enough for her to consider a little exploration of her own, Mary
was in medical school and settled into the habit of a quiet life. She was able to judge for herself,
calmly and rationally, the risks of casual sexual contact, and she had decided to wait for a
serious, committed relationship. She had not achieved that level of commitment with anyone yet,
not even with Victor.
And she had been content with that. Before, she had been content. Now she said to herself
starkly, I am a twenty-six year-old spinster. Yes, a spinster. What an awful, sad, ridiculous word.
Maybe it was time to find out if Victor wanted to get engaged. Maybe they could get married
next spring, have the wedding of the social season, spend their honeymoon in the Bahamas,
come back home and-get back to work.
The prospect didn't sound any better today than it did yesterday. Feeling terribly sorry for herself,
Mary buried her face into her pillow and snuffled. Marrying-well, anybody else was even harder
to picture than marrying Victor.
That's it, she thought. In thirty years I'm going to be a skinny, shrivelled-up old woman, with
Coke-bottle glasses and gray hair, and Tim's children will call me Aunt Mary.
-She gritted her teeth, rebelling against the fatalistic depression. Surely that's not it. Why I'll-I'll
maybe take out a personal ad in the paper. "Wanted: a NICE, faithful husband and father type,
not obsessed with careers or social climbing, must like Tim."
And picnics. And walks on the beach. And having fun, I'm not going to think of Chance. He's out
of my life-not that he was really in it for long. I'm sad about Cassie, but if I called her and we
became friends, sooner or later I'd run into-that man. And I couldn't do that. No, a clean break
would be best. That's it, it's over, shut the door on it and get on with things, kaput.
What if he calls today? He might, he just might. I can't lie in bed any longer-I've got to tell
everybody I'm not home. Mary surged out of bed, hurried to shower, and dressed in a
Greenpeace T-shirt that said "Otter Joy" and shorts. Then, with her hair hanging loose and damp
down her back, she hurried downstairs.
She told Tim, who was listening to music on his headphones in the study. She told her
grandfather, who was stumping around in the back gardens with their handyman, plotting what
he was going to tear down next year. She ran off to tell Janice, their housekeeper, who was busy
vacuuming the front reception rooms. Only then did she relax enough to eat a sandwich, some
freshly baked cookies and a glass of milk. She left the kitchen afterward, intent on finishing a
book upstairs.
The hall phone rang just as she passed it. She picked up the receiver and said, "Hello?"
Damn!
"Hi, Mary." The voice was deep, growly and unmistakably Chance.
Shock bolted down her spine, and she panicked, slamming down the phone. She held the receiver
down with both hands and stared at it as if it might jump off the hook and bite her. After a few
seconds, it rang again. She jumped and looked around wildly. No, there was nobody-else around.
"Janice?" she called weakly.
She could hear the rumble of the vacuum cleaner, and Janice singing loudly. The phone sounded
again.
Don't-don’t pick it up. Let the answering machine get it. She looked at the machine and
whispered, "Tell him I'm hot home."
The phone stopped ringing, and the machine played its message. She hovered, heart pounding
idiotically, and then there was an electronic beep and Chance's voice sounded on the speaker.
"Mary? I know you're there, Mary. Are you okay?" A pause. He sounded so real, so vital, close
enough to touch. He sounded both nettled and amused. His voice lowered confidentially. "This is
Chance-is Victor there? Is that why you won't pick up the phone, Doc?"
Mary, chewed her fingernails. The message time on the tape was thirty seconds, but it seemed to
go on forever. Stop now. Stop. Then finally, thankfully, the machine clicked over,
was in medical school and settled into the habit of a quiet life. She was able to judge for herself,
calmly and rationally, the risks of casual sexual contact, and she had decided to wait for a
serious, committed relationship. She had not achieved that level of commitment with anyone yet,
not even with Victor.
And she had been content with that. Before, she had been content. Now she said to herself
starkly, I am a twenty-six year-old spinster. Yes, a spinster. What an awful, sad, ridiculous word.
Maybe it was time to find out if Victor wanted to get engaged. Maybe they could get married
next spring, have the wedding of the social season, spend their honeymoon in the Bahamas,
come back home and-get back to work.
The prospect didn't sound any better today than it did yesterday. Feeling terribly sorry for herself,
Mary buried her face into her pillow and snuffled. Marrying-well, anybody else was even harder
to picture than marrying Victor.
That's it, she thought. In thirty years I'm going to be a skinny, shrivelled-up old woman, with
Coke-bottle glasses and gray hair, and Tim's children will call me Aunt Mary.
-She gritted her teeth, rebelling against the fatalistic depression. Surely that's not it. Why I'll-I'll
maybe take out a personal ad in the paper. "Wanted: a NICE, faithful husband and father type,
not obsessed with careers or social climbing, must like Tim."
And picnics. And walks on the beach. And having fun, I'm not going to think of Chance. He's out
of my life-not that he was really in it for long. I'm sad about Cassie, but if I called her and we
became friends, sooner or later I'd run into-that man. And I couldn't do that. No, a clean break
would be best. That's it, it's over, shut the door on it and get on with things, kaput.
What if he calls today? He might, he just might. I can't lie in bed any longer-I've got to tell
everybody I'm not home. Mary surged out of bed, hurried to shower, and dressed in a
Greenpeace T-shirt that said "Otter Joy" and shorts. Then, with her hair hanging loose and damp
down her back, she hurried downstairs.
She told Tim, who was listening to music on his headphones in the study. She told her
grandfather, who was stumping around in the back gardens with their handyman, plotting what
he was going to tear down next year. She ran off to tell Janice, their housekeeper, who was busy
vacuuming the front reception rooms. Only then did she relax enough to eat a sandwich, some
freshly baked cookies and a glass of milk. She left the kitchen afterward, intent on finishing a
book upstairs.
The hall phone rang just as she passed it. She picked up the receiver and said, "Hello?"
Damn!
"Hi, Mary." The voice was deep, growly and unmistakably Chance.
Shock bolted down her spine, and she panicked, slamming down the phone. She held the receiver
down with both hands and stared at it as if it might jump off the hook and bite her. After a few
seconds, it rang again. She jumped and looked around wildly. No, there was nobody-else around.
"Janice?" she called weakly.
She could hear the rumble of the vacuum cleaner, and Janice singing loudly. The phone sounded
again.
Don't-don’t pick it up. Let the answering machine get it. She looked at the machine and
whispered, "Tell him I'm hot home."
The phone stopped ringing, and the machine played its message. She hovered, heart pounding
idiotically, and then there was an electronic beep and Chance's voice sounded on the speaker.
"Mary? I know you're there, Mary. Are you okay?" A pause. He sounded so real, so vital, close
enough to touch. He sounded both nettled and amused. His voice lowered confidentially. "This is
Chance-is Victor there? Is that why you won't pick up the phone, Doc?"
Mary, chewed her fingernails. The message time on the tape was thirty seconds, but it seemed to
go on forever. Stop now. Stop. Then finally, thankfully, the machine clicked over,
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