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Authors: Anne McCaffrey
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mature attitude,” she went on, while Simon rolled his eyes in exasperation at her present role. “Oh, cut it out,” she said to him irritably.
My feelings were rather mixed. I wished she hadn’t come out with such statements in front of a complete stranger; she was using phrases with which I had explained my divorce plans to my children, and Shamus Kerrigan was regarding her with a good deal of interest.
“They don’t have divorce here in Ireland, do they?” she went on to Kerrigan. “Say, Mother, is your divorce legal in Ireland?”
“Shut up, Snow,” said Simon. “Mother?” He appealed to me to assert maternal authority.
“I could ask, if you’d like,” Shamus said, studiously avoiding my eyes.
“If she isn’t, then if Daddy came to Ireland with that gushy woman he married, he’d be a bigamist and could be arrested, couldn’t he?” And she gave a funny little laugh, not at all the sound of a fourteen-year-old girl. I got the feeling that Snow would very much like to see her father in jail!
“Here’s the food,” said Simon. “Stop jabbering and eat. This is too good to waste.”
As though to prevent any more shock waves in the social situation, Shamus Kerrigan initiated other conversational gambits. He was good at it without being heavy-handed in directing the talk. If only I hadn’t been bothered by the fact that he was doing the pretty only to get me to give him access up the lane, I’d’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself. To give him his due, not once did a hint of the matter arise during dinner. Nor on the drive home. I mean, to the hotel.
The twins and I were properly appreciative of the evening, and he confirmed the Saturday date. Then, as he tooled the big Jag slowly out of the parking lot, we swept into the hotel just as if we ought to. When I figured he must be clear of the intersection, we ducked back out and into the parking lot for the Renault.
Chapter 4
I DON’T SLEEP WELL in strange houses on unfamiliar beds. At least, that’s what I told myself when I was still wide awake at three. I was damned well lying to myself. I disliked taking the sleeping pills which my doctor had sympathetically given me after I’d innocently complained about insomnia. I’d been rather aghast when he’d obliquely advised me to “get around more,” meet new people, form new attachments, “however brief.” Mother’d suggested that, she was very broad-minded and this was a permissive society. I’d not been nearly as horrified at her tacit advice to take a lover as I had been at Dr. Grimeson’s. After that, however, I couldn’t chalk up my sleeplessness to nerves or not enough exercise: I had to admit it was the lack of sex.
Sex, or lack of it, had never been a problem while I was married to Teddie. He liked to exercise his rights and occasionally was rather brutal about exercising them, even after I tumbled to the fact that he was having affairs and in no pain. I’m not a prude—well, not for
other people
—but I wasn’t going to play the suburban game, particularly after I’d decided to divorce him. I certainly wouldn’t give him a chance to get custody of the twins because of any indiscretion he could lay on me. So I sweated it out. Then—and now.
I’d about dulled my sex drive before coming to Ireland, so it was heartily discouraging to find a resurgence after just a few hours in the company of an attractive man. It just wasn’t fair.
While I was prowling about the first floor of the house, trying to wear out my restlessness, I noticed two other patches of light in the darkness: one at Thornton’s cottage and the other at Ann Purdee’s. I also heard the thin wail of a sick child. That brought back other memories: of me desperately trying to cope with two screaming, teething infants while Teddie snored on in oblivion and then berated me the next day for looking haggard.
I forced myself away from such reminiscences. “Remember the good times,” I’d been advised by another
My feelings were rather mixed. I wished she hadn’t come out with such statements in front of a complete stranger; she was using phrases with which I had explained my divorce plans to my children, and Shamus Kerrigan was regarding her with a good deal of interest.
“They don’t have divorce here in Ireland, do they?” she went on to Kerrigan. “Say, Mother, is your divorce legal in Ireland?”
“Shut up, Snow,” said Simon. “Mother?” He appealed to me to assert maternal authority.
“I could ask, if you’d like,” Shamus said, studiously avoiding my eyes.
“If she isn’t, then if Daddy came to Ireland with that gushy woman he married, he’d be a bigamist and could be arrested, couldn’t he?” And she gave a funny little laugh, not at all the sound of a fourteen-year-old girl. I got the feeling that Snow would very much like to see her father in jail!
“Here’s the food,” said Simon. “Stop jabbering and eat. This is too good to waste.”
As though to prevent any more shock waves in the social situation, Shamus Kerrigan initiated other conversational gambits. He was good at it without being heavy-handed in directing the talk. If only I hadn’t been bothered by the fact that he was doing the pretty only to get me to give him access up the lane, I’d’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself. To give him his due, not once did a hint of the matter arise during dinner. Nor on the drive home. I mean, to the hotel.
The twins and I were properly appreciative of the evening, and he confirmed the Saturday date. Then, as he tooled the big Jag slowly out of the parking lot, we swept into the hotel just as if we ought to. When I figured he must be clear of the intersection, we ducked back out and into the parking lot for the Renault.
Chapter 4
I DON’T SLEEP WELL in strange houses on unfamiliar beds. At least, that’s what I told myself when I was still wide awake at three. I was damned well lying to myself. I disliked taking the sleeping pills which my doctor had sympathetically given me after I’d innocently complained about insomnia. I’d been rather aghast when he’d obliquely advised me to “get around more,” meet new people, form new attachments, “however brief.” Mother’d suggested that, she was very broad-minded and this was a permissive society. I’d not been nearly as horrified at her tacit advice to take a lover as I had been at Dr. Grimeson’s. After that, however, I couldn’t chalk up my sleeplessness to nerves or not enough exercise: I had to admit it was the lack of sex.
Sex, or lack of it, had never been a problem while I was married to Teddie. He liked to exercise his rights and occasionally was rather brutal about exercising them, even after I tumbled to the fact that he was having affairs and in no pain. I’m not a prude—well, not for
other people
—but I wasn’t going to play the suburban game, particularly after I’d decided to divorce him. I certainly wouldn’t give him a chance to get custody of the twins because of any indiscretion he could lay on me. So I sweated it out. Then—and now.
I’d about dulled my sex drive before coming to Ireland, so it was heartily discouraging to find a resurgence after just a few hours in the company of an attractive man. It just wasn’t fair.
While I was prowling about the first floor of the house, trying to wear out my restlessness, I noticed two other patches of light in the darkness: one at Thornton’s cottage and the other at Ann Purdee’s. I also heard the thin wail of a sick child. That brought back other memories: of me desperately trying to cope with two screaming, teething infants while Teddie snored on in oblivion and then berated me the next day for looking haggard.
I forced myself away from such reminiscences. “Remember the good times,” I’d been advised by another
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