

TWYLA WAS SAVED by the bell---literally. She had really put her foot in it, bringing up the past, and Jake, and her father, and all that it implied.
Rob Carter's expression changed from friendly and interested to deeply suspicious. She hadn't hidden anything from him, not really, but the fact that she'd made no mention of the way her father had died until there was no turning back was probably a little incriminating.
Fortunately for her, a soft bell dinged and the pilot announced their approach to the airport in Jackson. He also said, in the mildest of terms, that due to reported wind shears in the area, passengers should expect "a little jiggle now and then."
The first "jiggle" left Twyla's stomach somewhere in the vicinity of twenty-thousand feet. The next jiggle left the imprint of her ruby-slippered fingernails in Rob's forearm. The jiggle after that might have severed her tongue, except that she had her teeth clamped together too tightly to move.
Some of the other passengers added sound effects to the flight pattern. Oohs and aahs and little shrieks and snatches of prayer rose above the general cacophony.
Forgive me, Brian, Twyla silently pleaded. Forgive your pathetic mother for coming to this stupid reunion just to prove some stupid point to the stupid town that witnessed her humiliation. She pictured her own headstone: Here Lies Twyla Jean McCabe. Died Young of Having Too Much Pride.
Then, before she knew it, a loud rush of wind drowned out everything else. She plastered herself back against the seat and shut her eyes, waiting for the end.
The plane touched down with a slow-motion bounce, then roared along the runway, finally slowing to a leisurely taxi to the jetway. Twyla couldn't believe it. She'd survived.
And she was deeply embarrassed.
But when she turned to Rob to apologize for being so clingy, she was amazed to see that his face had gone ghost-white. Beads of sweat covered his brow and upper lip. When he saw her looking at him, he cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"Are we having fun yet?" he asked.
Twyla laughed shakily. She used her free hand to pry her fingers off his forearm. "I think I've scarred you for life."
He waved away her concern. "If that's the worst a woman ever does to me, I'll count myself lucky." Before she could question him about that comment, he said, "So here we are. What do you want to do first?"
"Drink my face off," she said.
"I'd be glad to join you." He stood and moved back to let her go in front of him. "Let's check into the lodge. Mrs. Spinelli claims it has a well-stocked bar."
Trying not to wobble on her weak knees, Twyla made her way to the exit. "What lodge?" she asked over her shoulder.
"I have no idea. Something called Laughing Water Lodge." He patted his carry-on bag. "I've got a map and the key right here."
Sugar Spinelli had left no detail untended. From the moment they'd stepped into the airport lobby and spied a rental car employee holding a placard with Dr. Carter written on it, Twyla had wondered what else Mrs. Spinelli and Mrs. Duckworth had planned.
A twenty-five-minute drive in the rental car---a late-model red Jeep with a roll bar---took them out the winding farm-to-market road that stretched between Jackson and Hell Creek. They turned into a drive indicated only by a discreet stone marker beside a small, fast-moving mountain stream. Swaying willows and silvery aspens lined the pebbled drive.
The lodge itself was a grand old thing, built of thick logs with small-paned windows and angular buttresses under the eaves. Inside was a great room done in a lowkey new-West motif. Twyla tried not to gawk as she inspected the river-rock fireplace with the requisite thick pile hearth rug, the overstuffed furniture in subdued forest hues, the enticing library shelves filled with books she'd never read. Two bedrooms, she noted with satisfaction. They were located side by side, but she'd keep the door shut.
The fridge in the kitchen held a cold roasted chicken, an assortment of side dishes and desserts, several bottles of Moët Chandon and fruit and muffins for breakfast. As promised, the bar was nicely stocked.
"We're not in Kansas anymore," Twyla murmured.
"I love rich people," Rob said. "I really do."
"Even meddlesome, matchmaking rich people?"
Expertly popping the top of the Moët, Rob said, "Mrs. Spinelli must really like the way you do her hair."
Twyla flushed, overwhelmed by the intimate setting. It seemed almost criminal to be in this wildly romantic place, with every detail attended to, for the sake of a deception. "You know it's more than hair."
"Yeah, I guess I do. You going to tell me about it?"
"She had a pretty terrible time when she was sick a couple of years ago." Twyla said no more, because it was personal. There was a time when Mrs. Spinelli would only see Twyla on a house call. A radical cancer treatment had caused Sugar to lose most of her hair. Though her prognosis was good, she was miserable, and she looked it. Every other day Twyla visited her, styling a wig to look just right and doing her makeup. But the work was more than cosmetic. Mrs. Spinelli talked, and Twyla listened, and a deep bond formed between them. When Mrs. Spinelli felt up to going out again, she credited Twyla with all the compliments she received on her recovery.
"Let me guess." Rob handed her a flute of champagne. "You helped her through the illness."
They clinked glasses and Twyla took a sip. The champagne bubbles danced deliciously over her tongue with a taste she hadn't experienced in years.
"She claims I was a big help," Twyla said. "Mostly I just did her hair and listened."
They were silent, drinking their champagne. After a while, he said, "You like helping people, don't you?"
"Always have, I suppose." A wistfulness settled over her. "I wish---" She stopped and took another drink of the Moët.
"Wish what?"
She regarded him levelly. "What is it like for you when you have a case you can't cure?"
"Everyone can be helped," he said. "But some can't be cured, if that's what you're asking."
"I think I am. What's it like?"
"Frustrating, demoralizing, and it motivates me to work harder and dig deeper."
"How deep?"
"Until I figure out the problem. Why do you ask?" He winked at her. "Experiencing any strange symptoms?"
"My mother is agoraphobic," she blurted out, her tongue loosened by the champagne. "She never leaves the house."
He gulped the rest of his drink, swallowing hard. With a slow, deliberate movement, he set down his glass. "You're kidding."
"I wouldn't joke about this. She started having panic attacks after my father died. They got worse until...she simply stopped going out. We're...working on it."
She didn't admit that they had been working on it for years, that most of the time lately they simply pretended the problem wasn't there. It was baffling and heartbreaking to her, and it caused deep shame for Gwen. With a familiar, pervasive sadness she pictured her beautiful mother, stitching her museum-quality quilts, never leaving the old, secure house where Twyla had brought her when she'd lost everything else in her life.
"Damn," he said. "I'm sorry, Twyla."
"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to unload that on you, but I started to feel so comfortable with you today, Rob. When you showed me around Lost Springs, I felt I really got to know you."
He touched her arm briefly, but it was enough to heat her skin. "Did you get her diagnosed?" he asked. "This sort of disorder responds well to a number of drug therapies."
"Our family physician gave her a referral, but she refuses to follow up on it." She waved her hand impatiently. "I have no right to burden you with my troubles."
"You've got to put that load down somewhere," he said. "I don't mind. Honest."
Dear God, she thought, reveling in the comfort of honest conversation with this man. It would be so damned easy to pretend this growing friendship was real.
"So, about your invitation," he said.
"What invitation?"
"About drinking our faces off."
She laughed. "I think I'm over the desire to do that."
"All right then, dinner. I think we should eat here rather than go out."
"Are you ashamed of being seen with a hairdresser?"
"Very funny. No, we have work to do."
"What kind of work?"
Rummaging in his duffel bag, he took out a yellow legal pad and a pair of pencils and tossed them onto the pine plank table. "On paper, we've got to become the perfect couple."
THEY SWITCHED FROM the Moët to a dry Vouvray to go with their meal. Twyla loved it all, the rosemary-flavored chicken, the exotic chilled salads with noodles and hearts of palm, fresh rolls warmed in the oven. Feeling relaxed, she sipped her wine and fiddled with the pencil.
"Okay," she said, "where do we start?"
"Where do all couples start?"
"First meeting. Where did we meet?"
"A medical convention," he said. "I meet tons of people at medical conventions."
She had a swift and discomfiting image of Rob Carter having a stimulating technical discourse with a beautiful thoracic surgeon or pediatrician, followed by an even more stimulating sexual discourse. "No," she said. "What would someone like me be doing at a medical convention? Fixing hair?"
"Fine, then how did we meet?"
"Should we go for something exotic, like a scuba-diving rescue in Hawaii, or something simple, like we were introduced by mutual friends?"
"Friends, definitely. We can blame it on Mrs. Spinelli. A party at her house."
"Okay, so when was that?"
He gazed at her across the table, looking mellow and untroubled, disquietingly appealing. "Let's see, we'd better get this straight. We want everyone to know we're doing the right thing, not just acting on a rash animal attraction that will fizzle in a couple of months."
Congratulations, Mrs. Spinelli and Mrs. Duckworth, Twyla thought. You've finally done it. You've finally found one I could fall for.
"Heaven forbid." She chuckled, but at the same time, discomfort twisted through her, because when she looked at Rob Carter, she felt nothing but animal attraction.
"On the other hand, we want to be in the first flush of new love. So much more romantic that way."
"Of course."
"Six months?"
"Perfect." She noted it on the legal pad. "Six months it is. Long enough to know it's the real thing, but recent enough to still be starry-eyed about it."
"Damn, we're good."
They finished the Vouvray and moved on to a bowl of chilled strawberries and snifters of calvados.
"So what are our plans? Do we want to live in the city or country?" he asked.
"Country, definitely. Healthier for the kids."
"Ah, so we want more kids?"
"Don't you?" She took a gulp of the apple liqueur.
"Yeah. I guess. Someday."
She caught herself wondering if he meant it. No, she thought, it was probably another lie to add to their story. "What's our favorite song?" she asked impulsively.
"The theme from Rollerball?"
She giggled. "That's not what you said in the bachelor auction brochure. You said 'Misty."'
"Who's Misty?"
"It's a song. The brochure said it was your favorite." She hummed a few bars.
He shook his head. "Never heard of it."
"So who wrote that profile of you in the brochure?"
He hesitated, refilling their glasses. "A friend. Hey, we should come up with a new favorite. Isn't that what people falling in love do?"
It had been so long, she wasn't sure she could remember. "I think it should be a romantic song."
"Like what?"
At the moment, all that came to mind was "The Rainbow Connection," which was Brian's favorite. "Let's take our chances." She got up from the table and switched on the radio. "Next song that comes on, that'll be our song."
A decidedly country twang wailed from the speakers, and then came the words "Ever since we said 'I do,' there's so many things you don't."
"Lovely," she said, humming along to the outdated ballad. "Let's just hope nobody asks."
They brainstormed a small, private wedding. Honeymoon in Paris. Laughing, feeling easier by the moment, they constructed a fictional relationship that was so romantic and so entertaining that Twyla felt inordinately satisfied by the notes she had made.
"We did it," she said. "We're the perfect couple with the perfect relationship."
"Yeah," he said, but he wasn't looking down at the paper. "Just perfect. Ever had one?"
She laughed, silly with the wine and the nonsense they had created. "Right. A perfect relationship doesn't exist, pal."
He grew pensive, twisting the stem off a strawberry. "You're pretty young to have reached that conclusion." He pushed back from the table. "Come out on the porch, and you can tell me all about it."
Carrying the legal pad, she followed him outside. It was a typical Wyoming summer night, the stars so bright and abundant she felt as if she could reach up and pluck them from the sky like so many wildflowers. "Tell you about what? What's left to tell?"
He took the pad and pencil from her and set them aside. "This isn't for the masquerade. This is for me."
"What's for you?"
"This."
He didn't move fast, but with a straightforward deliberation she found oddly thrilling. He gripped her by the upper arms and pulled her to him, covering her mouth with his.
Dear God, a kiss. She couldn't remember the last time a man had kissed her. And what a kiss. It was everything a kiss should be---sweet, flavored with strawberries and wine, and driven by an underlying passion that she felt surging up through him, creating an answering need in her. She rested her hands on his shoulders and let her mouth soften, open. He felt wonderful beneath her hands, his muscles firm, his skin warm, his mouth...She just wanted to drown in him, drown in the passion. If he was faking his ardor, he was damned good. When he stopped kissing her, she stepped back. Her disbelieving fingers went to her mouth, lightly touching her moist, swollen lips.
"That...wasn't in the notes," she objected weakly.
"I like to ad lib."
"I need to sit down." Walking backward, never taking her eyes off him, she groped behind her and found the Adirondack-style porch swing, sinking back onto it. Get a grip, she told herself. It was only a kiss.
"I think," he said mildly, "it's time you told me just why you were so reluctant to come back here for the reunion."
"And why I had to bring a fake fiancé as a shield?"
Sitting down beside her, he brushed a lock of hair away from her cheek, and she flinched.
"Don't do that," he said.
"Don't do what?"
"Act like you're not used to me touching you."
"But I'm not---"
"We've been together six months," he said, grinning.
Then she got it. "Okay, you're right. I have to act like we do this every day." Every night, she thought.
"Good plan." Very casually, he draped his arm along the back of the porch swing. "I'm all ears, Twyla. Why'd I have to practically hog-tie you to get you back here?"
She felt a jolt of panic and prayed he couldn't see it in her face. How much should she tell him? How much could she trust him? "It's so predictable. None of this would surprise a soap opera fan. Are you sure you want to hear?"
"I insist on it."
The calvados and the darkness gave her courage---or made her foolish enough to trust this stranger with an old, old hurt. "It started with my marriage."
"The one you were too young for."
"Of course. But Jake and I had a plan."
"Jake---your ex-husband."
"Uh-huh. Jake Barnard. He was three years older, going to Northwest College in Powell. He was like a god to me, always had been. Top of the heap. Captain of the football squad. Voted most likely to...everything. All through high school, I made sure I measured up to the standards he'd set."
"You made captain of the football squad?" Rob gave a low whistle.
"I had to settle for head cheerleader, smarty-pants." She felt as if she were speaking about a couple of strangers, so remote were those two people now. "Hell Creek is so small, I guess you could say we lived in a fishbowl, with the whole town watching us. I didn't mind, so long as there was nothing to hide. It looked as if our lives were all set. Nothing could stop us." She was surprised to feel a thickness in her throat. Even after all these years, it still hurt. "We both got into great schools. University of Chicago for me and law school at Northwestern for Jake. The trouble was, only one of us could afford to go at a time while the other one worked."
"Let me guess. You volunteered to work full-time while he went to school."
"It made perfect sense. He was able to take an extra-heavy course load and attend summer school. Within three years, he'd have his law degree. We knew he'd get a terrific position right out of law school, because there was a firm in Jackson just waiting to hire him. Once that happened, then it would be my turn."
"It's a pretty grim commute from Jackson to the University of Chicago."
She remembered how disappointed she'd been, realizing she'd have to give up the chance to attend one of the best schools in the country.
"Change of plans," she said. "I'd be going to Northwest college in Powell. Anyway, I held up my end of the bargain. I cut hair for three years while he went through law school."
She stared at some distant point in the night sky, remembering. "We had such plans. We'd spend three weeks in Paris---it was always my dream to go to Paris---and then when we came back, he'd go to work and I'd get my degree. He landed a six-figure job at a major firm in Jackson, and we bought a house in Hell Creek. Everyone in town figured we were the fulfillment of the American Dream."
It felt good, talking about it after such a long time. She wondered about Rob, though. "Am I boring you?" she asked.
"No way. I have to hear the rest."
"I couldn't wait to get back to my studies. I remember feeling giddy, browsing through the course descriptions in the catalog. When I found out I was pregnant, I knew it would complicate things, but I had no idea my whole world would explode."
"What do you mean, explode?"
Nervously she set the swing in motion with one foot. "You probably already guessed. It's such a cliché. When I told Jake about the baby, he asked for a divorce. Within a few weeks, he went to France with some resort property heiress who went to high school with me. She already had her degree."
"He never contacted you about Brian?"
"No. I guess it's stupid, but I never pursued child support and Jake never offered."
"So whatever became of him?"
"My husband?" Her voice sounded soft, wistful.
"Ex-husband, you mean."
The sharpness of his correction startled her out of a dreamlike reminiscence. "What? Oh, Jake. I haven't seen him since the day I left Hell Creek, right after my father's funeral. He...um...showed up for the ceremony, but I couldn't bring myself to face him. He married the heiress, made a big name for himself in Jackson, ran for Congress, and as far as I know, they lived happily ever after. He never wanted to see Brian. Never calls him."
"So what were you hiding, Twyla? Marriages don't always work out. There's no shame in that. Especially since you were the injured party."
"But---" She took a long breath. The night air was filled with the fresh scent of water from the stream and the peppery perfume of daisies. "It wasn't what you'd call a quiet, discreet divorce. Jake's first case with his law firm was to sue my father over a contract with a crop-dusting chemical company."
Rob said a word that both seared her ears and pretty much summed up her opinion of the whole situation. Then he was quiet for a long time. She didn't know him well enough to guess what he was thinking. She didn't know him well enough to ask.
"So I suppose that's why coming back here didn't appeal to me. I was never fond of circling buzzards." She halted the motion of the swing and looked off into the distance at a swirl of stars. Her pride again. It was always getting in the way. The truth about Jake was that her experience with him had filled her with so much hurt and shame, she knew she'd never recover completely.
How did women get over their divorces? she wondered. Some of them---Sadie, for example---sailed through the trauma, cut their hair, lost weight, took up smoking and came through just fine. Twyla, on the other hand, was sure she'd spend her life wearing a scarlet V on her chest---V for victim.
What she really wanted was not to care. Not to care that she never had the chance to go to college, to go to Paris, to spread her wings and see where the wind took her.
But she did care. She cared so much that it burned a hole in her heart.
"No," said Rob, setting the swing in motion with his foot.
"No what?" she asked, startled out of her thoughts.
"No, it's not stupid that you never went after your ex for child support. I suppose if you were incapacitated you could make a case for it. But you're not. You're strong and capable, probably more so than your ex ever was."
She turned on her half of the swing so that she was facing him. Shadows fell across his face, but she could tell he was looking at her.
"That's about the best thing anyone's ever said to me."
He laughed. "Clearly you don't get out enough."
The night breeze sneaked across the porch, and she shivered. Quite naturally, without making any sort of production of it, he reached down and pulled her bare feet onto his knee. "Cold feet," he commented, covering her toes with his large, warm hand.
Twyla panicked, though she held herself perfectly motionless. He couldn't have known the alarm that was erupting inside her.
Yet he must have seen something in her face, maybe in her posture. "What's wrong?"
"This wasn't in the script."
"What wasn't in the script?"
"This. The bare feet in your lap," she said with an impatient shake of her head.
"You have beautiful feet." He rubbed them slowly, very slowly.
Thank God for Diep. Diep and her glorious pedicure. She closed her eyes and thought, You have great hands. Wild horses couldn't make her say it aloud.
"You think I have great hands, don't you?"
"What makes you say that?" she demanded.
"The way your eyes sort of half close when I do this." He rubbed her foot firmly, his thumb tracing the arch and curving around the shape of her heel.
She yanked her feet out of his lap and stood up, pressing herself against the porch rail. "Look, you don't have to do this."
"Do what?"
"This...this...everything. But especially the foot thing."
"Twyla. Do you have a foot fetish, or does any touching have this effect on you?"
She felt so hot she nearly burst into flames. She stayed in the shadows, hoping he couldn't tell. "It's a forbidden intimacy," she said.
"Forbidden? Isn't that a little melodramatic?"
"It's too personal."
He grinned wickedly. "I think that's the point."
"I think we can get through this weekend without having to make that particular point."
"We're supposed to be having a good time."
"We are having a good time," she insisted.
"Oh. Glad I asked."
She blew out a heavy sigh. "Okay, so we're not. I take full responsibility. We can head home tomorrow and forget this ever happened."
"Not," he said, "on your life."
"Why not?"
"Mrs. Spinelli and Mrs. Duckworth would tar and feather me if I didn't see this through. Besides, I like you, Twyla. This is a great house. We should enjoy it." He got up from the swing, crossed to the railing where she stood. "And you've got to quit shying away from me. I'm not Jake Barnard. No woman put her life on hold in order to pay my way through school." He paused, a devilish grin on his face. "Although, if I'd known that was an option, I might have pursued it."
"Ha. Typical male."
He ran his finger down her bare arm and back up, drawing circles on her shoulder. Until this moment, she'd never known that shivers could feel warm.
"Twyla, calm down and let yourself have fun with this. That's the point. You're spending your first weekend away from your son and your mother and your shop, and if you don't have a good time doing it, then you've betrayed them and yourself."
In spite of herself, she chuckled. "Oh, you're good, Dr. Carter."
"Thanks. Now, get back over to the swing and put your feet in my lap."
The surprising thing wasn't that he came right out and said it. The surprising thing was that she obeyed.


