The days were shorter now that winter was approaching, and dusk had settled by the time the taxi pulled up in front of the beach house. While Glenn was paying the cabdriver, Maggie looked over the house where she’d voluntarily sequestered herself, wondering how Glenn would view the ostentatious showplace. Undoubtedly, he would be impressed. Her friends had praised the beach house that seemed to lack for nothing. There was a work-out gym, a sauna, a Jacuzzi, a swimming pool and a tennis court in the side yard that Maggie never used. The house held enough attractions to keep even the most discriminating prisoner entertained.

  On the way from the airport they had stopped off at Steve’s empty apartment and picked up Glenn’s luggage. Seeing it was a vivid reminder that he was scheduled to leave in the afternoon. “What time is your flight tomorrow?” she asked, wondering how long they’d be in Charleston. They had already decided to make their home in San Francisco, but arrangements would need to be made in Charleston.

  His mouth hardened. “Are you so anxious to be rid of me?”

  “No.” She turned astonished eyes to him, stunned at his sharp tongue. He made it sound as though she wouldn’t be going with him. She should. After all, she was his wife. She could make an issue of it now, or wait until she was certain she’d read him right. They had already experienced enough conflict for one day, and Maggie opted to hold her tongue. Her fingers fumbled with the lock in an effort to get inside the house. “I have to phone my brother,” she announced once the door was open.

  “Denny?”

  “Yes, Denny, or is that a problem, too?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair and expelled an angry breath. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  Maggie lowered her gaze. “I know. We’re both on edge. I didn’t mean to bite your head off, either.” They were nervous and unsure of each other for the first time in their lives. What had once been solid ground beneath their feet had become shifting sand. They didn’t know where they stood…or if they’d continue to stand at all.

  Glenn placed a hand at the base of her neck and gently squeezed it. “My flight’s scheduled for three. We’ll have some time together.”

  He didn’t plan to have her travel with him! That was another shock. Fine, she thought angrily. If he didn’t want her, then she wouldn’t ask. “Good,” she murmured sarcastically. Fine, indeed!

  The house foyer was paved with expensive tiles imported from Italy, and led to a plush sunken living room decorated with several pieces of furniture upholstered in white leather. A baby grand piano dominated one corner of the room. As she hung up Glenn’s coat, he wandered into the large living room, his hands in his pockets.

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s very nice” was all he said. He stood, legs slightly apart, while his gaze rested on an oil painting hung prominently on the wall opposite the Steinway. It was one of Maggie’s earlier works and her favorite, a beachscape that displayed several scenes, depicting a summer day’s outing to the ocean. Her brush had captured the images of eager children building a sand castle. Another group of bikini-clad young girls were playing a game of volleyball with muscle-bound he-men. A family was enjoying a picnic, their blanket spread out on the sand, shaded by a multicolored umbrella. Cotton-candy clouds floated in a clear blue sky while the ocean waves crested and slashed against the shore. Maggie had spent hours agonizing over the minute details of the painting. Despite its candor and realism, Maggie’s beachscape wasn’t an imitation of a snapshot recording, but a mosaic-like design that gave a minute hint at the wonder of life.

  “This is a marvelous painting. Where did you ever find it?” Glenn asked, without turning around. “The detail is unbelievable.”

  “A poor imitation of a Brueghel.” A smile danced at the corners of her mouth.

  “Who?”

  “Pieter Brueghel, a sixteenth-century Flemish painter.”

  “A sixteenth-century artist didn’t paint this,” Glenn challenged.

  “No. I did.”

  He turned with a look of astonished disbelief. “You’re not teasing, are you?” The question was rhetorical. His eyes narrowed fractionally, as if reassessing her.

  “It’s one of my earliest efforts after art school. I’ve done better since, but this remains my favorite.”

  “Better than this?” His voice dipped faintly, as though he doubted her words. “I remember you scribbling figures as a kid, but I never suspected you had this much talent.”

  A shiver of pleasure raced up her arms at the pride that gleamed from his eyes as he glanced from the painting back to her. “I had no idea you were this talented, Maggie.”

  The sincerity of the compliment couldn’t be questioned. Others had praised her work, but Maggie had felt a niggling doubt as to the candidness of the comments. “Thank you,” she returned, feeling uncharacteristically humble.

  “I’d like to see your other projects.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get the chance. Right now, I’ve got to phone Denny. He’ll wonder what happened to me.”

  “Sure. Go ahead. I’ll wait in here if you like.”

  Maggie’s office was off the living room. She hesitated for a moment before deciding, then walked to the telephone, which was on a table next to the couch. Her back was to Glenn as she picked up the receiver and punched out the number.

  “Denny, it’s Maggie.”

  “Maggie,” he cried with obvious relief. “How was the wedding? You must have been late. I tried to get hold of you all day.”

  It was on the tip of Maggie’s tongue to tell him about her marriage, but she held back, preferring to waylay his questions and doubts. She would tell him soon enough.

  Her brother’s voice softened perceptibly. “I was worried.”

  “I’m sorry, I should have phoned.” Maggie lifted a strand of hair around her ear.

  “Did you get the money transferred?”

  Maggie sighed inwardly, feeling guilty. Denny knew all the right buttons to push with her. “The money will be ready for you Monday morning.”

  “Thanks. You know Linda and I appreciate it.” His voice took on a honey-coated appeal.

  “I know.”

  “As soon as I talk to the attorney about my case, I’ll let you know where we stand.”

  “Yes, Denny, do that.” A large portion of Denny’s inheritance had been lost in a bad investment, and Maggie was helping him meet expenses. She didn’t begrudge him the money: How could she when she had so much? What she hated was what it was doing to him. Yet she couldn’t refuse him. Denny was her brother, her only brother.

  After saying her good-bye, she replaced the receiver and turned back to Glenn. “I gave the housekeeper the weekend off. But if you’re hungry, I’m sure I’ll be able to whip up something.”

  “How’s Denny?” Glenn ignored her offer.

  “Fine. Do you want something to eat or not?”

  “Sure.” His gaze rested on the phone, and Maggie realized that he’d probably picked up the gist of her conversation with Denny. More than she had intended. As a stockbroker, Glenn would know what a foolish mistake her brother had made, and she wanted to save her brother the embarrassment if possible.

  Determined to avoid the subject of her brother, Maggie strolled past Glenn, through the dining room, and into the expansive kitchen that was equipped with every conceivable modern cooking device. The double-width refrigerator/freezer was well stocked with frozen meals so that all that was required of her was to insert one into the microwave, push a button, and wait.

  The swinging doors opened as Glenn followed her inside. He paused to look around the U-shaped room, with its oak cabinets and marble countertops. His hands returned to his pockets as he cocked his thick brows. “A bit large, wouldn’t you say? One woman couldn’t possibly require this much space.”

  Of course the kitchen was huge, she thought, irritated. She hadn’t paid an exorbitant price for this place for three drawers and a double sink. “Yes,” she returned, somewhat defensively. “I like it this way.”

  “Do you mind if I take a look outside?” he asked, and opened the sliding glass doors that led to a balcony overlooking the ocean.

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  A breeze ruffled the drapes as he opened and closed the glass French door. Maggie watched him move to the railing and look out over the beach below. If she paused and strained her ears, she could hear the ocean as the wild waves crashed on the sandy shore. A crescent moon was barely visible behind a thick layer of clouds.

  Leaning a hip against the counter, Maggie studied his profile. It seemed incomprehensible that the man who was standing only a few feet from her was her husband. She felt awkward and shy, even afraid. If he did head back to Charleston without her, their marriage would become increasingly unreal. Before Glenn turned to find her studying him, Maggie took out a head of lettuce from the refrigerator and dumped it into a strainer, and then placed it under the faucet.

  Rubbing the chill from his arms, Glenn returned a few minutes later.

  “Go ahead and pour yourself a drink,” Maggie offered, tearing the lettuce leaves into a bowl. When he hesitated, she pointed to the liquor cabinet.

  “I’m more interested in coffee, if you have it.”

  “I’ll make it.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Simultaneously, they moved, and somehow Maggie’s face came sharply into contact with the solid mass of muscle and man. Amazingly, in the huge kitchen, they’d somehow managed to collide. Glenn’s hand snaked out to steady Maggie at the shoulders. “You okay?”

  “I think so.” She moved her nose back and forth a couple of times before looking up at him. “I should have known this kitchen wasn’t big enough for the two of us.”

  Something warm and ardent shone from his eyes as his gaze dropped to her mouth. The air in the room crackled with electricity. The hands that were gripping her shoulders moved down her upper arms and tightened. Every ticking second seemed to stretch out of proportion. Then, very slowly, he half lifted her from the floor, his mouth descending to hers a fraction of an inch at a time. Maggie’s heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer wildly. He deliberately, slowly, left his mouth a hair’s space above hers so that their breaths mingled and merged. Holding her close, he seemed to want her to take the initiative. But the memory of that morning remained vivid in her mind. And now it seemed he intended to leave her behind in San Francisco as well. No, there were too many questions left unanswered for her to give in to the physical attraction between them. Still, his mouth hovered over hers, his eyes holding hers. At the sound of the timer dinging, Glenn released her. Disoriented, Maggie stood completely still until she realized Glenn had moved away. Embarrassed, she turned, making busywork at the microwave.

  “That smells like lasagna,” Glenn commented.

  “It is.” Maggie’s gaze widened as she set out the dishes. What an idiot she’d been. The bell she heard hadn’t been her heart’s song from wanting Glenn’s kisses. It had been the signal from her microwave that their dinner was ready. The time had come to remove the stars from her eyes regarding their marriage.

  Maggie noted that Glenn’s look was thoughtful when they ate, as if something was bothering him. For that matter, she was unusually quiet herself. After the meal, Glenn silently helped her stack the dinner plates into the dishwasher. “Would you like the grand tour?” Maggie inquired, more in an effort to ease the tension than from any desire to show off her home.

  “You did promise to show me some more of your work.”

  “My art?” Maggie hedged, suddenly unsure. “I’m more into the abstract things now.” She dried her hands on a terry-cloth towel and avoided looking at him. “A couple of years ago I discovered Helen Frankenthaler. Oh, I’d seen her work, but I hadn’t appreciated her genius.”

  “Helen who?”

  “Frankenthaler.” Maggie enunciated the name slowly. “She’s probably the most historically important artist in the last few decades, and people with a lot more talent than me have said so.”

  Glenn looped an arm around her shoulders and slowly shook his head. “Maggie, you’re going to have to remember your husband knows absolutely nothing about art.”

  “But you know what you like,” she teased, leading him by the hand to the fully glassed-in upstairs studio.

  “That I do,” he admitted in a husky whisper.

  No one else had ever seen the studio, where she spent the vast majority of her time. It hadn’t been a conscious oversight. There just had never been anyone she’d wanted to show it to. Not even Denny, who, she realized, gave only lip service to her work. She led Glenn proudly into her domain. She had talent and knew it. So much of her self-esteem was centered on her work. In recent years it had become the visible outpouring of her frustrations and loneliness. Her ego, her identity, her vanity were all tied up in her work.

  Glenn noted that her studio was a huge room twice the size of the kitchen. Row upon row of canvases were propped against the walls. From the shine in her eyes, Glenn realized that Maggie took her painting seriously. She loved it. As far as he could see, it was the only thing in this world that she had for herself.

  He hadn’t been pleased by what he’d overheard in her telephone conversation with Denny. He had wanted to ask Maggie about it over dinner, but hesitated. He felt that it was too soon to pry into her relationship with her brother. As he recalled, Denny was a decent guy, four or five years older than Maggie. From the sounds of it, though, Denny was sponging off his sister—which was unusual, since Glenn had heard that Denny was wealthy in his own right. It was none of his affair, Glenn decided, and it was best that he keep his nose out of it.

  Proudly, Maggie walked around the studio, which was used more than any other room in the house. Most of the canvases were fresh and white, waiting for the bold strokes of color that would bring them to life. Several of the others contained her early experiments in cubism and expressionism. She watched Glenn as he strolled about the room, studying several of her pictures. Pride shone in his eyes, and Maggie basked in his approval. She wanted to hug him and thank him for simply appreciating what she did.

  He paused to study a large ten-foot canvas propped at an angle against the floor. Large slashes of blue paint were smeared across the center and had been left to dry, creating their own geometric pattern. Maggie was especially pleased with this piece. It was the painting she had been working on the afternoon she was late meeting Glenn at the airport.

  “What’s this?” Glenn asked, his voice tight. He cocked his head sideways, his brow pleated in concentration.

  “Glenn,” she chided, “that’s my painting.”

  He was utterly stupefied that Maggie would waste her obvious talent on an abstract mess. The canvas looked as though paint had been carelessly splattered across the top. Glenn could see no rhyme or pattern to the design. “Your painting,” he mused aloud. “It’s quite a deviation from your other work, isn’t it?”

  Maggie shrugged off his lack of appreciation and enthusiasm. “This isn’t a portrait,” she explained, somewhat defensively. This particular painting was a departure from the norm, a bold experiment with a new balance of unexpected harmony of different hues of blues with tension between shapes and shades. Glenn had admitted he knew nothing about art, she thought. He wouldn’t understand what she was trying to say with this piece, and she didn’t try to explain.

  Squatting, Glenn examined the large canvas, his fingertips testing the texture. “What is this material? It’s not like a regular canvas, is it?”

  “No, it’s unprimed cotton duck—the same fabric that’s used for making sails.” This type of porous material allowed her to toss the paint across the canvas; then, point by point, she poured, dripped, and even used squeegees to spread the great veils of tone. She spent long, tedious hours contemplating each aspect of the work, striving for the effortless, spontaneous appeal she admired so much in Helen Frankenthaler’s work.

  “You’re not into the abstract stuff, are you?” she asked with a faint smile. She tried to make it sound as if it didn’t matter. The pride she’d seen in Glenn’s eyes when he saw her beachscape and her other work had thrilled her. Now she could see him trying to disguise his puzzlement. “Don’t feel bad—abstracts aren’t for everyone.”

  A frown marred his smooth brow as he straightened and brushed the grit from his hands. “I’d like to see some more of the work like the painting downstairs.”

  “There are a couple of those over here.” She pulled a painting out from behind a stack of her later efforts in cubism.

  Glenn held out the painting, and his frown disappeared. “Now, this is good. The other looks like an accident.”

  An accident! Maggie nearly choked on her laughter. She’d like to see him try it. “I believe the time has come for me to propose another rule for this marriage.”

  Glenn’s look was wary. “What?”

  “From now on, everything I paint is beautiful and wonderful and the work of an unrecognized genius. Understand?”

  “Certainly,” he murmured. “Anything you say.” He paused to examine the huge canvas a second time. “I don’t know what you’re saying with this, but this is obviously the work of an unrecognized and unappreciated genius.”

  Maggie smiled at him boldly. “You did that well.”

  Chapter 5

  Glenn muttered under his breath as he followed Maggie out of her studio. Her dainty back was stiff as she walked down the stairs. She might have made light of his comments, but he wasn’t fooled. Once again he had hurt her. Twice in one day. The problem was that he was trying too hard. They both were. “I apologize, Maggie. I didn’t mean to offend you. You’re right. I don’t know a thing about art.”