan. And those sun streaks in his sandy hair; he hadn’t acquired them in this northern climate.

Conor finished pouring his own coffee, and Olivia quickly looked away. Concentrating her attention on the fireplace, she noticed the ashes lying in the grate. Although the house was centrally heated, someone had had a fire the night before. The image of Conor and his wife sharing this sofa in front of the open fire, even perhaps making love by firelight, flashed into her mind. It brought an uneasy prickling to her skin, and she angrily thrust it away. It was because she still thought of this as Sally’s and Keith’s house, she told herself grimly. And of Conor as a boy, when he was obviously a man.

’Well?’ he prompted, and she was aware of him turning to look at her now. It made her glad she still had her coat wrapped about her. The honey-coloured cashmere hid a multitude of sins.

’Well,’ she countered, turning his way, but not quite meeting his eyes. ‘Small world, isn’t it? Who’d have thought you’d come back to Paget?’

’Why shouldn’t I?’ Conor was curt. ‘It’s my home.’

’Yes, well—I didn’t realise the house hadn’t been sold until now.’ She cast a determinedly casual look around the room. ‘It’s amazing. Everything looks the same.’

Conor’s mouth compressed. ‘Are you saying that when you came up here you didn’t know it was my house?’

His tone was vaguely accusing, and Olivia’s head swung back to him with some haste. ‘Of course,’ she exclaimed, meeting his green gaze half indignantly. She felt the warm colour surge into her throat at his cool appraisal. ‘I—I just wanted to—to look around.’

’For old times’ sake?’

’Yes.’ The colour had reached her cheeks now, but she refused to look away. ‘After all, you didn’t tell me you’d come back to England. How was I supposed to know?’

Conor put down his cup. ‘Point taken,’ he conceded, lounging back against the cushions and propping one booted ankle across one twill-covered knee. ‘I guess I didn’t think you’d be interested. You haven’t exactly kept me up to date with your affairs.’

Olivia dragged her gaze away and looked down into her cup. She was aware that her heart was beating far faster than it should have been, and, in spite of the cold day outside, she was sweating. She should have taken off her coat, she thought, though all she did was draw it more closely about her. She needed its comforting folds to disguise her trepidation.

’So,’ she said, feeling obliged to make some comment, ‘you’re a doctor now.’

’Don’t make it sound so unlikely.’ Conor inclined his head. ‘I told you what I wanted to do, when I came to see you in London. Actually, I’m still in training. I’ve decided I want to specialise in psychological disorders, so for the last six months I’ve been working at the drug rehabilitation unit in Witterthorpe.’

’I see.’ Olivia was impressed. ‘Did—er—did you do the rest of your training in England?’

’No.’ Conor reached for his coffee again and took a drink. ‘Uncle Philip had a heart condition. He died soon after I started medical school. I stayed on in the States until I’d finished at med. school, because that was what Aunt Elizabeth wanted. She’d been good to me, and I guess I owed her that much. When I came here, I began the extra training you need to get a full British qualification.’

Olivia absorbed this with a pang. So Philip Cox had died, too. Just another aspect of Conor’s life that she had known nothing about. But she could understand that Elizabeth Cox would have found comfort in her nephew. Philip had only fathered daughters, which was probably why Sally had left Conor in his care.

Her coffee was almost finished, and, surreptitiously testing her foot against the floor, Olivia decided she was strong enough to stand. But, when she replaced her cup on the tray and inched forward on the sofa, Conor’s hand closed about her sleeve.

’We’ve talked about me,’ he said, ‘but you still haven’t told me what you’re doing in Paget. You mentioned that you’re staying in the village. Would that be at Tom Drake’s place? I had a word with him this morning, but he didn’t mention he had a visitor.’

’Why would he?’ Olivia moved her arm so that he was forced to release her. ‘He doesn’t remember me. My married name means nothing to him.’

’Ah, yes. Your married name.’ Conor lowered his foot to the floor, and leant forward, his arms along his thighs. ‘You’re a married lady, aren’t you? Is your husband with you? Am I going to get to meet him?’

’No.’

Suddenly, Olivia had no desire to tell Conor about the divorce. His intimation that they might see one another again unsettled her, and, for some reason she didn’t choose to recognise, she didn’t want his sympathy. So long as he believed she was still married, he couldn’t get too close to her. Though why the idea of his getting close to her should disturb her so, she couldn’t imagine.

’No?’ Conor’s eyes were uncomfortably intent. ‘Why? You ashamed of me or something?’

’Don’t be silly.’ Olivia licked her dry lips. ‘He’s not here, that’s all. He—I’m just taking a short holiday. On my own.’

’Recuperating,’ suggested Conor quietly, and she hesitated only a moment before allowing a taut nod. ‘So what happened?’ he persisted. ‘D’you want to talk about it?’

’So you can psychoanalyse me?’ she taunted, needing to make light of what was threatening to become a seriously heavy development. ‘No, thanks. I crashed my car, that’s all. It’s a common enough story. Nothing exciting, I’m afraid—–’

’When?’

’When what?’

’When did you crash your car?’ Conor was unnervingly direct.

’Oh …’ Olivia shrugged. ‘A little while ago. Eight or nine months, I think.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘Look, I must be going, I’ve got some phone calls to make.’

Conor didn’t move. ‘And that was when you smashed up your leg? Eight or nine months ago?’

’Well, I didn’t do it by falling over,’ she retorted, still trying to lighten the mood. ‘Conor, it’s been lovely seeing you again, and I’m sorry if I upset your wife—–’

’My wife?’ At last something she said had distracted him. He raked back his sun-bleached hair with a restless hand. ‘Sharon’s not my wife!’

’Oh!’ Once again, Olivia could feel the heat flooding up under her skin. ‘Well, your—er—girlfriend, then,’ she muttered, getting determinedly to her feet. She swayed rather unsteadily on one leg, as she gauged the distance between the couch and the door. ‘Please explain that I don’t make a habit of this. I’d hate her to think I was spying on you!’

’Spying on us?’

Conor came to his feet with a lithe movement, successfully reminding her of his superior height and build. It hardly seemed possible that he had once cried on her shoulder, she thought. These days, he was almost a head taller than she was.

’Well, you know what I mean,’ she mumbled now, wishing she had chosen a less emotive word to describe her position. ‘I really was curious to see this house again. And the cottage, too, of course. It was just my luck that I slipped and fell at the wrong moment.’

’Or mine,’ remarked Conor softly, looking down at her, and she wondered how he could imbue those words with such a measure of intimacy.

Heavens, he was good, she thought ridiculously, unable to sustain his warm, disturbing gaze a moment longer. It probably amused him to see how he could disconcert her. A delayed payment for the way she had bossed him about in his youth.

’Look—I’ve got to go,’ she said, wishing he would get out of her way so that she had an unobstructed passage to the door. She didn’t want him to carry her again. She didn’t want him touching her.

’OK.’ As if sensing her frustration, he moved aside, and Olivia limped heavily across the room. Her leg would support her now, just, but she was conscious of his eyes upon her. He was probably gauging the possible seriousness of her injury, she thought crossly. He was a doctor, after all. He would know how restricted her movements were.

’I’ll get the car,’ he said, as she reached the doorway, and Olivia had no choice but to let him do it.

’What about your appointment?’ she protested, realising she should have asked to use the phone as soon as she got here. She could have had the coffee while she waited for a cab.

’Let me worry about that,’ he replied, brushing past her to collect his jacket from the banister in the hallway, and she clutched the door frame at her back in an unconsciously defensive gesture.

Conor’s car had been in the garage, which explained why Olivia had only seen Sharon’s Peugeot in the drive. Conor reversed his mud-smeared Audi round to the front of the house where Olivia was waiting, and she was glad she had been able to negotiate the steps without him watching her.

’I can manage,’ she insisted, when he would have got out to help her into the front of the car, and Conor sank back into his seat.

’It’s no sin to need assistance,’ he remarked drily, as she eased her leg into a more comfortable position, and she wondered why she felt so absurdly sensitive with him. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to arouse his suspicions as to why that should be so, and she couldn’t even explain it to herself.

She always felt a certain sense of trepidation when she got into a car these days. It wasn’t that she hadn’t driven since the accident. On the contrary, she had insisted on replacing the car she had wrecked with a new one almost immediately. An automatic, of course, which for some time lay idle in the garage. But lately she had gained in confidence, and only the fear of the car breaking down had deterred her from attempting the drive to Paget.

Conor drove well: fairly fast, but not uncomfortably so, and any lingering fears left her. He traversed the narrow streets and intersections with an ease that spoke of long familiarity, and she guessed he knew the place better than she did these days. And obviously, he was used to driving in this country. She realised she had been in danger of thinking him a stranger to Paget.

They arrived at the Ship Inn, in what seemed an inordinately short space of time, and Olivia’s fingers tightened round her handbag. ‘Well—thank you,’ she murmured politely, glancing up at the wooded façade of the building. ‘I appreci—–’

’When can I see you again?’

Conor’s husky enquiry cut into her careful words of gratitude, and when she turned her head she found he had turned at right angles to the wheel, his arm along the back of the seat behind her.

Olivia gave a nervous laugh. ‘Oh, I don’t think—–’

’Why not?’ His expression flattened. ‘As we haven’t seen one another for God knows how many years, don’t you think we ought to at least share a meal, for old times’ sake?’

Olivia swallowed. ‘You don’t want to have a meal with me!’ she protested.

’Why not?’ he repeated.

’Well … I was—your mother’s friend, not yours. You don’t have to feel any obligation towards me.’

Conor slumped lower in his seat. ‘Who said anything about an obligation?’

’Even so—–’

’Even so nothing. OK. You were like my aunt, right? If it pleases you to remember the relationship like that, then no problem. How about me taking my favourite “aunt” to dinner? Like tonight, maybe. If you’ve not got anything else on.’

’I can’t tonight.’

The words just sprang from her tongue, the refusal as necessary to her as her independence had been earlier. But there was no way she was going to put herself through any more torment today—physical or otherwise.

’Tomorrow, then,’ he said, without hesitation, and, to her dismay, his fingers began plucking at the scarf she wore about her shoulders. He had nice hands, she noticed unwillingly, long-fingered and capable, and brown, like the rest of him. Or the part of him she could see, she amended shortly, uncomfortably aware of where her thoughts were taking her. God! She shivered. What was the matter with her?

’I—don’t know,’ she muttered, wishing she had the strength to be more decisive. But the truth was that, in spite of everything, she wasn’t totally convinced she didn’t want to see him again. After all, she defended herself, he was Sally’s son. Surely, it was what she would have wanted—for them to be friends. But it was the ambivalence of her feelings that troubled her. That, and the sure knowledge that nothing was as simple as it seemed.

Conor toyed with the patterned scarf between his fingers. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, the warmth of his breath moistening her ear. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock. What do you say?’

’I …’ Olivia opened her mouth to make some further protest, and then closed it again. His face was much nearer now, and although his eyes were averted she had an unhindered view of his long lashes. They were sun-bleached these days, she noticed, like his hair, but just as vulnerable as she remembered them. ‘Oh—all right,’ she gave in weakly, knowing herself for a fool, and when he lifted his head she was sure of it. There was nothing vulnerable in his gaze at all. His face was quite expressionless. Whatever she thought she had seen in his expression was just wishful thinking.

But then he smiled. ‘Great,’ he said, withdrawing his arm from the back of the seat, and thrusting open his door. Then, before she had a chance to forestall him, he had circled the car and opened her door, offering her his hand to help her out.

’I can manage,’ she exclaimed, frustration giving way to irritation, as annoyance at her weakness overwhelmed her. She shouldn’t have allowed any of this to happen, she thought angrily, aware that the frown that drew her dark brows together did nothing for her appearance. But she had had a chance to end this association here and now, and she had blown it. Now she was committed to a whole evening in the company of a man she hardly knew.

CHAPTER THREE

THE next day and a half dragged.

It wasn’t, Olivia assured herself, that she was looking forward to the evening ahead with pleasure. On the contrary, every time she thought about it she was struck anew with how unnecessary it seemed. It wasn’t as if they had anything in common these days, she thought frustratedly. The Conor of today bore no resemblance to the helpless youth he’d been.

No, what she really wanted to do was get it over with. They would have dinner—possibly here at the inn—and share a stilted exchange of news. She would tell him some of the more amusing cases she had dealt with—carefully omitting any reference to her marriage—and he would talk about his job at the rehabilitation unit, and perhaps explain the differences between treatment here and in the United States.

All incredibly polite—and incredibly boring, she thought fretfully, particularly for someone whose taste in women obviously ran to the more glamorous specimens of her species. Like Sharon Holmes, for example, she acknowledged, irritated that she could remember the girl’s name so clearly.

And when, the following evening, she seated herself in front of her dressing-table mirror to apply her make-up, it was Sharon’s face that persisted in filling her mind. Why was it that blondes always seemed to hog the limelight? she wondered. Was it that blonde hair usually went with a peaches-and-cream complexion, so different from her own pale features?

Whatever the reason, she wasn’t here to compete with Conor’s girlfriend, she thought crossly. Her only desire was that he shouldn’t be ashamed of her. And if that meant wearing a dress instead of trousers, and trying to tame her curly hair into a more sophisticated style, so be it. She owed it to herself to do the best she could.

The folds of the satin wrap she had put on after her bath parted as she leant towards the mirror. The cleavage it exposed was not as generous as it had once been, and she had never been over-endowed in that department. Now, the lacy bra she was wearing was hardly necessary. She had only put it on to satisfy a need.

Clutching the lapels together again, Olivia viewed her appearance without encouragement. There wasn’t much she could do with dark eyes that seemed to fill her face, or improve about bone structure that was definitely angular. She supposed she could disguise the hollows in her cheeks with a cream foundation, and use a cherry lipstick to give colour to her mouth. Thank God her lashes were long and thick and didn’t need mascara. She had never been particularly expert when it came to using cosmetics.

With the make-up applied, and her black hair coiled into a rather precarious knot on top of her head, she pronounced herself satisfied. Well, she would have to be, wouldn’t she? she thought grimly, pulling the only dress she had brought with her out of the wardrobe. She looked older than she was, but what of it? At least she wasn’t afraid of her maturity. People would probably think she was Conor’s mother. Dear God, why had she let herself in for this?

The dress was a warm Laura Ashley print, in shades of russet, green and brown. Its main attraction to Olivia was that it had a high neck and long sleeves, and the hem was only a few inches off her ankles. With opaque black tights to complete her cover, Olivia was reasonably satisfied with the result. Low-heeled shoes were not unattractive on someone of her height and slenderness, and she was glad that the days of precarious heels were a thing of the past.

It was a few minutes to seven when she looked at her watch, and she wondered what she ought to do. She supposed she should go downstairs and wait for him, but ought she to take her coat with her? She had spent a good half-hour that morning brushing the dried mud stains off it. But if she took it with her, would Conor see that as an indication that she expected him to take her out?

It was a problem. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel obliged to take her to some expensive restaurant. The food at the Ship was good and wholesome, if a little lacking in imagination, but it suited her. Yet if she appeared without her coat and she needed it it would mean another trip upstairs to collect it. Something she would much rather not have to do at present.

She was still prevaricating when the phone rang. It startled her, as much because she guessed who it would be as from any shock at the sound. But the thought that it might be Conor ringing to say he couldn’t make it made her move quickly to answer it. Perhaps he’d had an emergency. Doctors were notoriously unreliable.

Picking up the receiver, she put it to her ear. ‘Hello?’

’Liv?’ Conor’s voice was unmistakable. ‘You ready?’

As I’ll ever be, thought Olivia drily, but she answered in the affirmative.

’Good. D’you want me to come up and fetch you, or will you come down? I thought we might have a drink in the bar before we go.’

Before we go! Olivia grimaced. So, they were dining somewhere else, after all. ‘I’ll come down,’ she said crisply, not wanting another exhibition of his highhandedness. He had insisted on seeing her up to her room the day before, and embarrassed her horribly. Only her frozen expression had deterred Mrs Drake from making some comment when she served her supper that evening, and the idea of having a drink with him now, in the bar, was not appealing. Perhaps she could persuade him that they’d be better off drinking somewhere else. If she could forestall him, before he ordered himself a drink …

’OK.’

Conor accepted her decision without argument, and Olivia hurriedly collected her coat and handbag. The sooner she got downstairs, the better, she thought. If she knew Tom Drake, Conor was unlikely to be left on his own for long.

Thankfully her leg was much better this evening. She hadn’t ventured out of the inn since the previous morning, and the prolonged rest had done it good. Happily, the weather had remained cold and windy, with snow flurries, so she had not had to explain her reasons for missing her usual walk.

The low-ceilinged stairway came down into the narrow reception hall of the inn. There was a small kiosk, which opened off the Drakes’ living quarters, where guests went to check-in, or collect their mail. There were doors to the tiny dining-room, and to the smoke-room and bar, the latter commandeered by locals at this time of the year. And as Olivia couldn’t see Conor hanging about the hallway, she guessed he had joined them. After all, he was a local, she reflected, her spirits sinking at the thought.