Her Favorite Husband

“Is it morning?”

He kissed the back of her neck. “You’ve had a fifteen minute snooze.”

“You’re kidding.” She opened one eye to squint at the window. Natural light glowed around the closed curtains. “So the midnight sun thing is real?”

“At this latitude and time of year, not quite. More of an all-night dusk.”

The blanket and sheet had fallen on the floor. Sarah turned onto her back and stretched, happy to have Ian looking at her, confident the years hadn’t done her body any harm. “I feel wonderful.”

“You sure do.”

She nudged him with her hip. “You know what I mean!” His smile made her heart twist. She’d always had a soft spot for him tousled and bleary-eyed.

It wasn’t really a happy smile, though.

How could he not be happy, after what they’d shared? They had shared it, hadn’t they? She hadn’t been on cloud nine all alone while he labored thanklessly?

She rolled onto her side to face him, trying to study him without staring. Already, the drawbridge was on its way back up, his expression becoming guarded, his smile fading.

“Well?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“Your verdict? My abs okay?”

“More than okay, as you well know!” She stroked the taut skin and felt his muscles tighten. “Much more than okay.”

It was an odd feeling, though, to touch him so intimately. Briefly, he’d been her Ian again. Fell asleep, and he was. Woke up, and he wasn’t. Like having blurred vision. Then and now, two of him, two of her. Sarah supposed it was to be expected, but it made for a crowded bed.

She pressed her body against his, hoping the feeling would go away. “Wasn’t that amazing? How quickly we clicked.”

“The question is why.”

“Why?” There wasn’t any need to ask why. Was it the clicking itself he questioned, or the speed of the clicking?

She couldn’t think about it now. Her brain wasn’t working on all cylinders. It wouldn’t be for hours. Perceptions changed after making love. She’d never figured out if postbliss chemicals cleared the view or clouded it.

“There’s a time for thinking, Ian.”

“And this isn’t it?”

“Of course this isn’t it.” She leaned over him, running a hand across his chest, then down to those much more than okay abs.

Gently, but firmly, he pushed her away. “I’m still fuzzy about how you landed in Yellowknife.”

“Well,” she said, watching the space between them grow wider as he sat up and leaned against the headboard, “I think first they pull the rudder back and then they do something with those wing flaps.”

“What’s the big secret, Sarah? What are you avoiding telling me?”

“There’s no secret. I already explained why I came.”

“Something about Santa.”

“You don’t believe I’d search for Santa’s workshop?”

His mouth twitched. “You probably would. And now that you spend all your time surrounded by children’s books, what could be more natural than an expedition to the North Pole?”

“Hey, you could come along.” She was so pleased he knew something about her work. About the rings, too. All these years apart she hadn’t been invisible to him. “Take the National Geographic photos, write the article. Interview the man himself!”

His attention sharpened when she mentioned his work. “Keeping tabs on me?”

Some self-protective urge got in the way of admitting anything that purposeful. “I wouldn’t say tabs.”

“What would you say?”

“I’d say—” I think about you sometimes, I wonder how you are “—I’d say, I try to notice what’s going on around me.”

“I haven’t exactly been around you.”

“The geography isn’t the point. You were my first husband. That doesn’t go away. There’s a little spot in my peripheral vision that is forever yours.” She held a finger to one side of her head. “It’s about here.”

“Pretty much out of sight. I’m surprised you noticed the work I do.”

“You’re not a spy. You’re a photojournalist. It’s kind of noticeable. Every now and then a magazine cover pops out at me. Like Serengeti Safari, on my way from canned goods to produce.”

“You went right by, did you? It stayed on the shelf?”

“Admired, but abandoned, I’m afraid.” As soon as she said it she wished she hadn’t. It wasn’t all that funny. Not terribly diplomatic, either. She hadn’t done the abandoning, though. It was the other way around. He was the one who’d walked out.

“You really just happened to turn up, Sarah? In my hotel?”

Oh, he could be frustrating! She was tired of being interrogated. “After visiting several others.”

“Ahh. The coincidence needed help.”

Sarah looked around for her purse. It was near the door, half under Ian’s jeans. She went to get it, then rejoined him on the bed while she opened it and pulled out a piece of folded newsprint.

“There I was yesterday morning, relaxing in my jammies—”

“Where’s ‘there,’ besides Vancouver?”

“In my apartment. Twelfth floor, oceanside.”

“Nice.”

“There I was, having my morning coffee and a delicious whole wheat, mega-iced, mega-cinnamon-sugar cinnamon bun, when I opened my weekend paper and found this.” She waved the clipping. It was an article describing how gold built Yellowknife in the 1930s and how diamonds under the rock and ice of the Barren Lands were behind another growth spurt now.

“‘All That Glitters Isn’t Gold.’ By Ian Kingsley.” She smiled. “I always knew your name would look good in print. This story is why I came to Yellowknife, Ian. You made me want to see the place for myself. At the end you said you’d be here for several weeks, working on a series of columns about the Northwest Territories. So I thought, why not?”

Before she finished speaking, she sensed his withdrawal.

“You dropped everything?” His voice had cooled.

What did that mean? She hadn’t dropped anything.

Slowly, she refolded the clipping. “Like a banana peel.”

“Right. Of course.” He went to the pile of clothes on the floor, purposeful, quick. He was already gone, more or less, before he finished getting dressed. “It’s none of my business what you do.”

“No.”

“Not anymore.”

“If it ever was.” She couldn’t believe what was happening. She’d finally answered his question and now the evening was crumbling, falling apart.

He pulled his shoelaces tight, and tied them with swift, sharp movements. “I’ll call you a taxi.”

He was throwing her out?

If she’d seen it coming she could have left first, left him dangling. Nothing to be done about it now. She certainly wasn’t going to bob up and down collecting clothes while he watched.

Settling back against the headboard, she turned to give him her left breast’s best angle. She could be just as cold as he was. Colder. “I’m not sure it’s that easy. You can’t say, ‘No, thank you’ right after, ‘Yes, please.’ Not if you’ve accepted what’s offered.”

“You’re right. It’s rude. It’s unfortunate.”

“Do you have a thesaurus? There must be a better word choice.” She took her time getting up from the bed, then padded toward him. He seemed unable to stop looking at her, his eyes lingering at all the expected places.

“I’ll shower and then we’ll talk.” That might give him time to settle down, to see that his behavior had gone way past unfortunate to absolutely mean.

But when she came out of the bathroom he wasn’t waiting, contrite and ready to apologize. He’d gathered her clothes together and left a note on top of them.

“TAXI’S PAID FOR AND WAITING.”

Scribbled under the block capitals was an apparent afterthought. “It was good to see you, Sar.”

CHAPTER THREE

TUNNELED UNDER THE covers the next morning, Sarah silently replayed the phrase Ian had used. Good to see her?

He’d actually said that. Written it, anyway, and writing it was worse. He’d had time to tear up the note, time to write a better one.

Good to see her, Sar. He’d thrown her out after great sex, and affectionately shortened her name.

How had she landed herself in this mess?

By ignoring a very important prefix, that was how. Ex-wives didn’t go to bed with ex-husbands. That was what ex meant.

But with Ian, look, don’t touch had never been an option.

The moment her body had gone into overdrive in that House of Taxidermy they called a bar, she should have headed straight back to the airport, alarm bells ringing.

She couldn’t, though. She’d already started to wonder about her choices where men were concerned, and when she’d seen his photo and byline in the paper her questions had moved front and center. What was she doing, embarking on relationship after relationship? Was it time to try again? Were she and Ian done? Really, forever and truly, done?

An odd thing to wonder after ten years, but the tumbling into bed, the complete and absolute wonderfulness of that, said no.

The turfing out said yes.

Maybe she’d expected too much from one short trip. As if she could stand in front of him and all answers would be revealed. As if he was some kind of oracle.

You dropped everything.

He’d said it so harshly, and cold went the eyes, on went the clothes. Why was he like that, leaping to judgment? “Dropped everything,” in that tone, as if she’d abandoned a child or left someone marooned on a cliff. Was that what he thought of her?

She didn’t care what he thought of her.

She did care, but she couldn’t change it. Couldn’t change him.

Muffled through the covers, she heard the room telephone ring.

Ian. She knew it right away. A mortified, shamed and sorry Ian. Haggard from tossing and turning all night—even more than she had, because he was the guilty one. She had only been unwise.

If he apologized, she would pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about. Note? You’re worried about that? Heavens, I was glad to see you, too.

She reached outside the comforter, felt around on the bedside table for the receiver and with as little banging against clock and lamp as possible, pulled it into her cocoon.

“Hello?”

“Good morning!” The voice on the other end was cheerful and wide-awake, medium deep. Not Ian. Oliver. “What a grumpy sounding woman. It can’t be the lovely, vacationing Ms. Bretton.”

She threw back the covers to see the clock. Eight? That meant it was seven at home. “Is something wrong? Is Jenny all right?” Jenny was her little mutt, rescued from an animal shelter a couple of years ago and living like a queen ever since. “Oh, Lord, not a car—”

“Jenny’s fine,” Oliver quickly reassured her. “Missing you, but hale and hearty. She’s here by my desk, cocking her head every time you speak.”

“Poor girl.”

“She’s not cocking it sadly. Curiously, that’s all.” His voice faded and Sarah heard him croon to the dog, saying ridiculous things about it being Mommy on the phone, yes, Mommy, who was far away….

“Stop it, Oliver. You’ll embarrass her.”

Sarah was coming to grips with two facts—one, that her demon lover hadn’t rushed to beg her forgiveness and two, that in another corner of her life she was something other than an idiot. In the eyes of some, in a faraway renovated gingerbread house, she was a capable, professional woman.

“What’s going on then, if you’re both fine? Why are you at work at this hour?”

“Pup needed to go out—did you mention how often and how early her physical needs dominate? I don’t think you did—and our walk took us past a coffee shop. Once we had a latte and a double chocolate glaze, there was no going back—”

He broke off, then, with a change in tone, got to the point of his call. “Hate to bother you, Sarah, first day of holidays. There’s a complication and I think you’ll want to know about it.”

She wriggled higher in the bed so she could sit straighter. “What kind of complication?”

“An Elizabeth Robb kind.”

There were never any complications from Liz.

“She sent an e-mail this morning at 4:00 a.m. her time,” Oliver added, “a panic hour if there ever was one. She claimed she hasn’t started the book.”

“I know. That’s what we’re going to talk about when I go to Manitoba. She was bound to get blocked eventu—”

“This year’s book,” he interrupted.

“What?”

“She hasn’t started this year’s book.”

Sarah got out of bed and paced as far as the phone cord allowed. “The one in the spring catalog?”

“That’s the one.”

“What does she mean, not started?”

“She means no paintings and no text.”

“You’re kidding.” Liz hadn’t said a word about having trouble with this year’s book. Although now that Sarah thought about it, she hadn’t said the project was going well, either. “Slowly,” she’d said, in a don’t-bug-me tone. “Does she mean she’s not happy with the paintings and text?”

“I’m afraid not. I called her as soon as I read the e-mail and asked her to send an attachment of whatever she’s done. It isn’t even an outline, Sarah. It’s doodles.”

The news was starting to sink in, but it was still hard to believe. “Any clue from her about what’s wrong?”

“She said there was no book, and went to change a diaper.”

“Send me the outline, would you? I’ll look at it over breakfast. And Oliver? Give Jenny a hug and a biscuit for me?”

“Already done.”

“Thanks. Thanks for taking care of things.”

“You’d do the same. You will do the same, I promise. Have fun.”

“Sure. Always.”

Sarah hung up and sat staring at the telephone. Maybe the outline was more complete than it looked at first glance. Maybe an old book could be reissued with added story and illustrations. How about an alphabet book? Liz must have tons of drawings on hand, enough to take a child from A to Z….

The phrase dropped everything kept trying to muscle into her thoughts.

IAN PACED FROM THE telephone to the window.

He didn’t like feeling in the wrong. She was a grown-up. She made the choices she wanted to make.

He paced some more.

Okay, right. What happened was his choice, too. Every minute from the time she’d walked into the lounge had been an invitation, but every minute he’d stayed was like saying yes. He couldn’t argue his participation had been halfhearted.

It was his hotel. That was the thing to keep in mind. She’d encroached on his territory. Saw the article one day, arrived in town the next…how sensible was that? And for what? To play? He was here to work. Six columns, six weeks. It was a tight schedule and he needed to focus. No distractions, not even Sarah.

Especially not Sarah. They’d written “The End” on their story, not “To Be Continued,” not “Tune In Next Decade” for more of the frigging same.

He downed some coffee and a cereal bar, then went through to the shower. If he didn’t get a move on he’d be late for his first meeting of the day. He’d booked half an hour with the Mountie who headed the Diamond Protection Service. Cops might be our friends, but annoying them seemed like a bad idea.

When his sluggish brain didn’t switch from Sarah’s soft, pale skin to interview questions, he turned the tap cooler, then all the way to cold. It woke him up and got him out the door in no time flat.

A COFFEEMAKER SAT ON the desk near the window. Sarah fit a pouch of an unknown roast into the filter basket and filled the reservoir with water. While it dripped, she scanned the file Oliver had sent.

An outline, no. Doodles, yes.

A spot above her eyebrow began to throb. She rubbed it and tried to feel only concern for Liz’s welfare. After a book a year for fifteen years—all of which seemed to end up in every library, school and child’s bookshelf in the land—what could have happened to sink this one? Painting and writing were Liz’s life. They were all she wanted to do.

Or had been, once upon a time long ago and far away. Before she moved back home to Manitoba from Vancouver, before she married her pumpkin farmer, before they started their family. Liz wouldn’t be the first woman to sink under the weight of domestic bliss. Clearly, she needed a hand.

When Sarah tried to call she got a busy signal, so she went back to her e-mail program, hoping to catch Liz online. After a couple of false starts in which she either sounded accusing or unreasonably cheerful she typed:

In a bit of a predicament, are you? Don’t panic! We’re here to help. We’ll talk about it more when I see you, but why not give me a head start understanding the problem? Oliver said there aren’t any paintings yet. You told me once the images help you see the story. Don’t they usually come first?

Sympathetic, she hoped, the question about images a sprinkling of breadcrumbs, the beginning of a path out of the forest. But firm.

By the time she had dressed and put on eyeliner and mascara, there was still no answer from Liz. Sarah took an apple from the side pocket of her suitcase and went out to the balcony, crunching.

She could see the city center, busy with cars and pedestrians. Closer to her, a rocky outcropping extended into a chilly-looking lake. Clusters of small buildings climbed up and down the rock, some apparently teetering on the edge. That must be the Old Town. Ian had written about it, rough shanties built by prospectors during the 1930s gold rush.

To the east, the water went on forever. To the north, beyond the city, green and rust-colored growing things stretched into the distance. In an austere way, it was beautiful.

She couldn’t put her finger on what it was about the north that got to her. Not as a direction, not as a place. Maybe, like New York in the song, as a state of mind? It pulled at her. Could it be actual magnetism, the North Pole using its power?

Her worries took a couple of steps back. She wanted to get out there, see the town and the lake close up. Explore, for real.

CHAPTER FOUR

IAN WAS MORE THAN LATE for his appointment. He missed it entirely. He rebooked the interview, for the following day, and went to spend the remainder of the morning at a restaurant that promised authentic northern fare, everything from caribou steak to musk ox burgers to freshly caught Great Slave Lake fish. He ordered bannock and coffee, opened his laptop and tried to work.

Tried but failed.

Sarah had been in his bed. Sarah Bretton Kingsley Bennett Carr. How long would her name be by the time she was fifty? There weren’t many decisions he regretted—even the bad ones usually had value—but that “I’ll call you a taxi” moment was one. Her face when he’d told her to go…he wouldn’t forget that expression in a hurry. And then the way she’d rearranged herself, that sinuous movement that turned her breasts and legs into the only things in the room…

“I’m not sure it’s that easy,” she’d said, mixing sultry with cool. She was right. The whole uncomfortable scenario of him being wrong about that and her being right about it was complicated by the memory of her leg hooked over his hip. Silky, but insistent.

Taking into account what he knew about Sarah and about the city’s hotels, he tried to guess where she’d be staying, if she hadn’t already zipped back to Vancouver.

As he guessed, she was registered at the newest, most luxurious place in town. When the switchboard put him through to her room, the answering machine picked up.

“Sarah? It’s me.” Although there weren’t many customers in the restaurant, he lowered his voice as he said, “Don’t know about you, but I didn’t get much sleep last night. My behavior—”

What could he say about his behavior?

“It was inexcusable.” Strong word. He felt better, saying it. “Pretty much from hello. You probably know what happened. Same old problem, right? One of them, anyway.”

He understood the banana peel remark had been an exaggeration, but it was true enough. Sarah jumped into things without looking, and she thought it was a good quality.

“That’s no excuse,” he added, wishing he hadn’t brought up the past. Blaming the other person had a way of watering down an apology. “I was a jerk no matter what the provocation. Anyway, I’m sorry for being thoughtless last night. And I hope you’re okay this morning.”

He imagined her voice, teasing, amused, saying of course she was all right. He used to wonder if it was even possible to hurt her. It was easy to infuriate her, but most of the time she kept things light. Or sexy. Like last night, walking toward him naked, as if he’d be mesmerized and do whatever she wanted.

As if? She’d nearly got her wish.

“I have to go, Sarah. Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”

As soon as he ended the call he realized he shouldn’t have left it open-ended. He should have said goodbye. None of that till we meet again stuff. A definite we’re done goodbye.

That’s what it was in his mind. Always had been.

He woke up his sleeping laptop. In one pane, he began playing a downloaded video that showed how diamonds formed. In another, he typed Column, Week Two.

Diamonds are forged by intense heat and pressure deep in the earth’s mantle….

Boring. Delete.

Diamonds are almost as old as the world itself. Some say they come from the stars….

Boring and vague. Delete.

He tried again.

The only diamond that ever caught my fancy was small and flawed, but that imperfect fraction-of-a-carat held a whole world, a whole future.

He stared at that for a while, then deleted it, too.

SARAH’S SPIRITS BEGAN TO rise as soon as she felt the sun on her face. Last night couldn’t be undone. The problem of the missing book couldn’t be solved, not today, not until she and Liz sat down together. All she wanted from this moment in time was to take it in, to see and hear and smell it.

For a small city, Yellowknife bustled. Ian had talked about that in his column, about people coming from all over the world to work in the diamond industry. Walking along the sidewalk, she heard so many languages spoken it was like an outdoor United Nations. The speakers of those languages were mostly men. Young, strong men of the wood-chopping, diamond-digging variety.

She hadn’t planned to shop, but all along her route to the Old Town the stores were filled with local arts and crafts. She found treasures every few steps—soap-stone carvings, photographs of the summer’s never-setting sun and the winter’s northern lights, traditional beaded leatherwork and incredible quilts with colorful, hand-sewn northern scenes. Soon she had souvenirs for everyone in her family and at Fraser Press, and had moved on to birthday and Christmas presents.

Just when she thought she couldn’t carry another thing, she came to a bookstore. Bookstores, she’d always thought, were as good as a rest, so she opened the door with her two free fingers and stepped inside.

“Oh, my goodness,” a woman said, hurrying from behind a counter. “Let me help you with those packages.” For a moment they were almost bound together, trying to untangle bags without dropping any. “Have you bought the entire town?”

“Not yet, but there’s still tomorrow.” Sarah pulled her collar away from her throat, letting a breath of air reach her skin. Her sweater, hand-knitted Peruvian alpaca wool, had seemed perfect when she was packing. “I didn’t think to check the weather before leaving home. It’s summer.”

“Yes, it is. For a while. A short, but delightful while. You’re not the first to think we have winter year-round.” The clerk didn’t seem to mind Sarah’s ignorance. She had a grandmotherly manner. Sarah could imagine her curling up with a child, getting comfortable to read a story. “Feel free to browse and if you see something you’d like to buy, I’ll be happy to send it to wherever you’re staying.”

Sarah thanked her, and turned to see the display on the closest table. It was a collection of children’s books. J. K. Rowling, C. S. Lewis, Enid Blyton…and Elizabeth Robb.

The familiar covers jumped out at her. There was an early story about a boy and a space pirate, a more recent book about warring fairies—Liz had written that one while falling in love with Jack—and a third, Sarah’s favorite, a nature book, all lush paintings and no text, done in memory of Liz’s first husband.