Temporary Wife
by
Joan Kilby


"Ms.  Dutot is required to leave the country without delay."

The immigration official spoke in a stony voice.

"Given Ms.  Dutot's widowed status and expired work visa, we have no
choice but to deny her further residence."

Burton held up a hand.

"Pause.  Rewind.  Are you saying she can't stay because she isn't
married to a Canadian citizen?"

"That is correct."  The official turned to Veronique: "You are required
to file a deposition at the Customs and Immigration office.  We can
accommodate you immediately."

Before she could answer, Burton put his arm around her waist and drew
her to his side.

"That won't be necessary, will it ... darling?"  She glanced up, eyes
wide.  He held her gaze, hoping she wouldn't flinch.

"Wh-what are you talking about?"  She tried to tug away, but he held
her fast.

Smiling through gritted teeth, he replied, "I'm talking about our
forthcoming marriage, of course."

She was speechless, thank God.

Dear Reader, Years ago I sailed to Tahiti on a fifty-five-foot yacht
built and captained by my father.  I've been fascinated with the
tropical French colony ever since.  So when I needed a foreign heroine
for my "green card" marriage, Tahiti seemed the natural homeland for my
heroine.  Or perhaps more accurately, became home for a heroine in
search of a story, for Veronique has resided in my imagination for
quite some time.  I can readily relate to her homesick feelings, living
as I d&in Australia, far removed from family and Mends in Canada.

I had a lot of fun writing Temporary Wife.  At one point I was calling
television stations, trying to interview a producer and having little
success.  Then, through a serendipitous turn of events, a producer
called me, looking for a romance writer to appear as a celebrity guest
on a local cooking showi Naturally I leapt at the chance.  Not only did
I experience on a small scale what my heroine faced as a television
chef, I also got to visit the studio and talk to the director, audio
and visual technicians, camera operators--qn short, everyone involved
in producing a TV show.  During my cooking episode---which included
Veronique's mango salsa, by the way--I pumped the producer interviewer
almost as fast as she could ask me questions.  My questions were edited
out of the final tape, of course, but I got my information and had a
ball doing it.

Like my hero, Burton, I spent my childhood in a rural area outside
Vancouver.  Like him, I enjoyed the sunshine and ignored the rain,
loved the juxtaposition of mountains and sea, and as I grew older,
mourned the loss of farmland to houses and industry..  But farmers are
a tenacious lot, clinging to the land with a love that some limes
defies economics.  I fervently hope that when my grandchildren are old
and gray, farmers will still be tilling the rich and fertile soil of
the Fraser Valley.

Sincerely, Joan Kilby Joan Kilby

HARLEQUIN

TORONTO NEW YORK LONDON

AMSTERDAM PARIS SYDNEY HAMBURG STOCKHOLM ATHENS TOKYO MILAN

MADRID PRAGUE WARSAW BUDAPEST AUCKLAND

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that
this book is stolen property.  It was reported as "unsold and
destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher
has received any payment for this "stripped book."

ISBN 0373708327

TEMPORARY WIFE

Copyright 1999 by Joan Kilby.

All rights reserved.  Except for use in any review, the reproduction or
utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any
electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented,
including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information
storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written
permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan
Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination
of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the
Same name or names.  They are not even distantly inspired by any
individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure
invention.

This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

and TM are trademarks of the publisher.  Trademarks indicated with are
registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the
Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

Printed in U.S.A.

To Michael, who knows "the Secret," with love and gratitude.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank Nieve Jones and the crew at Optus Local Vision;
Janna M. Dieleman and colleagues at Delta Cable

TV;

and Lawrence McDonald for providing information and insight into the
world of television.

Thanks go to Fraser Valley potato grower Robert Swenson, and to Ruby
Friesen for interviewing him Thanks also to John Friesen, whose
pursuits include farming as well as sailing, for information and
inspiration.

Joan Hunt told me all about the trials of broken hips, and Cheryl, from
the Department of Customs and Immigration, explained the intricacies of
work permits and immigration.

Special thanks to Ghislaine Jauselon for correcting my French, and for
sharing colorful stories of life in Tahiti.  Any technical errors in
this book are mine.

CHAPTER ONE

MONDAY MORNING AND Burton O'Rourke had a lot on his mind.  Just when
he'd thought his life couldn't get any better, it had suddenly turned
very, very bad.

Torrential rain drummed on Vancouver's gray and soggy downtown core,
beating an unrelenting tattoo on Burton's big black umbrella and
hampering his long-legged stride down Burrard Street.  Although the
weather matched his mood, it was incidental to his problems.

Roughly forty-eight hours ago, his maternal grandfather, the person he
loved most in the world after his mother, had been alive and feeding
his flock of prizewinning Rhode Island Reds.  Sometime before lunch on
Saturday, Granddad's heart had seized while he was lifting a heavy
piece of lumber.  And he was gone, just like that.  Slumped on the
sagging steps of the farmhouse he'd built with his own hands almost
sixty years ago.

Burton sidestepped a puddle, bumping umbrellas with a faceless
passerby.  He stepped up his already-brisk pace amid the stream of
workers hurrying to their dry, well-lit offices and shops.  Pointless,
futile anger directed at himself as much as at fate drew a spontaneous
muttered curse from him.  He should have been there to carry that
lumber.  Because of him, perhaps, Granddad had been cheated out of
seeing another spring mm to summer, seeing his crops grow and ripen.

Granddad's death also left question marks around Burton's half-finished
documentary about the history and future of farming in the Fraser
Valley.  He had a nasty feeling Murphy would come up with an answer.
One he wouldn't like.

Burton ducked out of the rain and into the Channel Seven television
station.  Granddad hadn't lived to see the dramatization of his life's
work, but by God, Burton would make sure the old man was remembered.

He shook out his umbrella in the doorway, and collapsed it into clammy
nylon folds as he crossed to reception.  Halfway there, he did a
double-take.  Li]lian Spencer, the station's attractive elderly
receptionist, had changed her hair.  Normally fluffy and white, curled
in a fashion befitting a grandmother ten times over, it was now cut in
a youthful, spiky style.

"Good morning, Burton," Lillian said, glancing up from her computer to
greet him with a smile.

"Still raining, I see."

"A morning fit only for ducks and native Vancouverites," he said as he
balanced his briefcase on his knee and popped the latches.  Removing a
single stem of yellow frees ia he added it to the vase bursting with
spring flowers on Lillian's desk.  He kept the vase full by adding one
flower every day.  Rain or shine.  Life or death.

"You've had your hair done."

Lillian pulled the frees ia toward her and inhaled.

"You're a darling, Burton."  Straightening, she gingerly touched her
hair.

"Do you like it?

My grand niece is going to hairdressing school.  I think it makes a
change from my plain old-lady style."

"Nobody would ever call you plain, Lillian," he said, hoping she
wouldn't notice he hadn't answered her question.

He shrugged out of his coat and slung it over his arm.  The cuffs of
his long-sleeved navy cotton sweater and his black denim pants were
damp, as were the socks inside his black Rockports.  He ran a hand
through his short hair and flattened the annoying cowlick that curved
over his right brow.

"Is Murphy in yet?"  Grief, briefly suspended, resurfaced in a frown.
He hated having to deal with this now, but he couldn't rest while the
future of his documentary was uncertain.

"He just went up."  Lillian peered at Burton over the rims of her
half-glasses, her gray wisps of eyebrows knitting in concern.

"Is something wrong?"

There was no reason to keep Granddad's death a secret, except that it
hurt like hell to talk about it, and Lillian had an attentive way about
her that drew a person out.

"My grandfather died on Saturday."

"Oh, Burton.  I'm so sorry."  Lillian discreetly punched a button to
save the spreadsheet on her computer screen.

"Thanks, Lil, it's okay--" He stopped, wiping a hand across his eyes.

"Actually, it's not okay, but I can't do anything about it."

Intentions, good or bad, never did anything.

Lillian shook her head gently, watching his face.

"Very upsetting.  Was it unexpected?"

"Yes."  His voice sounded harsh and suddenly he found he couldn't talk
about it, after all.

Lillian's gift lay in knowing when to offer sympathy and when to offer
a distraction.  She touched his hand.

"Ernest has arrived."

Ernest?

"Your new production assistant.  He's setting up his desk in Jim's old
spot."

"Good.  I'll see him in a few minutes.  First I've got to talk to
Murphy."

"Yes, of course.  Lost Harvest."  Lillian had instantly understood the
ramifications of his grandfather's death.

Burton nodded, one hand clenching into a fist.  Everyone at the station
knew how much this project meant to him.  Maybe some didn't know it was
a tribute to the man who'd been his greatest influence, but they were
aware it would be the first piece he'd written, as well as produced.

The phone rang.

"Good morning, Channel Seven," Lillian said in her well-modulated
telephone voice.  She listened a moment, then glanced up at Burton.

"Your mother," she whispered, a hand over the receiver.  I'll put her
on line one."

Burton nodded and started down the corridor.  He could hear Lillian
gently murmuring her regrets over his mother's recent loss.  He was
worried about Mother; she and Granddad had been very close.  Her grief,
like Burton's, was as fresh and deep as a newly dug grave.

The key ready in his hand, he unlocked his office door and swung it
open in one motion.  The space was a scant ten-by-twelve, mostly taken
up by shelves lined with rows of boxed videotapes.  The file cabinet in
the corner was stacked high with more videos.  Three walls were covered
with photos, mostly black and white, relics of his early years as a
photojournalist.  On the fourth wall was a window that overlooked a
parking lot.  Burton didn't care about the view, or lack of it.  He had
a highly developed inner vision that lent color and shape to his world,
and provided him with abundant mental images.  Sometimes more than he
could cope with.

Kicking the door shut, he rounded the desk, scooped up the telephone
receiver and punched line one.

"Hello, Mother," he said, sinking into his chair.

"How are you this morning?"

"I'm fine, Burtie dear," Catherine O'Rourke replied, her voice clear
and high.

"Just fine."

Anyone else would think she sounded like her normal cheerful self.  But
Burton heard the note of strain, knew she was barely hanging on to her
control.  He took a leaf from Lillian's book.

"I arranged with Granddad's neighbors to look after the dog until we
can figure out what to do with him.  They'll feed the chickens and
collect the eggs, as well."

"That's nice of them.  Did you ... cancel the phone and the
electricity?"

He understood her hesitation.  Mundane details like a name in a phone
book or on a hydro bill gave a certain solidity to life, provided proof
of existence.  And when they were cut off for good... It had been the
same when Dad had died five years ago and they'd had to cancel his car
insurance and credit cards.  It was hard to let go.

"Let's keep the utilities going for a while," Burton replied.

"At least until you've sorted through his things.  Until we've sorted
through them," he amended, knowing how hard it would be for her to do
it alone.

"All right.  Thank you."

"How is it going with the funeral arrangements?  Can I do anything?"

"No, I'm fine.  I like to keep busy.  It takes my mind off ... things."
The quaver in her voice was now clearly audible.

"I just wish I'd been there when he died.  I wish..."

Burton's throat thickened with his own intertwining of grief and
guilt.

The image of Granddad as he'd found him replayed itself before his
mind's eye as it had done countless times over the past two days.  For
months he'd been meaning to get out there and help fix the front steps
of the farmhouse.  Why hadn't he made the time to just go and do it?

When he finally had gone, it was too late.

Old Doc Perkins had insisted that at Granddad's age, cardiac arrest
could have come at any time.  Sure, Burton thought.  One could also
argue that death was inevitable, a fact of nature, a peaceful end to a
full life.  But no matter which rationalization he applied, William
Armstrong's death still felt like his fault.  Granddad had always
taught Burton the meaning of responsibility.  Death was the final
lesson.

"We're reading the will tonight," Catherine said.

"You'll be there, won't you?"

Burton covered his face with his hand and swore silently.

"Burton?  Did you hear me?  I said--" "I heard you."  He cleared his
throat.

"What time?  It's going to be chaos around here today--" He broke off.
Every day was chaos, a baffle to stay ahead of a breakneck schedule
constantly being undermined by the unexpected.

"Eight o'clock.  Now, Burton..."  Rather than reproach him, her tone
implied she expected him to do the right thing.

Burton flipped open his daily planner to the ribbon that marked last
Friday's date, April 30.  He turned the pages forward to Monday, May
3.

Every time slot until seven-thirty at night had something penciled
in.

Snatching a pen out of the bamboo holder on his desk, he made a slash
through tonight's seven-thirty entry.  And wished for the zillionth
time there were forty-eight hours in every day.

"Don't worry, Mother.  I'll be there.  I'll come straight from the
station since I'll be work-Lng late."

Catherine sighed.

"When are you not?  You're so much like your grandfather."

Burton's gaze moved to the opposite wall, to a photo he now realized
he'd been avoiding looking at since he entered the office.  Sandwiched
between the stark images of a Belfast bomb blast and a group of Israeli
soldiers bris-fling with Uzis, was a color portrait of Granddad.

William Armstrong's weathered brow was almost as stem and unyielding as
the soldiers'.  But his sense of humor, honed as fine and dry as the
prairies from whence he'd come, was evident in the curving lines around
his strong mouth.  His hair, once a dark copper like Burton' s, had
turned to a thick shock of white, but his eyes, the same brilliant
blue he'd passed on to his grandson, had barely dimmed with age.

I'll take that as a compliment."  Burton pressed his thumb and
forefingers to the inner corners of his eyes.

"I imagine whatever he had will go to you as his only child, but if his
chess set isn't spoken for, I'd really like it to remember him by."

"I know he would want you to have it," Catherine said, her voice
warming.

"You were only nine when he taught you how to play.  The pair of you
used to sit under that horse chestnut tree in the side yard, brooding
over the game for hours."

Burton remembered it well--the old man's quiet chuckle as he applauded
Burton's first unassisted checkmate, his own bursting pride at his
grandfather's approval.  The silence on the line stretched.  Burton
felt the sting of tears.  He reached into his pocket for a
handkerchief.

"He was a great guy," he said at last.

"I have to go," he added, tucking the handkerchief back in his
pocket.

"Call me if you need anything."

"I will.  And don't forget--eight o'clock at Mr.  Bing-ham's house."

Burton wrote down the address of his grandfather's lawyer and said
goodbye.  Then he strode back down the hall to the elevator, and jabbed
the button for the fifth floor.  There had to be a way to keep the
project going, The elevator inched upward, past Research and Public
Relations, past the cafeteria and whole floors of offices.  Burton shut
his eyes and tried to visualize Murphy waving aside the objections and
difficulties inherent in continuing a show whose main character had
died.

The elevator jolted to a stop, the doors opened with a ping, and the
image of a benevolent and risk-taking Murphy disappeared in a puff of
mental smoke.

At the outer desk, Sylvia murmured into the telephone receiver cradled
between her neck and shoulder while her

long lacquered nails tap-danced across the computer keyboard.  She
glanced up, her cinnamon-colored mouth a star-fled "O" as Burton walked
past her, knocked once on the double oak doors and pushed his way into
the plush-carpeted corner office.

Odd.  The air, usually so full of cigar smoke that breathing was a
health hazard, smelled conspicuously fresh this morning.

"Excuse me, Murph, can I have a word?"

Ponderous and bulky, Ed Murphy leaned back in his leather swivel chair
and grunted acquiescence.

"What's up, O'Rourke?"

Burton pulled out one of the guest chaffs in front of Murphy's big oak
desk and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

"It's Lost Harvest.  Something's happened.  Something that'll affect
the show."

"Get to the point," Murphy demanded in his cigar-stoked growl.  He took
a swig from a giant-size mug printed with a black silhouette of the
Vancouver skyline.

Impelled back to his feet by a sudden tightening in his chest, Burton
said, "My grandfather died.  On Saturday."

Murphy's responding grunt contained sympathetic overtones.

"Sorry to hear that.  You want a day or two off, you got it."

"Thanks, but that's not what I need right now."  Burton paced
restlessly across the room, unimpeded by furniture or implements of
work.  At the far side he turned and faced his boss.

"I want to keep going on Lost Harvest."

Murphy's fleshy face settled into a scowl.  He reached a thick hand
across his desk to extract a handful of jelly beans from the brass
humidor that, until recently, had contained the finest, Cuban cigars.

"How the hell you going to manage that?"  he barked, popping a bright
purple bean into his mouth.

Burton strode back to Murphy's desk.

"I've got hours of taped interviews---Granddad in his kitchen, out in
the barn.  I've got interviews with local marketing boards, the
minister of agriculture--" "A bunch of talking heads.  What you need
are shots of your grandfather on a tractor.  A farming documentary
needs to show him planting, harvesting ... all those things farmers
do."  "I've been waiting for the weather to cooperate."  Burton rubbed
his jaw with the frustration of it all.  Granddad had been held up by
the rain, too.  One hundred acres were plowed and ready to plant with
potatoes.

Both he and Granddad had thought they had plenty of time.  I'll just
have to find another farm to use for location shots.  No big deal."

"I dunno, O'Rourke.  This project was supposed to be finished weeks
ago.

Channel Seven is about entertainment.  I had a helluva time convincing
the board to take a chance on a documentary in the first place.  It's
going to be damn near impossible to get them to agree to another
delay."

Burton moved to the plate-glass window and gazed out at the rain-soaked
corner of Burrard and Comox.

"The Fraser Valley has some of the richest soil on earth, and our
farmers are being forced out of production by high taxes, cheap imports
and the demand for further development.  We should be growing food, not
houses."

"Spare me the rhetoric, O'Rourke.  And sit down.  You make me nervous
always moving around like that."  Murphy popped the rest of the jelly
beans he was holding into his mouth.  Then he flicked the flame on the
silver cigarette lighter shaped like an ocean liner that plied the sea
of papers on his desk.

Burton looked at the jelly-bean-filled humidor.

"You've quit smoking again.  No wonder you're in a foul mood."

"Don't be a smart-ass," Murphy said.

"Cut your losses, O'Rourke.  It's not as though you don't have anything
else on your plate."

"This is my grandfather's life we're talking about."

"That's exactly what I never liked about this project."  Murphy jabbed
a pudgy finger at him.

"You're too involved.  No disrespect to your grandfather intended, but
it's a waste of time to carry on.  You've had a tough break, but don't
let it affect your judgment."

Burton resumed pacing.

"There's nothing wrong with my judgment.  You want entertainment?  Lost
Harvest is a show that's informative, interesting and suitable for the
whole family.  It has human interest coming out its ears.  Old farmers
retiring, younger family members reluctant to take on a way of life
that provides little financial incentive and a ton of hard work.  Loss
of heritage, the changing identity of a region.  Give me a week.  I'll
find one of Granddad's cronies.  We'll redo the entire show."

"Stop talking, goddamn it, before you start making sense.  This project
is going back on the shelf.  It's been a ratings risk all along, and
the odds just went up.  We have a responsibility to our sponsors. 
Hell, we won't have any sponsors if we don't come up with the goods."

"And just who are these sponsors?"  Burton demanded.

"California tomato growers?  Housing developers?  People who have a
vested interest in seeing a show like this fail?"

"Fact one," Murphy said, ignoring Burton's question, "Channel Seven is
in a slump.  Sponsors are getting nervous, and that means tighter purse
strings.  Fact two, the board of directors wants something fresh and
exciting.  They came up with some suggestions at their meeting last
week."  He leaned over to pull open a side drawer and rummage through
the files.

"Why the hell they pay me to be vice president of programming, I don't
know," he muttered.

"Here we go," he said, pulling out a file folder and opening it.

"One of their ideas is not half-bad--a cooking show."  Burton stared in
disbelief.

"A cooking show?"

"You betcherlife.  And you're going to produce it."  Burton gave a
short, mirthless laugh.

"What I know about cooking wouldn't fill a measuring cup.  Get Trudy
to do it."

Murphy grunted.

"You're lucky it was me who heard that sexist remark and not the lady
in question."

Burton gestured impatiently.

"I only meant because she likes cooking shows.  She told me she watches
them all the time."

"Trudy is booked up.  You've got a hole to fill.  Summer's coming and
it's always slow what with reruns and fill-ins.  We've got to give the
ratings a kick up the backside."

"You think a cooking show is the answer?  Come on, Murph."

"You'll make it happen."

Burton pushed a hand through his hair.

"I'm not a miracle worker.  The documentary was at least something I
could get my teeth into."

"Don't be so quick to write off cooking shows.  Trudy isn't the only
one who watches them.  This food craze is even bigger than exercise. 
In these lean, mean times, people want comfort, and comfort means
food."

Murphy popped another half-dozen jelly beans into his mouth and sat
back to chew.

Burton resumed pacing.

"I've got the crew assembled for Lost Harvest.

The schedule is finalized.  Everything's done but the final shooting.

All I need is the green light from you."

"Save your breath, O'Rourke.  I'm giving you the cooking show because
it's important, and because you're the best damn producer I've got.  So
quit your bellyachin' and get on with it."

Burton snorted and furrowed a hand through his hair.

"I'm beyond cooking shows, Murph, and you know it.  I've done game
shows, news, sports, soaps..."  He turned and pointed a finger at
Murphy.

"Remember the miniseries I did last year that got picked up by CBS?

And what about WlHZ that L.A. production company that's been sounding
me out to do a movie-of the-week?"

"What about it?"

"I could go elsewhere," Burton said quietly.

Burton held Murphy's gaze for a full five seconds.  Then he started for
the door.  It was a heavy bluff, and he wasn't at all certain it would
succeed, but he was desperate.  He was almost through the double portal
and starting to sweat when Murphy cleared his throat with a phlegmy
rumble.

"Don't go off like a cheap firecracker, O'Rourke," he grumbled.

"I

didn't say you couldn't ever do your blasted documentary.  Make this
cooking series a success--and by that I mean a significant jump in the
ratings--then, if you find yourself another farmer, you can have the
resources to finish Lost Harvest."

Burton broke his stride.  If he'd learned anything in seven years of
television, it was to recognize a final offer when he heard one.

Keeping his expression carefully neutral, he turned and held his
ground.

"A cooking show would have to be prime time to earn a jump in the
ratings."

Murphy waved a pudgy hand.

"We'll move things around if we have to."

Burton stepped back into the office.

"And the budget?  I can't raise ratings on a shoestring."

"You'll have a budget appropriate for a half-hour prime-time slot."

Murphy leaned back in his leather Swivel chair and belched.

"That'll have to be good enough."

Burton put his hands on his hips and stared at the floor.  A cooking
show was beneath his experience and talent.  But prime time was not. 
It might work.  Damn it, he'd make it work.  Lost Harvest--and
Granddad's memory--depended on it.

"I want this deal in writing," he said, lifting his head.

"Shooting of Lost Harvest has to start no later than August

first if we're going to get enough outdoor shots with sun in them."

Murphy's face creased into a bulldog grin.

"Maybe you should take yourself to Hollywood, O'Rourke, where the sun
always shines."

Burton grinned back.

"Maybe I will."

But he knew he wouldn't.  His career was important, and he was working
for the day he'd be able to pick and choose his projects.  But he loved
Vancouver, rain and all, and besides, now that Granddad was gone, his
mother had no family but him.

Murphy scowled again, but Burton knew this time it was purely for
effect.  He and Murph tussled on a regular basis; it didn't stop them
from being friends.

"You've set yourself a helluva schedule, O'Rourke," Murphy said.

"You're the only guy I know who comes in here and demands to be
overworked."

Burton shrugged.  As his career had progressed from camera work to
directing to producing, the demands of his job had tightened around
him.  He'd tied the knots himself, every rope the challenge of a new
project he couldn't back away from.  That was the way he liked it.

He strolled over to Murphy's desk to lift the lid on the humidor.

"I see you don't like licorice."

Murphy gave a wheezy chuckle.

"Help yourself.  Then get outta here.  And next time, knock before you
barge into my office."

"You got it."  Burton popped a black jelly bean into his mouth.  Then
he carefully moved the guest chair back to its proper position.  Before
he shut the double oak doors behind him, he poked his head back
through.

"Thanks, boss.  Give my regards to Mrs.  Murphy."

Out in the reception area, Sylvia's glossy mouth was now busily chewing
gum, her lacquered nails drumming the desktop as she waited for a
printout.

"Morning, Sylvia," Burton said as he went past.

"Morning, Burton."  She flicked her shining fall of chestnut hair
behind her shoulders and gave him a parting smile.

Burton bypassed the elevator and took the fire stairs to the first
floor.

Lillian glanced up as he pushed through the heavy door.

"How did it go?"

"Do you like cooking shows, Lil?"

"Love them.  Why?"  .

"Because that's what's replacing Lost Harvest."

Her kindly face twisted sympathetically.

"I'm so sorry, Burton."

He shrugged.

"That's showbiz What I need now are fresh troops.  Send in my new
assistant, please."

THE ALARM CLOCK RANG, long and shrill.  Bleary-eyed, Veronique Dutot
peered over her hot-pink comforter at the window.  Rain sheeted down
the pane and drummed on the roof, dripping steadily from the eaves. 
Did it never stop raining in this horrible country?

With a groan, she hit the off button, fully intending to go back to
sleep.

A sneeze took her by surprise.  Mais, non.  Not a cold.  She snuggled
under the covers and tried to recapture the dreamscape of a white coral
beach fringed with palm trees and lapped by crystal-clear turquoise
water.

The telephone rang.

Veronique snuggled deeper, but the phone was not as easily silenced as
the clock.  Muttering in French, she sneezed again, then snaked an arm
up through the bedclothes to drag the receiver into the muffled warmth
of the down-filled quilt.

"Allo?"

"Veronique!  C' est moi, Ghislaine!"

"Ghis!"  Veronique sat upright, her chill forgotten in the excitement
of speaking to her sister, half a world away in the South Pacific.  She
answered her in French, glad to use her native tongue.

"I didn't expect you to call.  Nothing's wrong, I hope?"

"I just wanted to talk," Ghislaine replied.

"How are you?  What are you doing?"

"Wishing I was in Tahiti with you."  Veronique sighed, her mind filling
with images of the island the color and bustling heat of Papeete
harbor, the heady scent of frangipani filling the air at dusk, the
chickens pecking at coconuts in her sister's yard .... "How is
Donaldo?"  she went on.

"And Coralie?  And le petit Hugo?"  She'd never met her baby nephew,
but on top of the refinished walnut dresser opposite her bed stood a
photo of him--a wisp of hair and a gummy grin cradled in his
three-year-old sister's arms.

"Everyone's fine.  Coralie asks about you all the time when is
Veronique coming again?  And Hugo is growing a tooth."

"A tooth!  Already!  You better send a new photo.  Tell me, did you get
the part-time job at the bank?"

"No, they wanted someone with more qualifications."

"Too bad " "Poof!  Who wants to be all buttoned up, anyway?  I'm better
off sticking with the airline for now.  Yesterday Don-aldo and I took
our sailboards and wind surfed halfway to Moorea."  She paused.

"I wish you were here, Vero.  Remember how we used to windsurf for
miles, nothing but the wind and the sea and the sky?  Listen, can you
hear that?"

Veronique listened hard.  She heard a soft rushing sound that rose and
fell rhythmically.  It called to something deep in her soul.  Something
fundamental, like the relaxation of the mind that came only from
conversing in her native tongue.

"What is it?"  she whispered.

"Have you forgotten the sound of the ocean already?"

Veronique flopped back on her pillow with a groan.

"Don't torture me!"

"Oh, Vero, I know you hate it in that cold, wet country.  Donaldo's
cousin, Jean-Paul, is building a floating-restaurant at the marina.

He's looking for a head chef and asked if you were available.  Head
chef, Veronique!"

Head chef!  Her dream was to someday have her own restaurant, but for
now... She could go home, be among her family and friends.

"What did you tell him?"

"I said I would talk to you."  She paused, then said, "Your husband,
that horrible Graham Gerritson, is dead.  Why don't you come home?"

"I want to.  I will--soon.  Marion is getting out more.  She went to
the library last week, and I've almost convinced her to join a bridge
club."

Ghislaine gave an impatient snort.

"I don't understand why you concern yourself with your
ex-motherin-law."

"She's lonely, Ghis, and that's something I understand."  Veronique
tugged the duvet up around her neck.

"She and Stan moved here from Toronto just to be near Graham and me.
Since Stan and Graham died in the plane crash six months ago, she has
no other family or friends.

She used to be so fun-loving, and now she doesn't want to do
anything.

But she's very kind.  When I first came here, she was the only one who
even tried to speak to me in French.  Not more than a badly mangled
word or two, but she tried."

"Come home, Vero."

The warm, enveloping sound of her sister's voice tightened the gossamer
threads that bound Veronique's heart to a place thousands of ocean
miles away, making it ache with an almost physical need to rejoin her
family.

"Soon," she said.

"I promise."

Tears trickled from the corners of Veronique's eyes and seeped into the
pillow.  The tremor in her sister's voice was echoed in hers as they
said goodbye.

Veronique lay on her back and stared at the damp patch on the ceiling
where the rain had soaked through a leak in the roof.  Was it really
less than a year since she'd left Tahiti?

The tiny island had been her home since the age of ten.  She'd gone
back to France once, to cooking school in Paris.  On her return she'd
taken a job at the Club Med, working her way up to sous chef.  Five or
six years went by and she'd become bored and restless.

Bored?  Ha!  If only she'd known then how much she would yearn for her
old life.  lut she'd longed for change.  Any change.  And fate had sent
her a brown-haired, blue-eyed Canadian businessman on holiday.  His
looks had been more intriguing than handsome, but the physical
chemistry ... oh la la.  He'd charmed her with passionate glances and
long-stemmed red roses.  Where he'd found roses in the tropics she
couldn't guess.  Nor could she ask.  Unable to speak more than a few
words of English, she'd simply smiled, dazzled by his romantic
gesture.

They hadn't needed words to snorkel on the tropical reef or to lie in
each other's arms on the beach in the moonlight.  And all the English
she'd needed was yes for him to whisk her away from her beloved home to
this foreign country, foolishly believing his perfect manners and
charming smile were the reflection of a beautiful soul.  Foolishly
thinking, too, that a change of scenery would banish her ennui.  Only
she found she'd exchanged one tiny problem for a set of massive ones.

Veronique pushed back the comforter and crawled naked out of bed. 
She'd taken this apartment on the third floor of an old house because
the heater was set permanently at eighty-five degrees to allow heat to
reach the basement suite.  Even so, her flesh rose in goose bumps as
soon as she left the warmth of her down comforter.  She dressed
hurriedly, pulling on stockings and a straight skirt the color of black
coffee and then buttoning a cream silk blouse over her bare breasts.

She slipped a chocolate-colored cashmere sweater over her head, tugging
the cuffs

down till a thin line of cream silk showed below the brown.  The
cheval mirror by the old-fashioned wardrobe reflected the warmth of the
apricot wails, a profusion of greenery on the windowsill, and a short,
slender woman dressed in bargain-basement chic.  Pursing her lips,
Veronique turned to study the back view.  Okay, she would do.

Her sheepskin slippers didn't match the elegance of the rest of her
outfit, but they shielded her feet from the cold filed floor of the
bathroom.  While the water ran from cold to hot, she used her fingers
to untangle her thick, wavy hair.  Shoulder-length was impractical for
a chef, but she couldn't bring herself to cut off the sun-bleached tips
of her honey-dark curls.  They were the last tangible reminder of her
life in Tahiti.

Veronique's fingers stilled as she stared at the sad sack reflected in
the mirror.  Loneliness hung around her like the leaden clouds that
clung to the coastal mountains.  What she hadn't told Ghislaine was
that Marion was her only friend, as well.  Her attempt at a smile
turned into a grimace, and she had a sudden, terrifying mental image of
her self being washed away by the endless rain.

She could not spend another winter in this cold, damp country where the
sun disappeared for months at a time.  She needed warmth and sunlight,
friends and family, people who shared her language and her culture.

People who understood her and loved her for who she was.

She needed to go home.

Veronique splashed warm water on her face.  With her eyes shut she
could almost imagine it was the tropical ocean.

She would go home.

The possibility of happiness unfolded inside her like the tiard flower
after the rain.  This afternoon she would give notice at Le Soutx;on.

This morning she would tell Marion of her plans.

Her excitement withered at the thought of how the older woman would be
affected by her news.  Since the deaths of their husbands, they had
become closer, relying on each other for company.

Perhaps too much so.  She suspected that some weeks she was the only
person Marion spoke to other than the mailman or the grocery clerk.

Veronique made herself coffee and toast in the small kitchen, which was
hung with copper-bottomed pots and strings of garlic and chili peppers
from the market.  Then, with professional efficiency, she whipped up
Marion's favorite cake.  When it had baked and cooled, she packed it
into a wicker basket along with a book of crossword puzzles.  Outside
her Kitsilano apartment, she caught a bus that carried her over the
bridge, through the city and over another bridge to her mother-in-law's
house perched high on the edge of a cliff in West Vancouver.

Veronique stepped off the bug.  Head down, shoulders hunched against
the rain, she jogged the short distance to Marion's gate.  Rain-soaked
pansies lined the path to the bright red front door, but Veronique
didn't spare their drooping velvet heads more than a glance.  HUddled
under the gabled overhang, she lifted the brass knocker and tapped
three times.

CHAPTER TWO

THE DOOR OPENED A CRACK, and one gray-blue eye peered over the chain.

"Is that you, Veronica?"

"Bonjour, Marion.  Yes, it is me, Veronique."  As always, she
emphasized the correct pronunciation of her name, but she did so with a
good-humored smile.

The door shut.  Veronique heard the chain slide back, then Marion,
well-groomed as usual in a tailored maroon shirtdress, swung the door
wide to welcome her in.

"Hello, my dear."  Marion smoothed her carefully styled gray hair and
adjusted the belt of her dress.

"You shouldn't have come all this way in the rain just to see me."

"Poof!  The bus, he goes practically door-to-door."  Veronique breezed
inside and lightly kissed Marion on both cheeks.  The first time she'd
done that Marion had recoiled in surprise, but now she seemed used to
what she once regarded as Veronique's excesses.

Marion frowned in concern.

"Your voice sounds odd, Ronnie.  Are you all right?"

"I think I am coming up with a cold."  Veronique sneezed twice,
rapidly.

"Coming down with a cold.  I don't know how you can catch a cold when
your apartment is as hot as Hades.  It's a wonder you're not sick!"

"I am sick."  Sniffing, Veronique unbuttoned her soggy wool coat and
peeled it off.

"Yesterday I miss my bus and was caught in the rain, hopping mad like a
wet cat.  My dress, she stick to me, and the water it pours down my
back... Attention!"  She shook her head like a Saint Bernard, and
Marion stepped back quickly, away from the spray.

"You need to dress for the weather, my dear."  Marion took Veronique's
coat and hung it over the open door of the hall closet to dry.

"And find a place to live that doesn't leak.  I don't know why you sold
your house after Graham passed away."  She paused.  You could move in
here with me.  This house is far too big for one person, and goodness
knows I could use the company."

Oh la la.  Veronique twisted the gold bangle on her wrist.  Selling
Graham's house had been the first step toward going home.  Here was the
perfect opportunity to tell Marion she was returning to Tahiti.  She
just wished it hadn't come up so soon.

"That is very kind of you, but--" Marion cut her off with a
self-deprecating laugh and a flutter of her blunt-fingered hand.

"Oh, I know you wouldn't want to live way out here with an old
woman."

Veronique captured her hand and gave it a squeeze.

"Just look what I've brought."  She lifted her basket up and peeled
back the blue-and-white gingham.

"Your favorite, almond torte."

Marion leaned over the basket and inhaled with obvious pleasure.

"Oh, and a new book of crosswords, too.  You're so sweet, Ronnie."

Veronique shrugged.

"It is nothing."

"You're always so thoughtful and kind.  When I think what a good wife
you were to Graham, it's alt I can do not to weep."  Marion tucked her
bottom lip tightly beneath the top one.

"Such a short time together.

It's so ... s-sad."

Veronique knew from experience Marion would dissolve into tears unless
she acted quickly.

"You mustn't upset yourself over me," she said, pulling Marion into a
hug.

"I am fine.  No, don't cry, chore Marion.  Think how puffy your eyes
will get.  Is that coffee I smell?"

She didn't want to talk about Graham and feign a grief she didn't
feel.

He'd been controlling, manipulative and cruelly unsympathetic to her
feelings of isolation.  All this she might have borne if it hadn't been
for... Her mind skittered away from bad memories.  She'd been packing
her bags to leave him when she'd received the hysterical phone call
from Marion telling her that the light plane carrying Graham and Stan
to a remote fishing lodge had crashed in the wilderness of northern
British Columbia.  She couldn't bring herself to disillusion Marion
about her only son, so she'd kept quiet, but Marion's peace of mind had
come at a price.  If Graham was the one thing they had in common, he
was also the barrier to her and Marion becoming true confidants.

"It's French roast," Marion replied, dabbing at her eyes.

"Your favorite.  But first, I have something for you."

She led Veronique into the living room with its sofa and chairs in a
matching floral print and wooden lamps with the plastic still
protecting their shades.  Folded on top of a knitting caddy beside the
couch was what appeared to be a sweater made of ivory-colored silk
wool.

Marion handed it to Veronique.

"I hope it's not too big.  I wanted it to be a surprise, so I had to
guess at the size."

Veronique held the sweater out in front of her, admiring the simple
lines, then put it to her cheek to feel the caress of its slippery
softness.

"Silk!  It is beautiful!  Merci, merci.  So warm, so soft.  You did not
have to do this, chore Marion."  She reached up to kiss her again.

Marion's cheeks flushed.

"It's just something to do while I watch TV.

I'm glad you like it.  Now, come and have some coffee."  Her head a
little higher, she led the way down the hall to the spotless and
gleaming kitchen.

Veronique draped her new sweater over the back of a chair and placed
her basket on the counter.  She carefully removed the plate with the
almond torte while Marion poured cream into a dainty floral creamer.

"After we have coffee, perhaps we go to the seniors' center," Veronique
suggested.

"As the bus passed I saw a notice saying the bridge club meets today.
You play bridge, non?"

"Yes, but... Oh, my dear, I don't know.  I'm not a joiner.  Never have
been.  Stan was all I ever needed.  Why, he and I--" "Marion."
Veronique took a step to lay a gentle hand on the older woman's arm.

"Stan is gone.  You need to get on with your life.  You need to make
friends.  Everyone needs friends.  Especially when they have no
family."

"I have you.  We've got each other."  Marion's wistful smile went
straight to Veronique's heart.

"Yes," she agreed quietly, and dropped her arm.

"We have each other."

Veronique cut the cake while Marion poured coffee into Royal Albert
china cups and set the creamer and matching sugar bowl on the lace
tablecloth in the dining room.

When they were both seated, cup and cake before them, Veronique put her
hand over Marion's.  Her mother-in-law's long, thin fingers felt cool
and papery.  Her solemn gray-blue eyes looked a question.  On the
mantelpiece, a small ormolu clock ticked quietly.

"I'm going home, Marion."

Marion gave an almost inaudible gasp, then glanced away.

"You mean, to your apartment?  Did you forget something?"

Veronique noted the pink in Marion's powdered cheek.  She'd glimpsed
the shock in her eyes.  Marion hadn't misunderstood.

"No, I mean to my real home--Tahiti.  I can't stay here any longer. 
I'm sorry.  I will miss you.  I hope you will come and visit me.  It is
very beautiful there .... " "It's beautiful here, too."  Marion gazed
into her coffee.

Vv

Veronique watched helplessly as a large tear rolled down the older
woman's cheek and dropped into her cup, spreading ripples in the dark,
creamy liquid.

"Do you really miss it so badly?"  Marion asked softly.

"Your parents don't even live there, you said."

"They went back to Bordeaux, it's true.  But my sister and her family
live there.  And my parents spend the winter there every year since
they retired, It's my home.  I did most of my growing up there."

"I grew up in Toronto---I guess we're both out of our element," Marion
said a little too brightly.

Perhaps.  But Marion didn't know what it was like to be in a place
where no one spoke your native tongue, No one she knew, anyway.  Even
when she'd learned the language, she'd still felt like a stranger in a
strange land.  Especially living with a husband who hated everything
foreign about her.

A husband who'd left her a sizable sum of money she didn't want to
touch.

"Before I go, I want to sign over to you the money Graham left."  She
held up a hand when Marion started to object.

"Non, I insist.  I have saved all my wages from the restaurant...."

Marion shook her head.

"With Stan's estate and the insurance money, I have all I could
possibly need."

Veronique sighed.  Perhaps if she explained why she didn't want the
money... But she couldn't, She wanted to be completely free of Graham,
but without hurting Marion, "I have Sunday off," she said, squeezing
Marion's hand.

"Why don't we go somewhere interesting?  The museum?  The art gallery?
Perhaps a walk in the park if not raining."

Marion drew herself up and dabbed at her eyes with a tiny paper
napkin.

"You know I don't go anywhere on Sundays," she scolded with a brave
smile.

"My favorite program ison in the afternoon."

"Strange Lovers?  You could tape it."

"Lovers and Strangers," Marion corrected her with a laugh.

"Oh, I never could work out how to use that thing.  Stan always did
that."

"I'll show you."  Veronique wasn't sure how to do it, either, since she
didn't own a TV, but it couldn't be that hard to figure out.

"I was also going to take down the drapes in the living room on Sunday.
They need jo be dry-cleaned."

"But no!"  Veronique exclaimed with an alarmed glance at the nine-foot
ceilings.

"How will you reach?  It is too dangerous."

Marion gave a tinkling laugh, as though confident in her ability to
take care of her home, if nothing else.

"I've got a stepladder.  I've done this sort of thing before."

"Okay," Veronique said dubiously.

"If you're sure you can manage."  She paused, thinking about how she
might still get Marion out of the house.

"I know.  You could drop the drapes off at the cleaners on your way to
my place."

"Or," Marion replied, "since you're not doing anything that day, you
could come over and watch Lovers and Strangers with me, then take the
drapes with you when you go.  If you don't mind, that is."

Veronique laughed.

"All right, Marion.  Unless I develop pneumonia or become swept away by
the flood, I will come.  Be careful on the stepladder.  Maybe you'd
better wait till I get here, so I can help you."

"Oh, don't worry about me.  I'll be fine."

"WELL, EmmE, I THINK that about covers the general routine around the
station."  Burton leafed through the papers on his desk for the list of
shows he was currently producing.

"How's your work space?  Okay?"

Ernie sat on the edge of the guest chair with the eager air of a
puppy.

Behind his round, wire-rimmed glasses, his

myopic gaze was fixed expectantly on Burton.

"Yes sir.  It's fine."

"Ah."  Burton pulled a sheet of paper out from under a chunk of the
Berlin Wall he used as a paperweight and handed it to Ernie.

"Familiarize yourself with this schedule."  He frowned.

"Scratch that bottom item and add 'cooking series."  We'll call it ...
oh, I don't know... Flavors.  Dumb name for a dumb show."

"Sounds good to me, Mr.  O'Rourke."  Ernie pushed his glasses up his
nose and scanned the list.

"Call me Burton.  The cooking show is a last-minute item, but it's top
priority.  Preproduction tasks we normally do in months, we'll have to
accomplish in weeks."  Burton tapped his pen against his temple.

"I'm thinking we'll do it live-to-tape in front of a studio
audience."

"Live-to-tape?"  Ernie repeated, his voice cracking slightly.

"I know I haven't been around long, but isn't that kind of risky for a
cooking show?"

"It is unusual," Burton admitted, "but we need something out of the
ordinary to warrant prime-time exposure.  Graham Kerr did it
successfully in Seattle.  If it worked for him, we can make it work for
us."

Excess energy propelled him to his feet.  In spite of himself, he was
getting enthused--as he always did when planning a new show.  No doubt
Murphy had counted that.

"Get straight onto Research," he continued.

"Ask everything they've got on the top chefs in Vancouver.  want James
Barber or Susan Mendelson--someone known who can draw an audience.  The
ratings have to go through the roof on this one.  All right, off you
go."  Ernie jumped up.

"Yes sir.  Right away."

Burton smiled.  The boy reminded him of himself as cadet reporter at
the Vancouver Sun almost fifteen years ago--eager to learn and
desperate to make good.

"Relax,

Ernie.  This isn't the army.  If I'm sometimes abrupt, well, it's just
the way I am.  Don't take it personally."

Two hours later Burton was striding down the carpeted corridor toward
studio one, where taping of his weekly soap opera, Lovers and
Strangers, was due to start in ten minutes.  Ernie trailed behind, his
short legs working to keep up.

"What big-name chef did you come up with, Ernie?"

Burtofi said over his shouller.

"None, Butt."

Burton froze in his tracks.  Burt?  Ernie?  Pivoting on his heel, he
saw Emie's moon-shaped face gazing up at him with complete innocence.

"Don't call me that again or I'll have to fire you."

"But you just hired me!"  Then comprehension sparked behind his round
glasses.  Ernie chuckled.

"Oh, I get it, Burt and Ernie.  Say, that's pretty good, Burt."

"Ernest," Burton growled in warning.  If he didn't nip this in the bud,
it would be all over the station.  He could already hear the comments
around the water cooler.

"Okay, boss, I'll try to remember."

"Good.  So who have we got?"

Ernie shrugged his plaid-flannel-covered shoulders.

"I told you.  No one."

"You tried Barber and Mendelson?  How about Um-be rto

Ernie shook his head.

"No, no and no.  They all have commitments for the next six months at
least.  You can't get chefs like that on short notice."

Burton snapped his fingers, thinking hard.  This show had to work or
he'd never get Lost Harvest off the ground.

"Okay, forget the big names.  We need someone new, fresh, innovative.
Get me a list of the hottest restaurants in town with bios on all their
chefs."

"Male or female?"

"Doesn't matter."  Burton resumed his long-legged

charge toward the studio.

"Attractive wouldn't hurt, but it's not essential.  Spark is what
sells."

"Say, Bur--Burton," Ernie amended hastily.

"There's this great Greek restaurant Rita and I go to near my place in
Surrey..."

Burton glanced at him with interest.

"Rita?  Not by any chance the same Rita who works here in makeup?"
Ernie blushed.

"Come on, why the big mystery?"

"You know office gossip.  We didn't want everyone to know we're going
together."  Ernie's smile was shy but proud.

"Don't tell anyone, but we're engaged."

"That was quick work," Burton said.

"You've only been here half a day."

"We met at a dog show last fall," Ernie explained.

"She's got a standard poodle--you know, one of the big ones.  Took
first prize over my dog.  She was really nice about it."

"I'm sure she was.  What kind of dog do you have?"  Burton's interest
was piqued at the idea of Ernie and his canine companion pursuing
romance with the diminutive Rita and her giant poodle.  He pictured the
two of them occupying the basement suite of a Vancouver special,
raising a clutch of tiny, timid Ritas and shy little Ernies.  Dog shows
on Saturday and roast beef at the in-laws on Sunday... "Border collie.
Smart as a tack.  As I was saying," Ernie continued, "the chef at
Stavros is a real character and--" "We're talking prime time," Burton
cut in, not unkindly.

"We can't use some never-been from the burbs."

"Why not?"  Ernie said, puffing a little in his effort to keep up with
Burton.

"He does unbelievable things with grape leaves."

The sign above the studio door flashed Five Minutes to Air.  Burton
gripped the doorknob and gazed down at his assistant.  He liked the
boy's doggedness, but he was a little wet behind the ears.

"Stuff the grape leaves, Ernie."

Ernie's round eyes widened.

"That's what Tony does--" Burton bit back a smile.

"Greek food is old hat.  I want Nouveau--something or other.  And I
want it quick."

"Okeydokey, boss, I'll get on to it right away."

Ernie turned to leave, but Burton reached out and clapped a hand on his
shoulder, gently steering him through the studio door.

"After lunch, hotshot.  Right now we've got a show to do.  Get the
talent out of their dressing rooms and onto the set.  It's vital we
stick to our schedules, Ernie.  He who comes in under budget survives
to produce another day.  Remember that."

BURTON RIFFLED THROUGH the file Ernie had put together while his
assistant put a tape into the VCR in the second-floor screening room.

It was late afternoon and the building was relatively quiet, a brief
hiatus between the taping of a kids' game show and the evening news.

"Good work, Ernie," he said, scanning the contents.

"Smart thinking to include cooking instructors, as well as restaurant
chefs."

Ernie's face glowed.

"Wait till you see the tapes.  I got Research to pull all the
interviews the station's done with local chefs over the past three
years."  He clicked the button to start, then backed up two steps to
pull up a seat beside Burton.

"First up is Bud Perry, seafood king."

"Sounds good."  Burton settled hack in his chair as the monitor came
to

LIFE.

Five minutes later he was stifling a yawn.

"Forget it, Ernie .  Bud has a delivery like a sea cucumber on Valium.
Next!"

Between tape changes he scanned the newspaper clippings of restaurant
reviews, discarding most while putting aside a small pile for a closer
look.  The stack of tapes dwindled without a single chef striking him
as having television potential.

"What is this obsession people have with food?"  Burton grumbled half
an hour later.

"Gee; Butt.  You have to eat to live."

"These people seem to live to PA--" He froze and glanced up.

"What did you call me?"

Ernie cleared his throat.

"Burton?"  It came out as a squeak.

"I sincerely hope so, Eruie.  Is that all?"  He glanced at his watch
and started to rise.

"Wait.  This is the last interview."  Ernie removed his glasses and
polished them on his shirt, an anxious smile on his homely face.

Burton resumed his seat, but with little hope.  While Er-hie
fast-forwarded through the host's introduction, he flicked through the
rest of the file.  Hmm, he thought, pausing at an ad for a cooking
class led by an elegant-looking Englishwoman.  Possible, possible.

Then he heard the Voice--French, female and throaty.  His gaze flashed
upward, his attention instantly riveted by the woman on screen.  Her
face was animated, her hand gestures dramatic, her body movements fluid
and graceful.

"Stop the tape.  Stop right there."

Ernie pushed the pause button, freezing the frame just as the woman
chef turned to gaze directly into the camera.  Burton leaned forward to
study the face beneath the thick, curling mass of caramel-colored
hair.

Her nose was a bit too big, her mouth too small, but there was a light
in her vivid green eyes and a sparkle in her dimpled smile that made
such deficiencies seem trivial.

"Hit Play," Burton urged, keen to hear her voice again.  And what a
voice, he thought, as the tape rolled forward.  Blithely ignorant of
the rules of English grammar, she was laughing and assertive, seductive
and mischievous.  The

lively, wildly exotic purr of a tiger kitten.  Charisma with a
capital

C.

"She's perfect!"  Burton jumped to his feet.  The file folder spilled
off his lap onto the floor, scattering contents that had lost all
relevance.  Mesmerized, he touched the TV screen with splayed fingers,
as if he could feel the silk of her blouse, the soft curve of her hip
through the glass.

"Absolutely perfect," he repeated softly.  He turned to Ernie.

"Who is she?"

"Veronique Dutot," Ernie replied, reading from his notepad.

"Second chef at Le Soupqon on Granville Island."

Burton paced the tiny room, able to take only two steps in either
direction.

"Nouvelle cuisine, no doubt.  No one stays that slender on cream sauce
and filet mignon."

He reached for the telephone on the desk and punched in a number.

"Lillian!  Get me Veronique Dutot at Le Soulxion restaurant."

Unable to sit still and wait, Burton headed for the stairs.  Ernie ran
after him.  When they arrived at reception, Lillian was making
sympathetic noises into the receiver.  Burton stood over her, jingling
the change in his pocket.  At last she put the phone down.

"Well?"  he demanded.

Lillian gazed up at him.

"It seems she gave her notice this afternoon.

Her boss sounded pretty annoyed."

Burton frowned.

"What does this mean?  Is she available?  Or is she going to another
restaurant?"

Lillian shook her spiky head.

"Apparently she's from some French island in the South Pacific and is
going back there to live."

"Damn!"  Burton spun on his heel to pace the lobby, then strode back to
Lillian.

"Make me a reservation at Le Soupqon for eight o'clock, please.  No,"
he said, remembering his grandfather's will, "better make it
nine-thirty."

A GENTLY CRACKLING FIRE warmed the lawyer's book lined study.  Old Mr.
Bingham droned on in legalese.

Burton's head drooped.  His day had started fourteen hours earlier and
it was far from over.

As he'd expected, his mother inherited what little money Granddad had
left after taxes had eaten away at it over the years.  There would be
worse to come now that Granddad had died.  The old man used to say the
government stayed up nights thinking of ways to squeeze farmers off the
land.

Burton had no expectations for himself and no desires other than the
chess set.  His main purpose in being here was to provide moral support
for his mother.  She had lots of friends, but times like this made him
realize it was family that was important.  Catherine sat beside him, a
tall, trim figure in black, dark hair swept off a face whose natural
humor had been subdued by grief.  One hand clutched her leather
handbag, the other clasped his.

He was starting to drift off when the sound of his own name made his
eyes snap open.

"And to my beloved grandson, Burton William O'Rourke, I bequeath my
two-hundred-acre property in Langley, including the farmhouse, the
outbuildings and all of its chattels."

THE HAD SLOWED to a steady drizzle by the time Burton parked on a side
street on Granville Island, a small plot of land in False Creek.

Located next to Vancouver's business district, it was home to theaters,
markets, restaurants and trendy shops.

Ducking through the glass doors of Le Soupgon, tered a foyer of dark
wood, gleaming brass and luxuriant green foliage.

The coat-check girl took his damp with an inviting smile.  Burton
returned her smile and other circumstances might have asked her name,
but night he was a man on a mission.  He needed a presenter, and
Veronique Dutot was his last, best hope.

He bribed the maitre d' to give him a table near kitchen, then ordered
a Scotch straight up from a young man with a stubby blond ponytail and
a three-day beard.

The swinging doors of the kitchen were hidden by a potted ficus, but as
the waiters went to and fro he heard snatches of muffled orders
interspersed with the faint clang of pots and pans.  In the center of
the dining room, a pianist tinkled out soft jazz, which mingled with
the muted conversation of diners.  The walls were hung with Gauguin
prints, visual promises of tropical paradise in warm, bright colors and
languid women with bare, brown skin.  Burton sipped his drink and felt
it settle in a pool of heat in his empty stomach.  Tahiti was an
inviting thought on a cold, wet night in the town they called the
"village on the edge of a rain forest."

He swirled the Scotch in his glass.  Hard liquor wasn't his usual
indulgence, but he was still reeling from the shock of inheriting the
farm.  He was touched and honored Granddad had entrusted it to him.  A
thousand good memories were attached to the two-story farmhouse with
its orchards and acres of rolling pasture and cropland.

But what on earth was he going to do with it?  Plenty of people
commuted to Vancouver from the Fraser Valley, but with the long hours
he worked, he needed the convenience of his West End apartment.  Nor
could he afford to keep up both residences.  A farm required
maintenance.

Granddad had done his best these past years, and Burton had helped out
when he could, but the barn needed painting, and the fences ... well,
the fences didn't bear thinking about.

Dinner came, and he put his worries away to concentrate on an excellent
fresh halibut in a delicate sauce spiced with curry and something else
he couldn't identify.  He'd just run the last forkful of fish through
the last drop of sauce and placed it in his mouth when the sudden crash
of breaking dishes made him glance toward the kitchen.  Some where out
of sight, a woman exclaimed loudly in French, her words followed by a
burst of throaty laughter.

Veronique Dutot.  Her voice conjured up the after-dinner delights of
strong French coffee laced with Benedictine.

The crash of dishes was possibly not a good sign, but his
photographer's eye had appreciated the color and presentation of his
dinner.  It had tasted fantastic and was exotic enough to appeal to an
audience weaned on fresh ginger and cilantro.

"That was great," Burton said when his waiter had taken his plate and
returned with a cappuccino.

"Who's the chef?."

Blond Ponytail scratched his jaw under its layer of peach fuzz.

"Veronique is on fish tonight.  Veronique Dutot.  Was there anything
else you wanted?"

"Just the bill.  And if I may, I'd like to give Ms.  Dutot my
compliments in person."

"I'll let her know," the walter assured him, and hurried off.

Burton lingered over his coffee.  Fifteen minutes passed and she still
didn't appear.  He ran his fingers through his hair and his tongue over
his teeth, and tried to feel charming and persuasive, instead of
annoyed and desperate.  Each lime the kitchen door swung open, his
heart sped up.  And each time, he had to remind himself the
anticipation he felt was strictly business.  For distraction, he pulled
out his pocket calculator and juggled numbers to see how far he could
stretch the programming budget to entice Veronique to stay in Canada.

His head was down, his pen scribbling over a notepad, when the doors to
the kitchen swung open.  A variegated blond head and one angular
shoulder clothed in starched white linen poked through.

Veronique paused to scan her apron front for spillage, then hissed over
her shoulder to Glenn, the waiter, "Which table did you say?"

"Forty-two," Glenn said, layering loaded plates across his left arm.

"Over in the corner.  A guy on his own.  I think he's about to
leave."

Bon.  Veronique was not averse to compliments on her cuisine, but
tonight she just wanted to get home and nurse her cold in a long, hot
bath.  Stepping around the potted plant, she entered the dining room.

At that moment, the man at table forty-two glanced up and looked
straight at her.

Her heart stopped.  Blood drained from her face, her fingers went cold
and her breath stuck in her paralyzed lungs.  Mon Dieu!  It was
Graham.

Impossible.  He was dead.  But ... the hair, the eyes, the shape of the
nose, the slant of the jaw ... all exactly the same.

And it was just like this she'd met her husband, coming out of the Club
Med kitchen to accept a compliment .... D6jh vu washed over her in
sickening waves.

He'd seen her!  He was getting up.

Panicking, she backed into the kitchen, yanking furiously at her apron
ties.

"Louis!  I am leaving," she called in French to the master chef.

Glenn, his arms laden with soiled plates, stepped out of her way.

"Hey, did you talk to that guy?"  he asked.

"I cannot!"  she cried distractedly, conscious only of an overpowering
need to escape.  Tossing her apron into the basket of dirty linen in
the corner, she ran from the kitchen, grabbed her coat and small
leather backpack from the locker room and dashed out the back door.
Picking her way through puddles, she rounded the corner of the building
and followed the path to the street.

CHAPTER THREE

BURTON WATCHED VERONIQUE'S hasty retreat in astonishment.  He checked
his shirt for curry sauce, glanced behind him... Nothing seemed out of
the ordinary.  Blond Ponytail went by with a load of desserts.

"Excuse me," Burton called.

"Be right there," the harried walter called back.

He returned in a few minutes with the bill enclosed in a discreet black
folder and placed it on the table.

"Did Ms.  Dutot say when she'd be out?"  Burton asked, reaching for the
bill.

"I thought I saw her, and then she disappeared."

Ponytail grimaced.

"Uh, sorry.  She just left."

"What!"  Burton pushed back from the table, causing his empty
cappuccino cup to clatter onto its side in the saucer.  This was the
only address the station had for her.  If he didn't catch her here, he
might not find her again.

"Did you tell her I wanted to speak to her?"

"Yeah, but she wasn't feeling well."

"Thanks, anyway."  Burton pulled out a couple of twenties, threw them
on the table and dashed out of the restaurant.

His gaze swept the length of the brightly lit, rain-soaked street.

Pedestrians dotted the sidewalk.  Umbrellas jostled for position in a
queue outside the Granville Island Theatre.  Cars swooshed by on
pavements glistening with rain and reflected light.

A half block away, he spotted a small, dark figure bur tying along,
shoulders hunched against the rain.  Her hair, coiled and frizzing in
the moist air, gleamed as she passed beneath a streetlight.

It had to be her; everyone else on the street seemed to be in pairs or
groups.

Burton ran, dodging pedestrians, fill he drew up beside her.

"Excuse me, Veronique Dutot?"

She cast a startled glance sideways at him, the way a woman does when
approached by a stranger.  Instead of softening to cautious curiosity,
her expression turned to shock---eyes ,ide, mouth open in a silent
scream.

He backed off a step.

"I didn't mean to startle you "

But she wasn't listening.

She blinked hard, rubbed her eyes with her fists.  Stared.  Then
abruptly dropped her gaze.  With a shaky hand, she sketched the sign of
the cross over her breast, and low, mumbled words seemed to spill
directly from her heart.

For once in his silver-tongued life Burton had no idea what to say.

"I'm Burton O'Rourke," he managed to say at last, and held out his
business card.

"Producer at Channel Seven Television."

She squinted at the Small print, which was rapidly becoming blurred by
raindrops.  In the light of the streetlamp, her eyes were dark and her
face as pale as a ghost's.

"Who are you?"  she whispered.

"Burton O'Rourke," he repeated.

"I asked to see you in the restaurant Is something wrong, Ms.  Dutot?
Are you ill?"

Instead of answering, she tugged her collar higher around her neck and,
with one last wild-eyed glance at him, hurried away.  What the hell?
Burton shoved his card back into his pocket and started after her.

"Wait.  Please.  I just want to talk."  The mist coalesced into drizzle
and trickled under his collar.  Damn.  He'd forgotten to get his
raincoat from the coat check.  Ignoring the cold drops snaking down
the back of his neck, he lengthened his stride.

"Ms.  Dutot?"  he said when he'd caught up with her again.

She sneezed violently.

"Go away!"

"I didn't mean to frighten you.  I won't hurt you.  I'd just like a
chance to tell you more about the cooking show before you make up your
mind."

Slowing a little, she cast a white-faced glance at his chest.

"Cooking show?"

"Yes."  He slowed to a halt to keep her in one place, thankful she
seemed to be comprehending at last.

"My secretary talked to your boss about it this morning.  Can we
talk?"

"Non.  In two weeks, I will be gone from this country."  She flung her
hand out in a dismissive gesture, then again hurried away.

A gust of wind buffeted his back and a sudden cloudburst drenched him
with chilling rain.  Burton turned his face into the deluge.  Anything
else you'd like to hit me with, Big Guy?

Ahead, a bus pulled around the corner.  Veronique picked up her pace,
boot heels clicking on the pavement.

"Fine," Burton called out, throwing up his hands.

"But if you change your mind and want to talk, call me.  Okay?"  She
broke into a run.

He watched, mentally calculating the speed of the bus, the speed of the
woman and the angle of their respective trajectories.  He knew the race
was futile even before she shook her fist in a gesture of despair and
defeat.  Belching diesel fumes, the bus rumbled past the empty stop.

Her arm fell to her side.  Her shoulders slumped under her black woolen
coat.  Even her curls seemed to have lost their spring.

She covered the few yards to the bus shelter, which offered little
protection from the gusty, wet wind that blew in off the Pacific.
Burton saw her shoulders hunch and heard the muffled sound of a series
of explosive sneezes.  She reached into her pockets.  Her hands come
away empty.

He didn't want to harass the woman.  He ought to just leave her
alone.

But she needed him.

Burton walked to the shelter and approached her cautiously, as if
confronting a frightened, wild animal.  She looked pathetic---and
appealing.  From an inside pocket he produced a clean cotton
handkerchief and silently held it out to her.

She looked at it suspiciously, then slowly reached out.  Her fingers
were surprisingly long and tapered, her nails short and very clean.  A
Band-Aid, not a wedding ring, circled the third finger of her left
hand.  Not that he was interested in her marital status.

"Merci," she said in her husky voice.  She blew noisily, then looked
uncertainly at the handkerchief.

"Keep it," Burton said.

"I've got plenty.  My mother drummed certain things into me as a child.
Always carry a clean hankie, never go to bed with wet hair and--"
Miraculously the corners of.  her lips curved upward.

"My mother told me that, too."

Burton smiled back, encouraged, even though her gaze had yet to rise
higher than the second button on his jacket.

"Do I look like an ax murderer?  Is that it?"  he said humorously.

"Because, you know, if you don't like my face, I could change it."

Her smile vanished.

"You look like my late husband.  Exactly like him."

Burton spun away in a quick double-take.  No wonder she'd acted as if
she'd seen a ghost.

"I'm sorry.  I had no idea."

"You could not know."

She stared at his feet.  He stared at her pinched white face.

"You missed your bus."

She glanced at her watch.

"There will be another in twenty minutes."

The drizzle had turned to steady rain.

"Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

"Thank you, n--" She broke off as a sneeze convulsed her body.

"You really ought to get out of the rain."

She hesitated, glancing at her watch again.

"Look, there's a coffee shop across the street.  You can watch for your
bus from there."

She sniffed, then sighed.

"Okay."

At the all-night coffee shop, pink neon winked in the window and a
Formica counter ran parallel to a row of booths upholstered in red
vinyl.  An old man nursed a cup of coffee at the counter, and a young
couple dressed completely in black were engaged in a passionate
discussion in one of the booths.

"Two coffees, please," Burton said to the waitress filling napkin
dispensers behind the counter.  He slid onto the bench seat opposite
Veronique at one of the booths.

She shrugged off her coat and with her fingers shook the water out of
her hair.  The rain had darkened it to amber, and her skin looked pale
in the harsh fluorescent lighting.  Her face wasn't any more beautiful
in person than on tape, but she had a certain something that snagged
his attention and wouldn't let go.  That something would catch the
attention of the viewing audience, too.

"Ahhh--" she pressed the hankie to her nose "-----chieu!"

"Bless you."  Burton couldn't help smiling.  She even sneezed with a
French accent.

"That's a very bad cold."

Her eyes pressed shut, and she massaged her temples.

"It is this awful weather."

"You should be at home in bed, instead of running around the streets
on such a wet night."

Veronique's fingers froze.  Mon Dieu.  That sounded exactly like
something Graham would say.  Who was this man, and what was she doing
having coffee with him?

Once again she tried looking at his face, but her gaze jumped away
automatically, as though physically repelled.  She stared, instead, at
the crumpled wet cotton in her hands with its monogrammed B in one
corner.  Graham had not used cotton handkerchiefs.  He'd kept a little
plastic pack of tissues in his briefcase, and a box in the car, plus
one in the bathroom.  In Tahiti she didn't get colds.  Here, it seemed,
she got one a month.

The waitress brought their coffee, steam rising from thick white
mugs.

No caffe lattes or cappuccinos in this establishment.  Across the table
from her, the man's long, blunt fingers tore open a sugar sachet.

"When you say I look like your late husband, what exactly do you
mean?"

Oh la la.  What a question!  Her heart beat fast as she remembered the
moment she'd spotted him across the dining room.  This man Burton had
the same downward slant to his mouth, the same long nose and pugnacious
jaw.  The same short hair--although more coppery than Graham'sand the
same intense blue eyes.

Veronique's covert glance across the scarred Formica table confirmed
what her rational mind knew must be true--he wasn't Graham.  Her
husband had had a mole on his left cheek.  This man had none.  Between
Graham's eyebrows a pair of fine lines had frequently deepened in
disapproval.

There were no such lines on Burton.  Perhaps she simply hadn't
encountered them yet.  He seemed kind, but then, so had Graham at
first.

Veronique took a sip of her coffee, strong and black, and it bolstered
her enough to answer.

"Your visage.."  your face, is very similar.

Although he did not have this' curl--what-you-call-it?--on top of the
head."

wu "Cowlick."

In her peripheral vision she glimpsed dark eyebrows angled in a frown,
then his firm voice became comically lamenting.

"I've tried barrettes, but they're just not me."  It was so unexpected,
she laughed.

"My hairdresser suggested using a gel," he continued, "and then I had
three cowlicks instead of one."

In spite of herself, she chuckled again.  Graham, although charming
when he wanted to be, had taken himself too seriously.  The thought of
her dead husband sent a wave of cold anxiety washing over her, and she
reached to the back of her neck to twine a long curl around her index
finger.  Non.t She would not think about Graham, not ever again.

"I must go," she said, and started to rise.

"I really enjoyed the halibut."

It was probably the only thing he could have said that would have made
her pause.  She knew her cooking was good, but direct feedback was
rare.

"Merci."  She cast a brief smile in his direction, then reached for her
backpack.

"The curry I detected right away," he added as though she wasn't
putting on her coat and preparing to leave.

"But there was something else, almost a licorice flavor."  He leaned
toward her over the table.

"What's the secret ingredient?  I promise not to tell a soul.  I won't
even make it myself, since I'm completely hopeless in the kitchen.

Please, just satisfy my curiosity."

She knew exactly what he was doing of course.  But this recipe was her
newest creation.  How could she resist?  Slowly, she sat down again,
although she didn't remove her coat.

"Fennel.  You chop the bulb very fine and saute in just a little butter
before pureeing."

"Ahh.  I don't know much about cooking, but I know what I like."  He
paused.

"And I would really like you to consider doing this cooking show."

She focused on the gold pen peeking out from a breast pocket behind the
vee of his pullover.

"Monsieur, I do not know if you have noticed, but I cannot even look at
you.  How could I possibly work with you?"  "I could hardly not
notice," he said, sipping his coffee.

"It's the worst blow to my male ego since Sissy Jamieson wrote "Burton
is a blockhead' all over the bathroom wall in grade four.  But I got
over that, and I'll get over this.  The question is," he finished
gently, "would you?"

Would she?  Could she?  Or would she remember the pain and humiliation
of her life with Graham every time she looked at Burton O'Rourke?  She
pushed her hands into her hair, unable to answer.

"Has it been very long since... ?"

"Six months."

"Oh.  I'm sorry."  His voice was filled with compassion.

"I guess the sight of me would be painful."

Not in the way he obviously thought.  She hesitated on the brink of
telling him she'd hated, not loved, her late husband.  But explanations
would only cause her pain, not to mention be irrelevant to him.

"I am not over him," she conceded.

"I know how hard it is to lose someone close to you."

Pain hid behind the sympathy in his voice.

"You do?"

This time, he looked away.  When he spoke it was to his rain-streaked
reflection in the window.

"My grandfather."  Veronique studied the taut line of his jaw.

"I'm sorry."  He shrugged.

The waitress came by and refilled their cups.  She dropped a handful of
creamers onto the plate between them and moved on.

Burton picked up a creamer and peeled back the plastic lid.  In silence
he tipped the tiny container over the rim of the cup and cream swirled
through the black.

"I saw the interview you did with Rafe Corrigan on the morning
program," he said after a pause.

"You looked great in front

TEMPORARY WIFE

of the camera.  I think you'd enjoy this cooking series we're putting
together.  It'll be prime time, live audience .... " Veronique's nerves
stood on end.  Live audience?  He thought that would entice her? 
Before the Vancouver AM interview--which Louis had arranged--no one had
mentioned the terrifying sound of hundreds of pairs of hands clapping
in the darkness.  Or how petrified she would feel being the object of
scrutiny for rows upon rows of total strangers.

"If the show is so special, why do you ask me?  Why not someone like
Susan Mendelson?"

"All the well-known chefs are committed for the next six months and
beyond," he admitted.

"But that's good," he added quickly.

"I've decided I want someone fresh."

He really knew nothing about her, yet he was eager to take her on.

Again, like Graham.  What kind of man proposed after knowing someone
only a few weeks?  What kind of woman accepted?  She had learned a
lesson from her impulsiveness.  Granted, this man wanted her as the
presenter for his TV show, not as his wife.  But still.

"And ... colorful?"  Veronique asked, sipping her coffee.

"I suppose you think I'm colorful."  At first, Graham thought she was
wonderfully colorful.  Then, later on, too colorful.  Like a Hawaiian
shirt he'd bought on only to find it didn't fit in with his urban
executive wardrobe.

Burton shrugged.

"Colorful is probably not a word I would apply to anyone other than a
member of a mariachi band, but I would say you're definitely
photogenic."

She heard the admiration in his voice, and like everything else, it
reminded her of Graham, whose admiration hadn't lasted.  Maybe her
antagonism toward Burton was unreasonable, but his appearance recalled
memories rather forget.  Like Graham ridiculing her poor English, yet
not wanting her to take a night course to learn to speak better.  Or
turning off the French radio so he wouldn't have to listen to that
"gobbledygook."  Or badgering her to hang up whenever she talked on the
phone to Ghislaine.  He couldn't bear not knowing what she was saying.
Couldn't bear not being in total control.

"I'm going back to Tahiti soon," she reminded Burton.

"There's only thirteen segments.  The whole thing will take no more
than a couple of months," he said persuasively.

"We'd be finished taping by July.  You could enjoy the summer here and
be back in the South Pacific come fall."

"I know the summer here," she said dryly.

"I don't enjoy the rain."

"This summer will be good," he assured her, not having given it a
thought before now.  He sipped at his coffee.

"How long have you been in Canada?"

"Eleven months, ten days and--" she checked her watch "--forty-two
minutes.  I must go."

Burton glanced out the window at the bus stop across the street.

"Relax.  There's not a bus in sight.  You speak English very well,
considering you've been here less than a year.  Why are you in such a
hurry to leave?"

"I work very hard to learn English.  I only come because my husband
have a business here.  His home is here, so my home is here.  Now he's
dead, I go."  She pushed her cup away and got to her feet.

"I really must go."

Burton slid along the bench and followed her up.

"I'll drive you.  I haven't even mentioned the perks of the job like,
like.."  free publicity and, uh, extra money for location work " "No.
Thank you."  She wound a black woolen scarf around her neck and slung
her leather backpack over her shoulder.  At the doorway, she paused.

"Goodbye, Monsieur..."

He fished his card out of his pocket and, before she could protest,
tucked it into a side pocket on her backpack.

"O'Rourke.  Burton O'Rourke.  Just think about the show, okay?"

A bus swung around the corner and this time slowed to a halt in front
of the stop to pick up a pair of teenagers.  Without answering him,
Veronique ran outside to the bus and up the steps.  The doors closed
behind her with a clang.

Burton had followed her out and he watched until the bus pulled away.

His last view of her was of a white face pressed against the window, as
though only from the safety of distance and a glass barrier could she
bring herself to look at him.

She must have really loved the guy.  Head down, Burton walked back to
the restaurant to retrieve his coat.  He felt hollow and deflated, as
though he'd somehow missed out on something good.  And it wasn't just a
presenter for his cooking program.

A WELCOME BLAST OF WARM air hit Veronique when she opened her apartment
door.  She shrugged out of her damp coat, kicked off her boots and
slipped into the sheepskin slippers that waited by the door like a
faithful pooch.  By the light of a single table lamp, she crossed the
worn Persian carpet to the built-in teak shelving next to the
mantelpiece She'd given Graham's CD player to Marion, but she'd kept
the cassette player, scorned by him, for herself.  She touched a few
buttons, and a moment later Piaf's throaty voice purred out a torch
song.  On a side table, the anSWering machine's red light blinked.

Ignoring it, she crouched low to open the bottom drawer of an old
wooden file cabinet she'd bought at an il auction, much to Graham's
disgust.  He'd tried to stop her, but she'd persisted.  Once she'd
sanded it down and applied new varnish, it looked better to her than
his brand-new metal cabinets, il She leafed through the hanging folders
and soon found what she was looking for--her work permit.  Burton's
mention of the approaching months had made her curious.  The expiry
date on the permit was June 2--less than four weeks away.  With
Graham's death, her application for immigrant status had been
automatically canceled.

Without it, she couldn't renew her work visa.

Veronique slid the folder back into place and shut the drawer.  Well,
no matter.  In two weeks, she would be going home.

Rising to her feet, she went to the kitchen and filled a copper
watering can from the tap.  Caring for her collection of tropical
plants was a ritual she never tired of.  She murmured sweet nothings to
each as she moved around the apartment, dreaming of the garden she
would grow one day soon in Tahiti, "How are you tonight, my lovely?"
she murmured to her favorite, a sweetly scented gardenia with glossy
leaves and waxy white flowers.

"Graham said I would never get you to grow, but he was wrong, wasn't
he?  He didn't know what a little love can do for a hothouse flower."

Graham.  Burton.  She shivered despite the warmth of the room and
clutched the watering can to her chest.  How was it possible another
man could look so much like her late husband?

At least she could walk away from Burton without repercussions. 
Knowing she would never see him again gave her a sense of freedom. 
Freedom from the confused mix of anger, resentment and bitterness
Graham had ultimately inspired in her.  Feelings Burton had so
unexpectedly caused to well to the surface.

Did those feelings include attraction?  Desire?  The thought startled
her.  It had been so long since she'd even thought about love.  But
after all, it had been Graham's physical type that had drawn her in the
first place.

Veronique stood very still, eyes closed, and plumbed her first reaction
at seeing Burton O'Rourke.  That swift rush of adrenaline, the way her
heart raced and her palms had grown suddenly damp... No.  Not desire,
surely.  Simply a response to being startled.  And a reminder of the
unhappy past.

Opening her eyes, she released her breath and moved again among the
rows of plants banked against the bay window.  Her head brushed a
mobile of brightly painted wooden fish, which twisted and swam as
though trying to break free of their vertical school.

"Non, je ne regrette rien..."  she crooned along with Piaf.  Then
sighed.

If only it was tree that she regretted nothing.  But she had many
regrets.  Worst of all was the loss of that brief, glorious fraction of
time when believed herself and Graham to be truly in love.

Veronique passed the answering machine on her refill the watering can.
The red light blinked reproachfully.  Oh la la.

She ought at least to listen to it.

The usual series of clicks and whirs sounded when she punched the
replay button.  After a moment, her travel agent came on to confirm
Veronique's flight to Papeete with stopovers in Los Angeles and
Hawaii.

Oui.t Veronique spun around, hugging herself.  She going home at
last!

Another series of clicks and beeps indicated had called but not left a
message.  Veronique started move away.  Then came another abrupt click.
She Marion's voice.  It was fraught with fear and pain.

"Veronica?  Are you there?  I need you, dear."  gasped, a soft, raspy
sound barely audible above the on the tape.

Veronique walked back to the machine and stared at goose bumps rising
on her arms.

"Ronnie?  Where are you?  I thought you'd be home now."  Marion's voice
was high-pitched, ready to "I was taking down the drapes ... the
stepladder.

tOO far ... it fell.  I fell."  A sob, tightly held in check, then, "I
think I've broken something, Ronnie.  It's quite ... painful.  I called
911, but can you come?  Please come, Ronnie.  Please.  I can't move."

CHAPTER FOUR

IN THE CONTROL BOOTH high above the studio floor, Burton donned his
headset.  He scanned the bank of monitors that relayed shots of the
kitchen from each of the three cameras set up at different angles.  A
fourth, "to air" monitor, displayed the scene viewers at home would
see, an ever-changing composition he would create as taping progressed.
Burton had a chair, but he preferred to stand and pace while directing
the technicians in the booth or conferring with Vince, the floor
manager.  He glanced at his schedule, then at the digital chronometer
on the table, which ticked away the time in hundredths of a second.

"Ready one," he said clearly but quietly, alerting Mario, the vision
switcher, and Bill, head camera operator, to begin with camera one.

"Pan up ... 

Next to Mario sat Kate, the audio " , watched the needles on a series
of dials and adjusted sound level by sliding buttons around on a large
panel.

Burton spoke into his headset again.

"Stand by."

in the studio, Vince held up a sign reading 30 Seconds the chef behind
the makeshift kitchen counter.

Three weeks had passed since the night Burton coffee with Veronique.
Since she hadn't contacted him shown up for the advertised auditions,
he presumed gone back to Tahiti.  Well, so what?

he thought for twentieth time, trying to banish her image from his ory
banks.  He would cast Emily Harper-Smythe, a and efficient Englishwoman
who'd auditioned the day fore.  A cooking instructor of some repute
with experience on cable TV, she filled the bill to perfection--if only
she had a little more pizzazz.

"Roll tape," Burton announced, and Vince began his countdown.

The final chef to audition was a hulking man with hairy black
knuckles.

Burton watched him prepare his first dish with growing impatience. 
Chef Wareneki mumbled into his mustache, and the chef's hat he'd
insisted on wearing kept slipping forward and obscuring his face.  The
audience, a mix of retired folk, housewives and the underemployed, was
getting restless.  So was Burton.

"Cut!"  Burton barked into his headset to Vince.  Then he burst out of
the control booth and skimmed down the sharply spiraled staircase to
the set.  Murphy and his dam cooking shows!

Camera operators and stage hands parted as he crossed to the kitchen.

"Take five, everyone."  He went up to the chef.

"Mr.  Wareneki, we need to talk."

One hand resting on the chef's burly shoulder, Burton steered him aside
where they couldn't be overheard.

"I'm sorry, but we're running out of airtime."

Chef Wareneki's thick black eyebrows disappeared beneath the starched
white brim of his chef's hat.

"But I still have to demonstrate my individual chocolate souffles. 
They are already in the oven to bring out later."

"Don't worry about that.  I've got enough on tape to make my
decision."

A movement near the bleachers snagged at his peripheral vision. 
Another person leaving?  He turned.  And his heart leaped.

Veronique.  She wore a black, long-sleeved dress that hugged her
slender, curvy figure.  The burnished tips of her softly curling hair
spilled over elegant, angular shoulders.  Plain, simple, undeniably
chic.  Her bright green eyes glanced in his direction, then quickly
away.

TEMPORARY WIFE

Adrenaline sent his pulse into high gear and nearly had him striding
across the studio floor toward her.  Then he caught himself.  He
already had his chef.

Anyway, Ernie was taking care of her.

He turned back to Wareneki with a consoling remark, all the while
keeping his eye on what was happening across the room.  Veronique had
rested one slim hand on Ernie's arm and was gesticulating with the
other as she spoke.  Hmm.  Ernie's gaze was riveted on Veronique as
though she were Mata Hari, the Virgin Mary and Marilyn Monroe all
rolled into one.  His chest was puffed out, and somehow he seemed to
have grown taller.

"Excuse me," Burton said to Wareneki, and headed over.  Master Ernest
was far too impressionable to be left alone with Veronique.  Before he
could say "bouillabaisse" she would have him wrapped around her little
finger.

"What's the problem, Ernie?"  he said, clapping a friendly hand on his
assistant's shoulder.

"No problem."  Ernie didn't take his eyes off Veronique "Your chef has
arrived."

iqu'e My cheil" He glanced at Veronique.  Her gaze darted between Ernie
and the studio floor.  Anywhere but at him.

"Ernie, go help Mr.  Wareneki organize his stuff to leave."  He turned
back to Veronique, arms crossed over his chest.

"My assistant was out of line just now.  The successful candidates were
chosen last week to do a live audition this week.  I'll be choosing my
presenter from among them."

"But I have changed my mind," she said, gripping the strap of her
leather backpack.

"I want to do the series."

And God help him, he still wanted her to do the too.  Emily
Harper-Smythe might be poised, was dynamic.  Where the Englishwoman was
looking, Veronique was magnetic.  She might not be to look him in the
face for more than a split second,

he couldn't keep his eyes off her.  And he knew the audience would feel
the same.

But he wasn't ready to let her know that.  He had to be sure that if he
hired her, she wouldn't let him down.  Why was she here now?  And how
badly did she want the job?

"Well, now, I don't know," he said, uncrossing his arms to scratch his
jaw.

"Wareneki was the last to audition.

The boys will be wanting to pack up the set."

"But you offered me the efies."

Was that desperation in her voice?

"You turned it down."  She shrugged, a fascinating, complicated gesture
that involved not only her shoulders, but her head and all her
features--the eyebrows raised, lids lowered, mouth pursed.

"I did not say I didn't want to do it.  I said I could not."  She held
her elbows in tight to her sides.  Talking to Ernie, she'd been fluid
and unconsciously graceful.  With him, she was all angles and nervous
energy.  He found himself wanting to change that.

"I've made my decision."  He added a dash of regret to his voice.

"Not Monsieur Wareneki, surely."  She sounded deeply Offended.

"No, Emily Harper-Smythe.  Englishwoman, very elegant."

Her hand flipped up, and a thin gold bangle slid over black cashmere.

"Poof!  The English do not know how to cook."  But her lightning glance
at his face held a trace of uncertainty.

"Was she any good?"

Burton smiled cheerfully.

"Terrific.  Very professional.  Her Thai vegetable curry was
delicious," He patted his stomach at the memory.

Veronique straightened her shoulders.  Two small spots of red burned in
her cheeks, enhancing her vivid hair and brilliant green eyes.

"It is only fight you give me a chance to prove myself,"

she said, glaring at his chest.

"You beg me to do the show.  I come all the way down here to tell you I
will consider it, only to find you have hired someone else!"  One hand
swept dramatically skyward, and she burst into a torrent of excited
French.

God, she was gorgeous.  And if she would only look him in the eye,
she'd know he thought so.  She'd also know he'd give her whatever she
wanted, including an audition.  Ernie was at his sleeve.

"Hey, Burt.  The guys want to knOW--' He spun around.  ""Burton," you
dolt!"  He stopped short and took a deep breath, "Tell Vince to hang
tough for a while."

He took another breath and turned back to Veronique.

"One--I never beg.

Two--I haven't hired anyone yet--" "You should not talk to him like
that."  Veronique's frowning gaze followed Ernie.

"He is a sensitive young man."  Burton gritted his teeth.

"Tell me, what made you change your mind about doing the show?"

Again that hint of desperation in the ragged, in-drawn breath, and the
shaky hand through tangled Curls.

"My mother-in-law, she break her hip.

She must stay in hospital for some weeks.  She have no one to help her
but me.  Already I quit my job at the restaurant, and there is nothing
else available, so..."  She trailed off, looking embarrassed.

"So you thought you'd fill in the time with my cooking show."  Look at
me.

"We help each other, I think."  She stared fixedly at his shirtfront. 
A tiny twitch started at the corner of her nostril.

Behind him, Ernie cleared his throat.  Burton started.

"What is it now, Em?"

"She could fill in the rest of Wareneki's time slot.  You know, sort of
a minlshow.  One dish."  "Thanks for the suggestion."  His dry tone
went right over Ernie's head.

"Any time, boss."  Ernie smiled at Veronique.  Veronique beamed back at
Ernie.

"Merci."

Burton felt an uncomfortable twinge somewhere in mid-chest.  Him,
jealous of Ernie?  No way.

"All fight," he said to Veronique.

"Since Wareneki's out of the running, you can finish his segment.
Ernie, go tell Vince we'll shoot one more set.  Let's get moving before
we lose the rest of the audience."

Veronique glanced at the bleachers, and a shiver skittered through
her.

She'd come to the studio today expecting a brief chat to negotiate
money and menus.  Now her sure thing hinged on a public performance.

"But I have nothing to prepare!"

Button's chest, and the arms crossed in front of it, looked
unsympathetic.

"You can prepare whatever War-eneki was going to make.

Chocolate souffle, I think he said."

Veronique didn't respond.  Maybe it wasn't too late to call Louis and
ask for her old job back.  Though in truth, she'd been glad to leave Le
Soupcon.  Louis had hands like an octopus and the morals of an alley
cat.

"Chocolate souffle," Burton repeated.

"Can you make it?"

Her head snapped up.

"But of course.  Every apprentice chef knows how to make that."  But
her mind went blank even as she mentally levied the recipe.  How many
eggs, exactly?  How much cream?

Then Burton was leading he across the floor.  She'd meant to tell him
fight away about her work visa running out, thinking maybe he could
help.  Now it was too late.  Everything was happening too fast.  People
were all around them, Burton issuing orders as they went.  So many
cameras and wires and lights... "Nervous?"  Burton murmured.

"Not at all."  Never would she admit such a thing!

"Don't worry.  You'll be fine.  Just remember to look directly into
the camera.  Don't look at the audience."

They stepped onto the set.  The floorboards sounded hollow beneath her
feet.  The "kitchen" looked like a department-store display.  There was
a fake window with a light behind it and some fake plants hanging from
the fake ceiling.  She felt like a fake herself.

"But these people are right in front of me, watching what I do," she
protested in a low voice.

"How can I not speak to them?"

"Trust me on this.  Your real audience is the people at home in front
of their television sets."

She glanced around the kitchen and wiped her palms down her dress.

Everything looked so small.  So unfamiliar.

"Go on," she said.

"The ingredients are in the fridge.  The pots and pans in the
cupboards--" "I am a chef.  These things I know."

A white apron with a bib hung on a hook beside the stove.  She took it
down, inspected it for cleanliness and put it on.  Then took a deep
breath.

"I am ready."

"Great.  In just a few minutes the floor Vince there with the red
baseball cap ... will begin countdown, at first out loud, then like
sty---" He broke with an exasperated sigh.

"Veronique, you're simply ing to have to look at me!"

Taking another big breath, she raised her eyes---and exhaled in relief.

All she was expected to look at was hand.  He counted down the seconds
by folding his back one by one.

"When he claps the board together--" Burton trated that, too "--you're
on."  He moved around the as he spoke, straightening some pots,
whisking a cloth out of sight.  He stopped in front of her to tuck
strand of hair behind her ears, his fingers cool and son al She tensed,
remembering touches that had to do with Burton.  Her confused senses
wanted to attach the scent of English Leather to him, but all she could
smell was the merest whiff of sandalwood.  And chocolate souffle
Veronique swallowed.

"He does not say 'action'?"  He laughed, a warm, melting chuckle.

"That's only when making movies.  You've got twelve minutes to complete
the segment.  I'll be in the control booth."  He indicated a
glass-fronted room high on the opposite wall.  Then he walked off the
set and disappeared into the crowd of camera operators and assorted
others whose position and function she had no idea about.

Twelve minutes!  Oh la la.  Self-consciously, Veronique began to
assemble the utensils she would need to create a souffle In her
nervousness, she banged the top of a double boiler into its base with a
clang.  Chocolate souffle!  She did not want to do someone else's dish.
That would not show Monsieur Burton what she could do.

"Thirty seconds to air," announced an unsmiling man with headset and
clipboard.

Banks of bright lights flared on, making her squint.  Three cameras
were positioned, to her right, left and dead center.  Her stomach
flip-flopped like a lobster in a pot of boiling water.

"Ten ... nine ... eight..."

This was even worse than preparing choux pastry in front of Maitre Chef
Duxelles at the Cordon Bleu in Paris.

The floor manager's voice stopped.  She saw his hand go up, fingers
outstretched.

"Five ... four..."

Blank.  Her mind was completely blank.

"Two ... one."

She gazed into the camera directly in front of her.  It seemed to
engulf her, sucking her down the round black hole into a tortuous maze
of shutters and lenses.  Veronique stared into the unseeing eye,
paralyzed.

Was that herself reflected in the dark glass?  It reminded her of
Marion, small and pathetic in her high hospital bed.  Marion needed
her.

She, Veronique, needed this job.  She hadn't wanted it, but now she had
to do it.  "Bonjour."

Merde.  She'd croaked like a frog!  Swallowing hard, she cleared her
throat and spoke again.

"My name is Veronique Dutot.  I am to prepare a souffle."

She could not speak to the camera; it was too alien.  Her gaze went to
a woman in the front row who wore her hair in a similar style to her
aunt in Bordeaux.

"The souffle is a very special dish," she confided to the woman, and
imagined Tante Hlne nodding in agreement.

"With all that cream and eggs the souffle can be very heavy, but no,
she must be light as a cloud.  And she is very versatile.  You can make
dessert souffle.  Par example, chocolate.  But I don't care so much for
chocolate souffle.  Let's see what else we have in the refrigerator."

With a silent prayer, she opened the fridge door.  Thank heaven!  On
the otherwise bare shelves were several plastic-wrapped parcels of
vegetables.  They must have been left over from the Thai curry.  Pah.t
She could do better than the Englishwoman, even with leftovers.

Transferring her bounty to the kitchen counter, Veronique beamed at the
audience.

"This is the test of a cook--to make a delicious meal out of whatever
you hap, pen to have in the cupboard.  Today I will show you how to
make ... ah, spinach souffle."

A movement caught her eye, and her gaze flicked up the control booth.

Burton was at the window, making a cutting motion with his hand.  Mon
Dieu, but made her nervous.  Raising the bunch of spinach, blocked him
out of her vision.

"Come closer.  Please..."  She waved her arm at scattered groups high
in the bleachers.

"Come where can experience the colors, and the aroma of the cooking."

She didn't wait to see if they would follow her directions but quickly
unwrapped the vegetables and placed them on the chopping board.  With
nothing prepared in advance, she had no time to waste.

"Okay, first the garlic.  Lots of garlic."  Her hands flew, smashing
the cloves, ripping the skins off and chopping furiously.

"Onions..."  She peeled and sliced faster than she ever had before.

"Into the pot with them..."  Bits and pieces flew everywhere.

"Oop, et l&!"

"I never cook on TV before," she confided to the audience with a
laugh.

"Okay, add a big knob of butter .... " She turned on the gas flame
under the pot, and the garlic and onions began to sizzle.

"What a beautiful aroma.  C'est fantastique, non?

"Now some flour, stir it around .... This is called a r-r-roux."  She
rolled the r till it swallowed the vowels.

This might be fun, after all, she thought.  If only she wasn't so
conscious of Burton O'Rourke watching from on high.  She wouldn't look
at him again.  Glowering like that, he was sure to make her forget some
crucial ingredient.

"Now, we need eggs.  Maybe six eggs yolks, and nine or eight eggs
whites."  With one hand, she separated the eggs into two bowls while
with the other, she stirred the roux.  The familiar movements helped to
relax her.

"You know why the best chefs are women?"  she asked the audience with a
grin.

"Because they can do more than one thing at a time.  If I had a baby
under my arm, I would look just like my mama when I was a little girl
in France, and she cook for me and my three sisters and Papa."

She glanced into the pot.

"Alors.  Now we add milk to make a thick bechamel sauce--about a cup
"She poured straight from the carton.

"A little at first, so it do not go lumpy.  Stir hard.  Then more ...
oop, et l&!  Too much.  Never mind.  Let it thicken, turn the heat down
now, to the spinach.

 "Wash it well ... chop it roughly ... put it in the pan and mm up the
heat."  She shook the pan vigorously.

"Wonderful food, spinach.  Make you strong like Popeye."

From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of someone to the left
of the stage signaling to her.  She glanced at the control booth.
Burton wasn't there so that meant... Yes, it was him.  His short,
coppery hair was tossed like a salad, and he held up one hand, fingers
outstretched.

What did that mean?  Surely not "five minutes."  She still had so far
to go, and a souffle could not be rushed.

Steam billowed out of the spinach pan when she lifted the lid.

"Done!"

she proclaimed, and scraped the wilted greens into the pot with the
sauce.

"Now to beat the eggs whites.  A copper bowl is best--" she glanced
around "--but this will do."  She grabbed a stainless steel basin.

She poured in the egg whites and picked up a large wire whisk.

"You can use an electric beater, but beating by hand is better even
though it is slower."  She heard a groan from the darkened sidelines
and ignored it.

"Start slowly to beat, breaking the whites, making them foam.  Then, a
little faster, then very fast."  She glanced up at the audience.

"Who needs the dumbbells, hein?"

Chuckles rose from the blackness beyond the lights and gave her
heart.

"To fold the eggs whites into the sauce require a light touch," she
explained, holding the bowl up so the audience could see.

"A big spoonful at first, mix lightly, then fold the rest in carefully.
Now to prepare the souffle dish.

"Dishes," she amended, catching sight of a half-dozen small ramekins.

"Normally, I make this in one large But--" she shrugged "--we make
do.

Always we make do.  Grease them with butter and dust with grated
Parmesan .... " Veronique searched the fridge.  No cheese.

"Never mind," she said cheerfully, "just remember to add the

Parmesan when you make it at home.  Mushrooms or ham are also good with
spinach.  Now, plop, plop, into the little dishes it goes.  Et voila,
they are ready to go in the oven."

Veronique loaded the souffles onto a baking tray and carried it to the
oven.

"About thirty minutes in a moderate to hot oven and..."  She removed
another pan of ramekins containing barely risen chocolate souffles, and
held them up for the audience to see.

"These are.."  not what one, expects from a spinach souffle.  But--"
she beamed a smile to the audience "--if you follow my instructions,
your souffle will be high and puffy, like white clouds on a sunny
day."

Through the shadows behind the set, she sensed Burton coming closer.

"If I had a few minutes more, I could show you some simple
garnishes..."

"Cuff" The overhead banks of lights switched out with a series of loud
thuds.

Veronique leaned against the counter and wiped a dishcloth across her
damp forehead.  It had been terrifying, but she'd done it.  Done it?
Mon Dieu, she had triumphed!

"Well," she said, turning to smile at Burton's left shoulder as he
strode onto the set, "what do you think?"

"What do I think?"  he repeated, his eyes round and harried.

"I'll tell you what I think.  You don't follow instructions.  You can't
stick to a schedule.  And you talk way too much!"

Her hopes collapsed like Wareneki's pathetic souffles.  Eyes burning,
she stared at his chest in silence.  She would have to go back to Louis
the Octopus.  And beg.

"Bm, hey Bm."  Ernie tugged on Button's elbow.

"Ernest!"

"Sorry, Burton.  But look!"  Ernie pointed to the audience.

The scattered groups of people had voted with their feet,

gathering into one enthusiastic knot in the front two rows.  Contrary
to Burton's opinion, the majority was overwhelmingly in favor of
Veronique.

"Oh, great," he muttered, pushing a hand through his hair.

"Exactly what I'd hoped for."

Veronique saw it, too.  Exhilaration bubbled unexpectedly through
her.

They liked her.

BURTON HAD BARELY BEEN home from work twenty minutes when the doorbell
rang.  It was his mother, with a large paper bag containing something
that gave off a delicious savory aroma.  As always, Catherine O'Rourke
was stylishly dressed, in black jacket and pants.  Burton was relieved
to see she'd recovered some of her bounce.  Maybe too much bounce, he
thought darkly as she sailed through the front door and headed straight
for the galley kitchen at the back of his one-bedroom apartment.

Catherine cast a pitying glance at his half-eaten plate of baked beans
on toast.

"I brought you some homemade chicken soup.  You can still get a cold
this late in the season, you know."

Burton took the bag from her hands and placed it on the counter.  He
drew her into a hug.

"Thanks, but I'm thirty-four--much too old to be receiving care
packages from my mother.  You just look after yourself."

She eased out of his arms and gestured to his open briefcase and the
stack of papers spilled across the two-person table.

"Why are you still working at this hour?"

"I've got scripts to approve for tomorrow."  Burton sat down again and
scOOted his chair in.

Catherine shed her damp trench coat and sat down opposite him, crossing
one leg over the other.

Burton," she said, flicking a wisp of dark hair off her forehead.

"What's to become of you?  You're all work and no play.  How long has
it been since you've done anything for fun?  Taken any photos?  And
what's happening in your sex life?"

"Mother!"

Catherine carried on, unperturbed.

"Have you called Beth's daughter for a date yet?"

"No, and I don't intend to.  Beth is your friend, not mine."  He took a
mouthful of beans and toast.

"I want grandchildren, Burton, while I'm still young enough to enjoy
them."

Swallowing, Burton raised a warning finger.

"Don't start."  Then, to distract her, he leaned forward confidingly.

"I've got a new PA at the station.  His name is Ernie and he keeps
calling me Butt."

Catherine laughed and flapped a well-manicured hand.

"Oh, that's too funny.  Burt and Ernie.  Is he short?"

Burton nodded, grinning.

"And he's got a round head with fuzzy dark hair that sticks out in
tufts over his ears."

"He doesn't!"

"Well, not quite.  His hair is light brown and slightly wavy, although
he does have a round head.  He's a good kid.  He's going to do fine."

Catherine laid an elbow along the back of her chair and rested her jaw
on her knuckles.

"So tell me, have you found a chef for your cooking show?"

His smile faded.  Burton sliced savagely into his beans and toast.  He
didn't want to be reminded of Veronique.  The audience had responded to
her exactly as he'd expected, but what he hadn't expected was ...
was... He didn't even know what to call the crazy way she made him
feel.

"Burtie!"

His head came up with a jerk.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're woolgathering."

"Woolgathering?"  His eyebrows rose.

"Have you been reading Jane Austen again?"

The mixture of irritation and motherly indulgence on

lO TEMPORARY WIFE

Catherine O'Rourke's face disappeared abruptly.  She looked down at her
well-manicured hands.  "it's the only thing that completely absorbs my
mind," she said, her voice quavery.

Burton understood; photography did the same thing for him, though it
had been ages since he'd taken his camera out.  Just one more thing he
never had time for anymore.  He reached for her hand and gave it a
squeeze.

"Sorry."

"It's okay."  She straightened with a shaky but determined smile.

"You were telling me about your new chef."

Burton scowled.

"The test audience was riveted.  Eruie was practically in a swoon--and
he's supposedly engaged to be married.  Even Murphy thought she was--"
"She?"

Burton swore he could see antennae rise out of his mother's sleek
pageboy hairdo.

"Murphy," he said, stressing the name with a warning frown that told
her to keep any further remarks about his love life, or lack of it, to
herself, "thought she was a corker.  He actually used that word.  The
entire camera crew is completely infatuated."

"And you're not?"  Catherine cast him a shrewd glance.

"Definitely not.

She didn't listen to a word I said.  She had no concept of time-Wait a
minute, I'll show you what I mean.  I've got a tape of her audition."
He pushed back his chair.

"Come on."

"What about your dinner?"  she said, jumping up to follow him into the
living room.

"It'll keep."  Burton plugged the tape int his state-of the-art video
player and sat on a stool to fast-forward to Veronique's segment.

Catherine sat on one of the two chairs of vaguely Swedish design that
made up the only large furniture in the room.

"There, that's her," he said, stopping the tape.

"The one with the hair and the voice."

"You mean the woman in the chef's apron, behind the stove?"  Catherine
remarked dryly.

They watched for a moment in silence.  Behind Veronique's charm, Burton
could see a woman clinging to the edge of control.  She'd held it
together, he had to give her that, but it had been a close thing.  He
glanced at his mother to check her reaction and was surprised to see
her leaning forward with a smile that blossomed every now and then into
a chuckle.

The taped segment ended, and the small audience broke into enthusiastic
applause.

"Burton, she's wonderful!"  Catherine said, turning to him.

"So full of life.  So confident--" "Confident?  She was terrified."

His mother waved this away with a flick of her perfectly manicured
fingers.

"She has terrific rapport with the audience.  And she made do
wonderfully with what she had.  Women can relate to that."

Burton jumped to his feet and began to pace the small living room.

"She didn't have to 'make do'!  That's not the way a TV cooking show
works.

Everything is planned, prepared and pre measured to ensure nothing goes
wrong."

"Nothing did go wrong," Catherine insisted.

"That depends on your point of view.  The show has a tight schedule, an
even tighter budget.  Plus, it'll be taped before a live audience.

There's no room for retakes if she screws up.  If I don't make this
work, Murphy will scuttle my plans for Lost Harvest."

Catherine twisted in her chair to look at him.

"Y U took risks with Lovers and Strangers.  Look how well that paid
off."

"Going on location for a daytime soap is a far cry from letting a
deranged Frenchwoman loose in front of a live audience."

Laughing and shaking her head, Catherine got to her feet.

"Sounds to me like this is more personal than professional.  Are you
sure you're not just a little interested in her?"

Burton glanced away.  Mothers and their sixth sense.

"I hardly know the woman.  I was ticked off when she turned down my
first offer to appear on the show.  Now I'm wishing she hadn't changed
her mind.  People like her are hell to work with.  I'm responsible for
bringing the show in under budget.  It's me who has to fix things if
they go wrong."

"It was only an audition.  She'll learn."

Burton leaned over and pushed the eject button to retrieve the tape.

"Maybe.  She's coming in tomorrow to talk it over."  Catherine handed
him the cover.

"If you really feel she won't work out, I'm sure you can persuade Ed
Murphy you should hire someone else."

Burton shook his head.

"That's the trouble.  She's got style, she's got pizzazz, she's warm
and human and funny.  She'll be really popular and the ratings will go
through the roof."  "Then you should count your blessings."

"I'll be counting them from a padded cell in the loony bin before this
is over," he replied gloomily.

"If it wasn't for the documentary, I'd chuck it all in right now."

"You know you don't mean that.  "She glanced at her watch.

"I'd better be going.  Put that soup in the freezer if you're not going
to eat it right away."

"Sure," he replied automatically.

"I'm sorry I haven't been able to get out to the farm yet to help go
through C-rand dad stuff.  This cooking show has been sucking up every
spare minute.  Have you got much done?"

"Not really," Catherine said, walking back to the kitchen where she'd
left her coat and purse.

"I cleaned out the fridge and took whatever was perishable from the
pantry.  His clothes I put in a bag for the Salvation Army.  Oh, and I
brought Rufus home with me.  I didn't think it fair to leave him with
the neighbors for too long."

"You brought Rufus to the city?"  Burton leaned on the doorjamb in the
entrance to the kitchen.

"Do you think he'll be happy there?"

She shrugged.

"He seemed glad to see me, poor thing.  Over at the Vandermeres he has
to sleep outside and share rations with their two dogs.  He's fine in
the backyard, and now that summer's coming I can take him for a walk
every day."

"Still."

"I know."

Their eyes met, and Burton knew Catherine was thinking the same thing
he was----Granddad's absence was a tangible thing.  Like a boulder in
midstream, it created ripples and eddies downstream in time.

Catherine blinked bright eyes and reached for her coat.

"Have you thought about what you're going to do with the farm?"

Burton heaved a sigh.

"I think about it all the time, but I've yet to come to any brilliant
conclusions.  Living out there isn't practical, and I hate the idea of
renting it out to strangers.  Tomorrow I'm meeting a real estate agent
to go over the property and give me an idea of its market value."

"You're not thinking of selling!"  Catherine's voice rose in alarm.

Burton led the way down the short hallway to the front door.

"I don't want to, but at the moment it's looking more and more like a
white elephant."

"It's your inheritance, Burton.  You'll marry someday, I hope.  The
country is a wonderful place to raise children."

He perched on the edge of the hall table.

"You told me you hated living out in the sticks when you were a
teenager.  It was so isolated you couldn't even go to the movies."

"Things are different now.  There's more development out that way. 
More activities for young people."

"True, but it's not the life for me," Burton argued.

"I'm no farmer.  I don't have time to plant crops even if I wanted
to.

On the other hand, it would be wrong to let the land lie fallow, even
worse to sell to developers.  It's a real bind."

Catherine set her purse on the table beside Burton so she could put on
her coal "I could rent out my place and live at the farm until it suits
you."

Burton pushed away from the table and held her coat while she slipped
her arms into the sleeves.

"And shovel half a mile of driveway every winter?  What about your
aerobics class?  And your book club?  I can't see you being happy out
there, either."

"I guess not.  But please, Burton, don't put it on the market without
telling me."

"Sure."

She turned to face him, eyes alight with newly hatching schemes.

"Why don't I get Melissa to call you?"

"Melissa?  Who's Melissa?"

"Why, Beth's daughter, of course."

"Forget it, Mother."  He gently steered her toward the door.

"I'm not interested in meeting anyone right now.  And when I am, I'll
find my own dates.  Thanks, anyway."

"Or what about that Frenchwoman?"  she said, doing up her buttons.

"What's her name?"

"Veronique?"  he said.

"Don't even think about it?"

"She's not terribly pretty, I know, but she's got something." 
Catherine peered intently at him the way she used to when he was a
teenager coming home late from a party.

"Don't you think so?"

"I think it's time you went home and badgered the dog for a change."

Burton reached around her to open the door.

"Oh, by the way, did you happen to bring the chess set?"

Frowning, Catherine tied the belt around her coat.

"That's the oddest thing.  I looked for it, but it wasn't there."

"Not there!  Did you look in the cabinet in the living room where he
always kept the games?"

"Of course.  The Monopoly and the Scrabble games were there, but not
the chess set."

Burton scratched his jaw.

"How could that be?  I know he sometimes took it out to play against
himself, but he was always so careful about putting it back."

Catherine slung the strap of her black leather purse over her
shoulder.

"I know.  That's why it's so odd.  I hope..."

An anxious frown slanted her carefully shaped eyebrows.

"What?"

She glanced away.

"Nothing."

"Come on, Mother, what were you going to say?"

"Nothing."  She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek.

"I'm sure it will turn up.  Goodbye, Burtie darling.  See you soon."

"Bye."  He gave her a hug and shut the door behind her.  The chess set
was missing.  Another loss, one that left him anxious and uneasy.  But
Mother had been intent on other things and probably more than a little
distraught.  He'd have a look for the set tomorrow, after his
appointment with Veronique.  It had to be there somewhere.

CHAPTER FIVE

VERONIQUE ROSE ON TIPTOES to peer through the small high window into
the hospital ward where Marion lay with her broken hip.  Her move to
the rehab center had been postponed when a secondary infection had set
in around the pins holding her brittle bones together.  The delay
seemed to have set her back emotionally, as well as physically.  The
curtains were shut, the lights were off, and Marion's eyes were open,
staring at nothing.

Veronique dropped back to her heels.  She twined a long curl around and
around one finger.  She is giving up, I can see it happening.  She Will
need me, and need me, and need me, forever.

Never before in her life had friendship come with such a huge
responsibility.  A letter from the Department of Immigration sat in her
backpack, weighing her down like a chunk of lead.  She hadn't found the
courage to open it yet, because she knew what it would say.  The
implications for herself--and for Marion--were frightening.  Only a
week left before her work visa expired and she would have to leave the
country.  But she couldn't tell Marion and add that to all her other
worries.

Veronique took another peek through the window at Marion's drawn face,
and her heart contracted at seeing her timid, good-hearted friend
further diminished.  Pauvre Marion.  She had no one else.

With a sigh, she leaned on the door and went in.

"Bonjour, Marion."  She spoke softly but cheerfully as she approached
the bed and set her leather backpack on the floor.

"How are you feeling today?"

Marion slowly turned her head.  Her eyelids fluttered as she focused on
Veronique.

"Not very well."  It seemed an effort for her even to talk.

She has aged, Veronique thought, dismayed.  Her hair color was in need
of renewal and the skin on her thin hands resting on the pale green
coverlet looked almost transparent.

"It's only been a few weeks.  Give yourself time.  Did you see the
doctor today?"

Marion nodded weakly.

"She says I'll be ready to move to the rehab center of the hospital
next week.  While I'm there I'll have physiotherapy to get my joints
working and learn how to walk again."

Tears moistened her sparse gray lashes.

"I wish Stan were here.  I still can't believe he's gone forever."

She closed her eyes and the tears seeped out from beneath her lids to
trickle down her pale cheek.

"I'm sorry, Veronique.  I know I'm a burden."

Veronique fought back a flutter of panic.

"You are not a burden, Marion, but you must be brave."  She spoke
firmly.

"This is not the end.

You will grow strong again.  Stronger than ever."

"What if I don't?"  Marion cried in a feeble outburst of passion.

"What if I have to use a walker for the rest of my life?  What if I
never go home?  Tell me one good thing that could ever come from
this."

Veronique gave her an affectionate smile.

"It got you out of the house."

She walked around the bed to the window and snapped open the
curtains.

A dozen stories below, sunlight reflected off car windows as traffic
backed up along Burrard Street.

"Ah, that's better," she said.

"The sun is good, no?  It brightens the spirit."

Marion squinted at her, one hand raised to protect her eyes from a
shaft of sunlight.

"I'm not a brave person, Rome.  I never have been."

"Nonsense.  People are not born brave .... " "They have courage thrust
upon them," Marion finished in a dismal monotone.

Veronique laughed and pulled up a hard-backed chair to the bed.

"There now, I was going to say the same thing, but with three times as
many words.  And what happens after the rehab center?  Can you go
home?"

"Yes, but even then I won't be able to look after myself.  The nurse
told me I'll be on crutches for weeks, maybe months.  I won't be able
to dress, or cook for myself.  I'll have to get a home help."

"I will move in and look after you until you are better," she said,
pushing aside worries about the uncertainty of her own immediate
future.  She put on a smile and teased.

"Better the tyrant you know than the tyrant you don't."

Marion hitched herself higher on the pillow.

"But how can you do that if you're going back to Tahiti?"

"I'm not going right away."  Veronique got up to help Marion adjust her
pillows more comfortably.  When she'd seated herself again, she said,
"I auditioned to be a chef on a TV cooking show.  Maybe I will get the
job.

The audience liked me."  She curled a lock of hair around her finger.

"But I don't think he liked me."

"Who could possibly not like you, my dear?"  Marion said.

"Burton O'Rourke.  The producer."

"Burton O'Rourke?"  Marion's eyebrows pinched together.

"That sounds familiar."

"He also produces your favorite show--what do you call it--Loving
Stranger?"

"Lovers and Strangers.  Oh, Ronnie, how exciting!"  Two spots of pink
appeared in her sallow cheeks.

"I don't know.  He's a very uptight man.  At first I thought he was
kind even though he look like--" She broke off and rose to walk around
the foot of Marion's bed.

"During the audition he went berserk.  He didn't like that I talk to
the audience.

Or that I change the menu.  And everything have to be timed right down
to a fifth of a second," she said, tapping the face of her
wristwatch.

"No time to chat, or joke, or think about what is coming next.  He will
drive me crazy!"

Marion shifted in her bed to watch Veronique.

"Give him a chance, poor man.  He must have so much on his mind.  So
many people to organize.  When do you start?"

Veronique shrugged, her mouth pursed in speculation.

"I don't know yet if I have the job!  His assistant seem to think I do,
but Monsieur O'Rourke, he does not say yes or no.  He just tell me to
come to his office tomorrow.  Today, that is."

Marion's mouth dropped open.

"Goodness' sake, girl!  What are you doing here?  Get along to the
television studio and find out."

Veronique smiled.  A little vicarious excitement had brightened
Marion's spirits better than comfort and kind words.

"Don't worry.  The appointment is for two o'clock, and the studio is
right next door to the hospital."

She reached for her backpack.

"Before I go, I brought you some chocolate.  "And a new book.  I hope
you haven't read it already."

"Ooh, a romance."  Marion reached for her reading glasses and glanced
at the title before flipping it over to read the back cover.

"No, I haven't.  Thank you, dear.  And Rome... ?"

Veronique glanced up from fastening the thongs on her backpack.

"Yes?"

"I know you're not very happy here," Marion said, her gray-blue eyes
uncertain.

"You're not staying because of me, are you?"

Veronique rocked her head from side to side.

"When I

TEMPORARY WIFE

got the chance at the cooking show I decided I could stay a little
longer."

Marion was silent a moment.

"How much longer?"

"Until the end of summer.  I'll leave before the rains come."

"Oh, you and the rain.  Weather's not everything, you know."

Veronique smiled a little sadly.  Weather was actually quite a lot when
it was all you had.  True, she had Marion, but although she was very
fond of her, it wasn't enough.  After Graham she needed love, and
nurturing--preferably in a warm climate.

"I'm very glad you're staying longer, but..."  Marion's voice shook,
and she paused to clear her throat.

"I will get a home help.  I don't want to be a burden to you."

"You are not a burden, Marion--" "Don't argue, Ronnie," Marion said
with surprising firmness.

"I am grateful for everything you do for me, but you're not going to
bury yourself way over on the North i Shore with an invalid old
woman."

"We shall see," Veronique said, rising.

"Wish me luck."

She put on a confident smile, but the butterflies in her stomach were
already taking wing.  She didn't know which would be worse--if she got
the job, or if she didn't.

VERONIQUE FOLLOWED the Channel Seven receptionist down a wide corridor,
admiring her spiky white hair.  They stopped in front of a closed door,
and the older woman knocked.

"Come in."

Lillian opened the door.

"Ms.  Dutot is here to see you."  With an encouraging smile, she said
to Veronique, "Good luck."

Veronique returned her smile and went in.  She got a quick impression
of wall-to-wall photos and shelves of videocassettes before her gaze
lit upon Burton, who was scowling over some business papers.  For one
horrible second she felt as though she'd stumbled through a time warp
and come across her husband seated at his desk at home.  She gulped in
a deep breath and pressed a hand to her chest as her heart leaped into
high gear.

Then he glanced up, and it was not her husband at all, but Burton who
rose to extend his hand.  His palm was warm and dry, and his fingers
enclosed hers completely.  Her stomach flipped over, and her heart
raced faster, leaving her even more confused.

"Have a seat," he said, releasing her hand to glance at his watch.  He
frowned.

"I've only got about five minutes though before I have to leave for
another appointment.  If you're going to work in television, you've got
to learn to be on time."

Startled, Veronique checked her watch.

"It's not yet two o'clock.  I'm five minutes early."  Burton frowned.

"I asked you to come at one o'clock."

"I am sure you said two o'clock."

"My life revolves around schedules.  I don't think I would be
mistaken."

He flipped his desk diary around so she could see it.

"Right here," he said, tapping an entry midway down the page.

"One o'clock."

Veronique leaned over the desk to look.  Her name was indeed opposite
the time he'd indicated.

"It cannot be right."  She glanced up.  Straight into deep blue eyes
framed with dark, coppery lashes.  Then immediately down to an
argumentative jaw so close she could see the glint of coppery
stubble.

"I will show you," she said, breathless.  Digging into her backpack,
she whipped out the envelope on which she'd scribbled the time of their
appointment.  The return address, the federal Department of
Immigration, surfaced under Burton's nose.  Quickly she flipped it
over.

"Voil& Two o'clock."

"Proves nothing.  This," he said, tapping his diary again, "is
official."

Veronique stuffed the envelope back inside her pack without revealing
its contents as she'd originally intended.  There was no point
introducing that complication until she was offered the job, which at
the moment seemed unlikely.

"Your assistant was there--he can tell you," she said to Burton's left
shoulder.  Her English wasn't perfect, but she could hear the
difference between "one" and "two."

She got an impression of dark eyebrows pulling together.

"Never mind about Ernie," he growled.

"We're wasting time arguing.  How about coming with me?  We can talk
about the show while we're driving."

"Driving?  Where to?"

"Langley."  Burton picked up a file--one with her name on it--and
thrust it, along with a stapled sheaf of papers, into a black leather
briefcase.

"I have an appointment at three at my grandfather's farm."

He tossed a calculator into his briefcase, snapped it shut and strode
to the door.

"It's a nice drive.  The whole thing won't take more than a couple of
hours.  I've got the contract with me, so if we come to an agreement--"
"Stop!"  she cried, throwing up her hands.

"You are rushing me.  I need to think if I am free."

In truth, she didn't have to think more than a few seconds to know she
was completely, utterly, depressingly free.  Le Soupqon was history.

Marion was being well looked after.  Graham's friends never called
anymore.  And for the past five months she'd been careful not to any
new friends whom she would regret leaving.  On other hand, Burton was a
busy man.  If she left now, knew when she'd get another appointment? 
Or if he'd the Englishwoman, instead.

"I will come," she said, slinging her backpack over shoulder.

"But I must be back by six o'clock."

"No problem."  He swung his coat over his arm.

"Big date?"

"Ah... something like that."  A date to talk to her sister halfway
around the world.  A date she wouldn't miss for anything.

They picked up his car, a silver Tercel, from the underground parking
lot and within minutes were heading east on Georgia Street, zipping in
and out of traffic like a ricocheting bullet.  The sun that had briefly
brightened Marion's hospital room had been enveloped by thick, dark
clouds.  Fat drops of rain began to splat against the windshield.
Burton turned on the wipers and pressed the defog button.  Two clear
patches formed on the bottom of the windshield and slowly spread
upward.

Jumbled thoughts and confused feelings held Veronique's tongue.  She
listened to the rhythmic swish of the blades and the hiss of tires on
the wet road.  Swept away again.  No, it was not the same.  Her heart
was not involved, or if it was, then only to the extent she was doing
this for Marion.  She glanced sideways.  It was easier to look at his
profile than his full face, but harder to accept he wasn't Graham when
she couldn't see his eyes.

"Have you seen much of the Fraser Valley?"  Burton said, shifting down
for a red light.  His hands and feet moved in tandem, quickly,
efficiently.

She watched his rapid movements and intense gaze on the road ahead.

Could she work with a man so speedy and nervy?

"Once we went to Harrison Hot Springs for a convention, but Graham
preferred the city, where his business contacts and his friends
were."

"What about you?  Are you a city gift?"  He shifted gears again,
muscles and sinew moving under the tracings of dark hair on his lightly
tanned forearm.

"I'm an island girl.  A bit of city, a bit of country.  But always a
garden, the ocean and the sun.  Freedom to wander--and a home to come
back to."  A home that was waiting for her now.

They'd left the city streets for the freeway.  Veronique cracked open
the window on the passenger side and inhaled deeply of the towering
evergreens that lined the roadside.  Houses and trees, fields dotted
with horses, all zipped past as Burton picked up speed.

"I've always lived in the city," Burton said, "but when I was a kid I
spent most of my summers at my grandfather's farm, where we're going
now.  He died recently, as I think I told you, and left it to me."  He
sighed and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

"I used to travel a lot as a photojournalist, but I don't have time for
trips these days."

"You should make time.  You are like the--what do you call them?  The
skinny dogs that race?"

"Greyhounds?"

"Exactement.  Always running and running, faster and faster after the
bunny."  She made paws of her hands and paddled through the air.

He laughed.

"The difference is," he said, "I get the bunny in the end."

"My husband worked much overtime.  He became vice president of a chain
of travel agencies--the week before he died."

Burton's smile faded.

"Heart attack?"

"Plane crash."  Her gaze dropped.  Although she feel a speck of grief
or loss, she couldn't be happy even a rat like Graham had died.

"I'm sorry."  His voice was low, consoling.

"At he achieved something."

Veronique made a dismissive gesture.  '"What that when you're gone?"

"Who knows how far a good man's influence will tend?  If everyone
stopped to smell the roses, there'd be one to tend the garden."

"Je reexcuse?"  Her mind struggled with the unfamiliar expression.  She
tried to recall if she'd seen anything like it in the book of sayings
she'd picked up to study colloquial English.

"I mean--" "I think I know what you mean.  I was not suggesting--" she
waved a hand uncertainly "--that.  All I said was, you, Monsieur
O'Rourke, are too speedy.  You should relax."  "I do relax."  He
frowned, as if trying to remember the last time he had relaxed.  Then
he slanted her a brief smile.

"If you have to judge me, I'd rather you just admired my stamina."

Veronique quickly turned to the window to hide her smile.  At times he
could be quite charming.

"So, are you interested in doing the show?"  He came up close behind a
semitrailer going under the speed limit.

"Are you offering it to me?"

"Yes."  His gaze flicked from the side to the rearview mirror and
back.

Then his car shot sideways into the other lane and roared past the
truck.

Mon Dieu.t Veronique thought, clinging to the armrest.

"What about the menu?  Can I choose what I want to cook?"

"Yes, within certain guidelines.  Whatever you plan, you'll have to run
by me."

"But I am the chef."  Consultation she didn't object to so much as
working one-on-one with him.

"Television is a collaborative effort.  Nobody gets one hundred percent
say in what they do.  I'm giving you plenty of leeway as it is,
considering you're an unknown quantity.  Emily Harper-Smythe has put
out two cookbooks, you know."

If he gave the show to the Englishwoman, she, Veronique Dutot, could
end up flipping burgers in a fast-food joint.  She shuddered.

"When I cook I have a vision in my brain," she said, tapping her
temple.

"Certain dishes complement each other.  I cannot have you insist on ...
on ... chocolate cake when I wish to concoct a mango mousse to finish a
dinner of tropical origin."

"Let's not get technical.  I'll be directing, as well as producing,
because I like to retain creative control.  But basically, all I'm
interested in is appearance and timing.  For television we need dishes
that are colorful and quick to prepare.  The details of what goes with
what, I'll leave to you."

"That's okay, then," she said, appeased.

"if you do come on board," he said, flicking on his indicator and
changing back into the left lane, "we'll get started right away on
preproduction tasks--research, scripting, set design, menus and so
on.

Once those are complete we'll be shooting two, possibly three segments
a day for one or two weeks, depending on how much studio time we can
get.  Do you think you can handle that?"

Her nose tilted up.

"If I can handle entrtes for a five-star restaurant with seating for
three hundred, I am sure I can handle an hour or two of television work
a day."

He swung onto the exit ramp signposted for "The show is only a half
hour, but each segment takes two hours or more to tape.  I can't stress
enough how important it is we stick to schedule."

"I can do it."

His fingers gripped the steering wheel as they took the sharp corner on
the exit ramp at ten miles an hour over the speed limit.

"It's important you're totally to doing this series.  If not, I need to
know now."

Veronique made a sweeping gesture with her hand.  cannot commit myself
until I know hours, pay, tions... What are you offering?"

The salary he named was, she suspected, lower than was prepared to
go.

She responded with a tiny toss head.

"I made more at Le Soupqon."

They negotiated upward until they reached a deal both were happy
with.

Under the circumstances, money was of secondary importance to
Veronique, but she was too practical and had too much self-esteem to
sell herself short.

Burton turned onto a secondary road edged by deep ditches and sprawling
blackberry bushes.  Metal mailboxes on posts appeared at intervals
beside gravel driveways leading to farm buildings set well back from
the road.  The land was gently undulating, broken by long rows of
poplars acting as windbreaks.

They rounded a bend in the road, and Burton slowed to turn into a
driveway flanked by two big maple trees.  He geared down again for the
steep incline, and as they wound up the hill between grassy verges
dotted with wildflowers, Veronique found herself craning forward for a
first glimpse of the farmhouse he'd inherited.

The fitful rain had stopped, and the clouds parted, revealing
tantalizing glimpses of clear blue sky.  They came to an orchard, row
upon row of apple, cherry and plum trees, whose rain-sparkled leaves
dripped onto lush green grass.  A two-story Victorian farmhouse came
into view, faded yet dignified, with a wide veranda and fancy cutout
trim.  Sunlight glinted off its big front window and the smaller gabled
windows on the second floor.  It faced south over rolling farmland,
past the mud flats of Boundary Bay, across the American border to where
a white-peaked Mount Baker floated above the blue horizon.

It was more beautiful than she could have imagined.  Burton pulled up
in front of the house and turned off the ignition, aware suddenly of a
strange reluctance to be here.

His first impression as he walked toward the house was that it looked
the same as always: wisteria just about to bloom around the veranda,
white-painted wooden siding, green filigreed trim .... And the front
step that still sagged.

The sight of it stopped him cold.  He looked again.  Everything was
different.  The windowpanes looked starkly blank and empty.  The
chimney didn't curl with smoke.

The front door didn't stand open in welcome.

Granddad was gone.

Burton tested the broken step with his foot, and the board gave under
his weight.  He heard the crunch of gravel as Veronique came up behind
him on the path.

"You should fix that," she said, "or someone will get hurt."

He had to clench his jaw to stop his face from contorting.  He jammed
his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and took a couple of deep
breaths, striving for control.

"Burton?"

She didn't know how Granddad had died.

"Yes?"  He turned a falsely bright questioning look her way.

She frowned, and her gaze slid away.

"Nothing."

He took one of the large rocks lining the flower bed and shoved it
beneath the broken board as a temporary prop, Then he climbed up to the
porch and pulled on the metal handle of the screen door.  It opened
with a creak, reminding him that as a kid he'd called it the "scream"
door.

Gram had laughed every time, and he'd gone on saying it long after he'd
learned the correct word, just to make her happy.  The memory made him
chuckle and, surprisingly, eased some of his pain.

Propping the screen door open with his hip, he in his pocket for a ring
with two keys on it and one in the lock.  He glanced back at Veronique.
ing?"

She made that funny twist of her shoulders and that expressed so much,
and so cence, a kind of Gallic fatalism--and started to climb stairs.

The door opened to shadows, a quiet hallway and musty smell of no one
home.  Yet it still smelled Granddad's house.  Memories came back in a
rush, tumbling in his head.

Himself as a child, as a teenager, as an adult.  Warmth, love, a haven
from the trials of ordinary life.  Gram baking bread, Granddad stoking
the wood-burning stove.  Then just Granddad, but still a second home.

He turned left, drawn to the big country kitchen where he'd spent so
many happy hours.  He and Granddad had played chess at the large
kitchen table while Gram kneaded dough and rolled it into soft, round
balls which she'd cover with clean tea towels and leave to rise.  As
the chessboard emptied, the room would fill with their moist, yeasty
scent.

He paused on the threshold, his gaze sweeping the scarred red counters,
tall white-painted cupboards and round-edged appliances--forty years
old if they were a day.  Thick oak beams crossed the high ceiling where
Gram used to hang strings of onions and garlic, and in the fall, a ham.
At the head of the wide pine table was Granddad's chair, the one he'd
made himself, with wooden arms and a padded, fabric-covered base that
rocked on hand-carved rockers.  For an instant he saw Granddad, seated
before the laid-out chess set, his work-roughened hand outstretched in
welcome.  Heat pricked the backs of his eyes.  Homecoming held a
bittersweet edge.

Silently Veronique slipped past him into the room.  She crossed the
worn lino to push back yellow-flowered curtains, and through the big
picture window he could see apple trees blooming with pink blossoms. 
He knew their branches and their hollows, the knots to use as steps on
the way up, the best places to perch.

She glanced over her shoulder and, just for a second, looked him square
in the face.

"There was much love here.  I can feel it."

The warmth of her tone made him confide, "One of the reasons I came out
here today was to look for my grandfather's chess set.  It holds a lot
of special memories."

She tied back the curtains, letting in the sun.

"Is it missing?"

"It's not where it's supposed to be.  I'm going to search for it before
the agent arrives."

"Do you mind if I explore a little?  I promise I don't touch
anything."

"Go ahead."  He wanted to be alone for a bit, anyway.  He left her
peering into the walk-in pantry and went through the arched doorway to
the dining room, where ceramic ducks flew across an eggshell-blue wall
above Gram's rack of souvenir teaspoons, and on into the living room.

The "games room," as Granddad jokingly called the cherrywood cabinet
that held the chess set, was beside fireplace.  On the mantelpiece,
dust had collected on his high-school graduation photo, Gram's Royal
Doulton shepherdess and on Granddad's pipe resting in the lumpy clay
ashtray Burton had made in grade two.

A huge chunk of his life was in this house.  His had moved five times
while he was growing up--this was the one constant.  How on earth was
he going to part it?  Or replace it?

He skirted Granddad's recliner, Gram's armless where she'd spent her
evenings knitting and the big sofa where he'd sprawled with a book as a
child stretched out for a nap after Gram's Sunday roasting in from of
the cabinet, he turned the old-fashioned in the lock.

He hadn't really expected a miraculous but the empty space where the
chess set should have was a blow, anyway.

He ran a hand over the bare was gone, all right.  But where?

Rising, he crossed to the dining room and stood chair to peer on top of
the oak sideboard.  Nope.  Not the cupboards, either.  Long, prowling
steps took him through the hall to the bookshelf in the spare bedroom.
The shelves were crammed with Raymond Chandler and Jean Plaidy, copies
of the Farmer's Almanac and back issues of Better Homes and Gardens,
but no chess set.

He carried on down the hall to Granddad's room, his footsteps sounding
too loud on the hardwood floor.  He hesitated an instant, then pushed
open the door and stepped inside, feeling like a kid entering
off-limits territory.  Quiet pervaded the monastic room.  There was the
old-fashioned wardrobe, the white dresser and matching bedside tables
supporting family photos and a couple of paperback mysteries.  The
brass bedstead was covered with the patchwork quilt Gram had hand-sewn
as a bride.  So much he'd taken for granted.  Not just the chess set
had value.

There was a sound in the hallway, and Veronique's bright head poked
around the door.

"Did you find it?"

"Not yet."  He opened the door to the mahogany wardrobe and gave a
start at the reflection of his tense face in the full-length mirror on
the back of the door.  His gaze bounced away, skimming the bare shelves
and sagging rod where a few hangers dangled empty.  One hanger lay on
the floor.

Conscious of Veronique's watchful gaze, he left the wardrobe to pull
out every drawer in the dresser.  He checked underneath, then went back
to the wardrobe to probe the dusty top surface.  Nothing.

"Upstairs," he muttered, brushing past Veronique in the doorway.  The
faint floral scent of her perfume followed him down the hall to the
staircase near the front door.

The three upstairs bedrooms had lain empty for a lifetime, waiting for
the large family that had never eventuated.  They were still empty of
all that mattered.  Veronique followed behind, silently double-checking
his efforts.  When Burton found himself poking through neat piles of
towels and sheets in the linen closet, he gave up the search.  Granddad
had been occasionally absentminded, not senile.

Burton clumped down the stairs and slumped onto the third step from the
bottom.  The chess set was really gone.  He'd never considered himself
particularly sentimental, but the crack that had opened in his heart
when Granddad died became a little wider.

Veronique sidled past and stood at the base of the stairs, her slender
fingers curving around the newel post.

"Do not worry.  It will turn up.

Is there an attic?"

"No, but there's a basement, although I can't believe it could have
found its way down there.  I'll look later," he said, glancing at his
watch.

"The real estate agent is due any minute."

Her green eyes grew round.

"Real estate agent?  Is that who you've come to meet?  Don't tell me
you're going to sell this wonderful farm!"

Burton shoved a hand through his hair.

"What else am I going to do with it?  I can't farm it, and anything
else would be a waste."  He was getting tired of explaining the
obvious.

Veronique threw both hands in the air.

"Don't give me this logic!  Even I, a stranger, can see that you love
this place.  What would your grandfather think?  He entrusted you with
his home to cherish and to pass on to your children."

"How can you possibly know that?"  Ignited by tion, his temper
flared.

"Maybe he was just giving me nest egg.  This is a valuable piece of
property."

"Of course it is valuable, but it is not worth half much to anyone else
as it is to you!"  Agitated, she a few steps away before turning
back.

"How can throw away what your grandfather worked so build?  Something
this special doesn't come your way than once in a lifetime.  Here you
can find the you need."

"I haven't had a moment's peace since I inherited Burton got to his
feet.  God, he hated this.  He didn't sound like himself.  The fact
that she was right only made him feel worse.  But why was she so het up
about it?

With an upward slashing motion of one hand, Veronique turned away.

"It is none of my business.  What do I care what you do?"

The sound of a car crunching up the gravel drive came through the
screen door.

Burton pushed it open and stepped onto the porch.  A cherry-red BMW
came to a stop behind his Tercel.  Acid ate at his stomach, reminding
him he'd missed lunch.

"Here he is now."

CHAPTER SIX

A WELL-GROOMED MAN in his fifties emerged from the car, buttoning his
navy jacket with one hand while he extended the other to Burton.

"Afternoon, Mr.  O'Rourke.  Don Chetwynd, Valley Real Estate."

As Burton shook his hand, his mental VCR fast-forwarded to images of
the agent bringing strangers through his grandparents' house.  The sick
feeling in his stomach intensified.

"Nice piece of property you got here, Mr.  O'Rourke.  I was real sorry
to hear about your grandfather."

"Did you know him?"  Burton turned and led the way back up to the
house.

"Watch that first step."

Don Chetwynd chuckled.

"I went to school with your mom.  I've been out a few times more
recently trying to convince William to put this place on the market.
The way housing prices are going up, this farm would bring in a tidy
sum if developed properly."

Burton kept his expression cool and neutral.

"This is; prime farmland, Mr.  Chetwynd."

"Call me, Don.  Hello-o-o," he added, seeing Veronique in the
doorway.

She stared back at him, unsmiling.

"Bonjour."  Burton made the introductions, then led the agent the
house.  As the screen door shut behind him he Veronique wander off
around the house in the direction the orchard.

They toured the farmhouse, and Burton could tell

Chetwynd wasn't seeing a lifetime of memories or even the beautifully
proportioned, high-ceilinged rooms.  He was seeing a cleared lot that
would make way for new houses.  He was seeing dollar signs and
billboards that read Mountain View.

They went out the back way, through the kitchen and the back porch,
which housed the washing machine and dryer.  Behind the house, plowed
fields were bordered on one side by a row of poplars, separating it
from the Vandermeres' farm, and on the other by towering cedars.  A
creek-cum-drainage ditch ran from a small wood at the top of the hill
down through the cedars.

Big red hens fluffed their feathers and scattered clucking as they
walked through the farmyard, reminding Burton he ought to thank Hank
and Mary Vandermere for taking care of Granddad's flock.  He ought to
just give them the chickens.  Maybe he would.

"The barn needs painting," he said coming toward the old wooden
structure.

"I'll get that done before the place goes on the market."

The words were out before he realized what he was saying.  When had he
made the decision to put the farm up for sale?

"I wouldn't bother if I were you," Chetwynd replied.

"Whoever buys will just rip it down, anyway.  Drake Developments is
actively looking for land in this area.  You say the word, and I'll bet
my license you'll have an offer you can't refuse within the week."

Burton paused outside the double barn door.

"My grandfather wasn't interested in selling to developers, Mr.
Chetwynd, and neither am I. If you want to see the place so you know
what to tell prospective farmers who come looking, then we'll continue.
If not, we might as well call it quits right now."

Chetwynd laughed.

"Just as stubborn as your grandfather.  The thing about the future is,
you never know quite how it'll turn out.  Or how you'll feel in, say,
three months'

time."  He gestured with a hand weighed down by chunky gold.

"But by all means, let's continue."

Burton pushed open one of the tall doors and stepped back to allow
Chetwynd to precede him into the cool, cavernous interior.  Straw
rustled beneath their shoes.  Mice scurried.  Then silence.  Dust motes
swam in the sunlight shafting through the high window over the
hayloft.

Memories washed over him like clips from old movies-himself leaping
from the cross beams into hillocks of loose hay, searching the nooks
and crannies for stray eggs with Gram, watching Granddad tinker with
the diesel engine on his old John Deem tractor, which was still parked
to one side on the rough dirt floor.  Granddad never had gotten around
to building a separate machine shed.

In spite of Button's admonitions, Chetwynd started explaining local
zoning regulations.  Burton ignored him and walked slowly around the
barn, his thoughts puzzling a vague notion that something about the
place seemed wrong.  He couldn't put his finger on it, but it felt
something was missing .... He stopped suddenly and turned, his gaze
from the ancient harnesses hanging from one wall to long-disused horse
stalls lining the other, as if he catch whatever it was in the corner
of his mind's Nothing.  He shook his head.  He must be getting All that
was missing was Granddad.

The horse stalls were filled with seed potatoes, and mind flipped back
to the acres of freshly rolled into the distance behind the house.  It
was Granddad had been getting ready to plant the fall The magnitude of
his responsibility grew, accompanied i a burst of anger.  How the hell
had Granddad to take proper care of the farm?  What did he know sowing
and harvesting?

His anger subsided as quickly as it had come.  It only Granddad's
fault.  They all--he and Mother included--had acted as though the old
man would live forever.  Why had they never talked about what would
happen after he was gone?

"Guess you won't be needing those this year, eh?"  Chetwynd put his
hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

Burton's jaw tightened.

"What makes you say that?"

"Hell, why plant when you're going to sell?  Even your granddad
wouldn't see the sense in that."

Burton had had a gutful of Don Chetwynd.

"I'm not putting the farm on the market right away," he snapped, making
the decision on the spot.

"Since I talked to you last, a family heirloom has gone missing, and I
can't sell until it's found."

Chetwynd smoothed his lacquered hair.

"I'm sorry to hear that.  But if someone comes along who's interested
in farming, I'll give you a call."

Burton was about to tell him not to bother, then shrugged.  The chess
set might turn up today for all he knew.

"Just don't count on me being ready to sell."

FROM THE ORCHARD, VERONIQUE watched the real estate agent drive away.
She didn't know why she'd gotten so angry at Burton, only that there
was something about this unpretentious yet dignified farmhouse with its
lopsided front steps, chickens scratching in the dirt and flowering
trees that reminded her of home.

Ridiculous, really, when her home was so totally different.

She pushed away from the tree she was leaning on.  They could delay no
longer the decision on whether or not she was to do the cooking show.

Burton might think he had his answer already, but he didn't know about
the letter.

When she came around the side of the house, he was standing beside a
picnic table of thick cedar.  Above him spread the massive limbs of the
horse chestnut tree, its spiky cones thick with frilly white-and-pink
blossoms.

Her footsteps slowed.  There was a contemplative droop to his mouth,
and his fingers splayed across the wood as if he wished he could read
his fate in its lines, like the palm of a hand.  His motionless stance
contrasted sharply with his earlier restless, nervous energy.

Alors, he had a quiet side.  Perhaps he was not completely
impossible.

She wished she could bring herself to offer whatever comfort a stranger
could give, a squeeze of the hand, a consoling word, but it would feel
like she was offering comfort to Graham, a laughable concept.  Burton
wasn't Graham.  She knew that, but she didn't feel it.

He turned and saw her watching him.

"He's gone."  Her gaze shifted away from his face, although her
attention was still focused squarely on him.

"I am sorry I was angry before.  I had no right."

"It's okay.  Granddad taught me to play chess at this picnic table the
summer I turned nine," he said.

"We'd sit out here all afternoon.  Gram would bring us Kool-Aid and
cookies."

She wandered closer.

"Kool-Aid?  What is that?"  Burton's mouth twisted in part grimace,
part smile.

"A sweet, flavored drink for kids, but Granddad drank it, too.  I took
it for granted at the time that he liked it, but I suppose he was just
keeping me company."

He sat and leaned his elbows on the table.

sat on the other side, not directly opposite, but a little down.  The
heavy planks of yellowed cedar felt as and unmovable as the earth
beneath her feet, From corner of her eye, she glimpsed Button's
features in filtered green light of the horse chestnut He was lost in
past.

She plucked a long strand of grass and crushed sweet, juicy stem
between her teeth.

"You miss him."

"And her.  But mostly Granddad.  I was closest to him.

We spent so much time together over chess."

"Perhaps he gave the set away?"

Burton shook his head.

"Granddad would never do that.  He promised it to me years ago when I
was a teenager.  Besides, it was an antique.  It was valuable."

Lightly she brushed the feathery end of the grass once across the back
of his hand.

"It will turn up."

"I hope so," he said, his gaze following the stalk of grass.

"I can't sell the farm until it does."

"Do you mean that?"  she asked, slightly disbelieving.

"The chess set is the only thing of his I ever wanted.  It is him." 
The sincerity in Burton's intense blue eyes matched his words.

"I won't let the farm go without finding it."

"I see."  She believed him.

With a whispered plop, a blossom dropped from the tree above and landed
in her hair.  Before she could remove it, Burton reached over and
pulled it from her springy curls.  His fingertips brushed her palm as
he presented it back to her with a tiny smile.

"Merci."  Eyes downcast, she studied the frilly confection of cream and
pink.  The air seemed to grow stiller, heavier.

"Will you do the series, Veronique?"

Miracle of miracles, he pronounced her name correctly.  At least, as
correctly as an Anglais could.

"Yes."  She nodded.

"Yes, I will like to do it."

And at this moment, she couldn't even remember why she'd been so
worried it wouldn't work out.  Ah, yes, the menu.  She smiled.  What a
small thing to fret about.  She would create splendid food and he would
adore it.

The pleasant glow of anticipation lasted only seconds before the
recollection of government regulations crushed it.  She tugged apart
the thongs on her backpack and pulled out the letter she'd been so
careful to hide from him ear her.

"Perhaps you'd better read this before we sign a contract."

Burton glanced at the return address, frowned and turned the envelope
over in his hand.

"It hasn't been opened."

"I know what it says," she replied.

"Go on.  Read it."  She tucked her hands up into her sleeves while he
inserted a forefinger beneath the sealed flap and tore it open.  One
stiff sheet unfolded in his hands.  He silently skimmed the page, then
glanced up at her.

"What does this mean?"

"My work visa expires in a week."  She explained quickly to get it out
in the open and over with.

"My husband's death automatically canceled my application for landed
immigrant status.  Without that, I cannot get another work visa.  I was
hoping, if you offered me the job, you could do something, call
someone."  Now that she said it aloud she realized how' unrealistic it
sounded.  She wouldn't blame him if he was angry with her.

"I'm sorry I have wasted your time.  I wanted to help my mother-in-law,
so I grab at the straws.  You must find another chef.

And I will have to leave the country."

"Hold on," Burton said, scanning the letter a second time.

"Don't give up so easily.  Could you get some sort of reprieve on the
basis of caring for your mother-in-law?"

"I have already written to them, explained the situation.  They refuse
to give me even a little more time."

Burton folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket.

"Leave it with me.  I'll see what I can do to square it Immigration."

Mon Dieu.  He sounded so confident.  Graham had like that.  Nothing was
a problem he couldn't fix.  for her.

Burton went to his car and came back with his [ Veronique watched while
he riffled through a stapled of papers, making a notation here and
there in blue His hands weren't like Graham's; Burton's were lon and
leaner.  And bare of the chunky rings Graham had had in common with Don
Chetwynd.

Finally he slid the papers and the pen toward her.  She paged slowly
through to the end, pretending to read, rather than admit her ability
to read English was so poor she couldn't understand more than one word
in three.  She was working on it, but she hadn't graduated from the
children's books she checked out of the library, and she certainly
wasn't up to legalese.

"And the menus?"  she asked, hoping it wasn't spelled out in black and
white.

"You'll have input, but I get the final say."  He held out a pen.

Instead of taking it, Veronique wrapped her arms around her waist.  All
she'd wanted to do was go back to Tahiti, yet every day, every hour,
led her deeper and deeper into this other new life.  She was
fatigued.

Burned-out.  But Marion was depending on her.  And it wasn't as if she
expected to enjoy the next two months.  Happiness was just a vague
promise for the future.

Burton cleared his throat, and his fingers began to drum discreetly.

Not allowing herself to think about it any longer, she took the pen and
wrote her signature in her squiggly, up-and-down hand, ending with a
sharp dot at the end of Dutot.

"Voil&" she said, and pushed the pages back across the table.

"We have the deal."  She tried to smile, but it wouldn't come.

Em'm mJP.  mED DOWN to reception to greet Veronique on her first
working day at the station.  She and Burton were going to plan the
menus, and Burton had asked Ernie to come along and take notes.  There
she was, chatting to Lillian.  His heart rate picked up and he
lengthened his steps.

Her hair was wet with rain, and her paisley jacket drenched and dark
over the shoulders, but the smile she flashed him was pure sunshine. 
He tugged self-consciously at the tie around his neck and wondered
guiltily when he'd last dressed to impress Rita.  He pushed the thought
aside.  Veronique was way out of his league, and nothing was ever going
to happen between them.  But be wanted to look his best when it
didn't.

"Ms.  Dutot--r, Veronique.  Welcome."

"Bonjour, Ernie.  What a nice tie."  Smiling, she adjusted the knot,
leaving him breathless.

"Look, it is paisley, like my jacket.  I just knew we were going to be
simpatico."

Ernie blushed and pretended not to see Lillian's look of mild
amusement.

"If you'd like to come with me..."  He turned quickly to hide the beat
in his cheeks and led the way down the hall toward Burton's office
while Veronique told, Ahim about her bus ride to the station.

great furry dog leaped onto the bus and put his big muddy paws on the
driver," she said.

"The man, he was so mad, but the dog, he was laughing."

Ernie stopped outside Button's office.

"You like dogs?"

"They are wonderful," she said warmly.

"So and loving."

"I like them, too," he said, smiling at her over shoulder as he
knocked.  The door, which had been pushed open.

"Excuse me, Burt--" He leaned around door.  No one there.

"He must have gotten tied up with something," said.

"Have a seat.  Can I get you some coffee?"

"Thank you, yes."  She slung her backpack over the of one of the two
guest chairs and sat down.

Ernie hustled down to the coffee room, anxiously de ring if there'd be
anything left of the fresh pot he'd on to brew earlier.  Just as he
came through the door phy poured the last of the coffee into his
giant-size Until today, he'd never encountered the vice of programming
without Burton around to do the talking.  Ernie sidled warily over to
the coffee machine.  The old man's temper since he'd quit smoking was
already a legend.

"How are you making out, Ernie?"

The jovial tone startled him.

"G-great.  I mean, I'm doing okay, I think."

He slid the pot off the burner and rinsed out the dregs, his mind
racing.  Should he put the coffee on and go back to Veronique, then run
back in five minutes when the coffee was done?  Or should he wait for
it and leave her wondering where he'd disappeared to?  Dam that Murphy
and his big mug, anyway.  He ripped open a fresh packet of ground
coffee.

"O'Rourke working you hard, boy?"

Emie's hand shook, and coffee spilled across the counter.

"I'm 1-1earning a lot.  It's a little different from cable TV." 
Cripes, why had he gone and said that?  Murphy would think he didn't
know what he was doing.

Murphy uttered a sharp grunt, presumably his opinion of cable TV.

"Saw Burton rushing off a moment ago to Props.  The kitchen just
arrived for this new cooking show.  You're working on that, aren't you,
lad?"

Something about the way Murphy growled the question made Ernie wonder
if the big boss thought checking out the kitchen was the production
assistant's job.  But Burton had asked him to meet Veronique ....
Unless Burton hadn't trusted him to make sure the kitchen checked out
okay.

Sometimes it seemed like Burton thought he was the only one who could
get things done.

"You can learn a few things from O'Rourke," Murphy added, slurping
loudly from his cup.

"He's the best in the business."

"I will.  I mean, I do, sir."  Perspiration formed at Ernie hairline.

He had to get out of here, fast.  Fill the jug, pour it in, switch it
on... Darn.  Murphy was leaning against the counter as though he was
settling in for a chat.

"So what do you think of the Vancouver Canadians' chance at the pennant
this year, Ernie?  You a baseball fan?"

"You b-bet I am, Mr.  Murphy."  He loved baseball and usually he liked
nothing better than to discuss it.  But Veronique was waiting.

"The station has a couple of season tickets.  Fans around here get to a
game or two."  A phlegmy cough rambled from Murphy's chest.

"That sounds great," Ernie said over the hacking that seemed to go on
and on.  He filled two cups, grabbed a handful of creams and sugars and
had started to back away when he noticed Murphy looking apoplectic.

"Are you going to be all right, Mr.  Murphy?"  he said, alarmed.

"Should I call someone?"

Murphy, red-faced and eyes bulging with the strain, stopped coughing
long enough to gasp on a breath.

"I'm fine."  He waved him away.

"Go."

"Okay."  Ernie turned, and shamelessly ran.  Veronique was gazing at
the photos on Button's wall when Ernie returned with the coffee.  With
luck he'd have a few minutes with her before Burton showed up.

"Sorry I took so I ng," he said.

"Had to make a new pot."  He set the cups on the edge of the desk.  The
cream and sugar spilled from his hand and fell to the floor. 
Flustered, he crouched to Pick them up.

"I

didn't know what you liked in your coffee so I just brought lots of
everything."

"It looks wonderful.  Merci, Ernie."

Her voice did something weird to his insides, like down the first big
hill on the roller coaster.  He his glasses and polished the steamy
edges on his tie, taking deep breaths to control his breathing.

"I was just with Murphy, vice president of programming," he casually,
as though he and Ed got together every morning to chew the fat.

"Burton was called down to Props.  Apparently-" "The kitchen just
arrived."  Burton strode through the door, and instantly all attention
turned to him.

"Morning, Veronique.  Morning, Ernie.  Ah, coffee.  Any more where that
came from, Em?"

Ernie sighed.

"Sure thing, boss."  He slipped back out the door, hoping like hell
Murphy had gone back to his office.

Burton waited until Ernie had left the room before he pulled
Veronique's letter from the Immigration Department out of his
briefcase.  He normally wouldn't send Ernie out for coffee, but the
fewer people who knew about her work visa problem, the better.

"I talked to this Ms.  Papazian at the Immigration Department-boy, was
she a grouch."  He passed the envelope across his desk to Veronique,
and her face fell.

"I haven't given up.  Last night I wrote half a dozen letters--to my
member of Parliament, to the Human Rights Commission ... you name
it---explaining the situation.  Stressing, of course, the importance of
your ex-mother-in-law's well-being rather than the show."

"Of course.  I would not be here if not for Marion."

"My plan," Burton continued, "is for my letters to initiate an
investigation.  And for the various government departments to get so
tangled up in their own red tape that by the time they've made a
decision, Marion will be well enough to cope on her own and taping of
Flavors will be complete."

Her smile was brief and skeptical.

"Thank you for trying," she said politely.

He sat back in his swivel chair and spread his hands apologetically.

"I

wish I could have gotten you a temporary work visa, but for now this is
the best I can do."

Ernie returned with another cup of coffee.

"Thanks, Ernie.  Just set it down and have a seat."  Burton located the
file labeled Flavors from among those on his desk and flipped through
it.

"Okay, we've got the kitchen being assembled--" He broke off to glance
at Veronique.

"You're going to love it--granite countertops, washed-oak cupboards,
top of the line appliances."  He turned to Ernie.

"We can use most of the same crew as Lost Harvest.  Did you ask Early
to start working on a script?"

Ernie nodded.

"She said she'd have something ready this afternoon for you to look
at."

"Excuse me," Veronique interrupted.

"Why do I need a script?  I am not an actor."

Burton glanced up, and as usual, her gaze slid away.  A guy could get a
complex about this.

"While you're cooking you can ad-lib, but we need set lines for you to
say at the beginning, to cue commercial breaks and to wrap up the show.
You'll soon know it by heart.  The biggest bit is the intro, and once
we have that taped we'll just splice it into every segment."

"Oh, if that is all..."  She sneezed and pulled out a hankie.

His hankie.  Button's eyebrows rose.  Well, well.  He was touched that
she'd kept it all this time.  He noticed her damp hair that was drying
into tight curls, and the wet jacket hanging over the back of her
chair.

"Ever consider getting an umbrella?"

She shrugged.

"I lose umbrellas.  Are we going to talk about the menu?  I have
written down some ideas."  She reached for her backpack and pulled out
a spiral-bound notebook.

"Great."  Burton noticed his untouched coffee and took a sip.

"I'm a dab hand at opening cans, but what I know about cooking would
fit on the back of a soup label.  On the other hand," he said, rising
from his chair, "I know what we need in terms of producing this
sucker."

He paced the tiny space behind his desk.  When his brain got active,
his feet wanted to move.

"I want a show that's fast-paced and colorful.

With recipes that can be completely prepared and cooked within the time
allotted.  Minimal use of electric appliances--they're too noisy. 
Let's go through your list of recipes, Veronique, and decide what will
work and what won't."

He paused, noticing Ernie had his head down and was scribbling
industriously.

"You're not taking minutes, Em," he said in an undertone.

"Just get the main points."  What the hell was the kid wearing a tie
for?

"Oh.  Okay."  Ernie blinked behind his round glasses.

Veronique consulted her notebook.

"First, I thought I would like to do a ri sotto

"Risotto's good," Burton said.

"It's quiet."  Then he frowned.

"But not very colorful."

"Pumpkin ri sotto is very beautiful with the dark orange against the
creamy rice."

"How fast is it to prepare?"

She pursed her lips.

"That depend on what exactly you mean by fast."

"Say, five to ten minutes?"  he suggested hopefully.  She laughed her
low, throaty laugh.

"First you must prepare the pumpkin.  Then the rice, he must be stirred
for twenty minutes--" "That's way too long," Burton said, cutting her
off.  He planted his hands on his desk and leaned over it.

"What about using, say, carrots, instead?  Maybe stir-fry them to speed
things up.  Stir-fry is perfect for TV."

Veronique drew herself up, chin high in the air.

"I cook hante cuisine, not TV dinners."

Burton continued to pace; two steps one way, two steps back.

"I'm not suggesting you lower your standards, GOd no.  Just ...
experiment a little with alternative ingredients."

"I experiment all the time.  I change this, I change that," Veronique
said, waving a hand to illustrate.

"But the changes, they has to make sense.  Pumpkin is very different
texture from carrot--it is creamy like the rice, not crunchy.  You
cannot change one for the other because it is convenient.  It would be
like using pineapple, instead of corn, just because they were both
yellow."  She turned to Ernie.

"That wouldn't be right, would it?"

Ernie cast a desperate glance at Burton.  With a judicious lift of his
eyebrows, Burton let him know just whose hand was feeding him.

"Gee, Veronique," Ernie said, "I guess not, but--" "Nobody's trying to
make you put pineapple into a stew," Burton said in the most placating
tone he could achieve between gritted teeth.

"But I don't see the big difference between carrot and pumpkin. 
They're both savory, and both orange--since you seem to be stuck on the
color thing."

She half rose in her seat.

"It is not I who am stuck on the color."

Ernie cleared his throat.

"E-excuse me, B-Burton, Veronique.  I'll bet Veronique plans to, you
know, cook the pumpkin beforehand and then just toss it into the ri
sotto That way it's even faster than carrots.  Isn't that right,
Veronique?"

Smiling, she touched him on the shoulder.

"But of course that is how I would do it!"

Burton stared at Ernie.  The boy surprised him sometimes.  To Veronique
he said, "It might have been helpful if you'd mentioned that in the
first place."

Veronique shrugged.

"It was obvious."

For the next four hours they worked their way through the list,
stopping once for more coffee and for Ernie to order in sandwiches.

Burton tossed some recipes out, bullied Veronique into modifying a few
and accepted her judgment on still others.  Together, they organized,
estimated and calculated until every dish had been planned down to the
last detail, each segment timed to the minute.

Finally Burton stood behind his chair and stretched.

"Well," he said, bringing his arms back to his sides, "at least that's
settled."  He leaned forward on the back of his chair and studied
Veronique.

"Your hair.  It's a pretty color, but..."

"But what?"  A frown appeared.

"Would you consider getting it styled?  Nothing radically different,
just a trim."

Her index finger curled through the long tresses at the back of her
neck and tugged.

"No."

Burton frowned.  That multicolored mop didn't fit with the
sophisticated way she dressed.  He made a closer inspection of her
blouse and skirt, which he was able to do because her gaze was resting
on his knuckles.

Maybe her clothes weren't as expensive as he'd first thought, just well
put together.

"Will you think about it?"

"Non."

"Okay, it was just a thought.  We'll look on it as part of your exotic
and eccentric personality that's going to make this show a hit."

She glanced up at him then, her face growing pale.  When she spoke, it
was with quiet intensity, from some place deep and hurting.

"I hope your taste for the exotic does not fade before the series is
over."

He blinked.  What was that about?  In the silence that followed, he
could hear rain drumming on the roofs of the cars in the parking lot
outside his window.

"HOw about we go check out the kitchen?  Then, Veronique, you can make
a list of the utensils you'll need."

She rose, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.

"I have my own set of knives."

"Great."  He ushered her out with a quick prayer she wouldn't end up
using them on him.

"Coming, Ernie?"  He threw his arm across his assistant's shoulders as
they followed Veronique out of the of rice.

"Good suggestion back there," he said in a voice.

"You're a real diplomat."

Ernie smoothed the beginnings of a frown into a smile and made an
effort not to let his annoyance show.  was just trying to make him feel
good.  But why did tall people always think they could throw their arms
across the shoulders of shorter people, like they were some kind of
public leaning post?  Just because he was young and less experienced
didn't mean he shouldn't be taken seriously.  And just because he was
short didn't mean he could be patronized.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SPITTING RAIN HAD DAMPENED the sidewalk when Veronique alighted from
the bus across the street from the hospital.  She had an hour to spend
with Marion before going to the market to buy groceries for the first
day of taping tomorrow.  Yesterday she and Ernie had gone shopping for
pots and pans and other dishes.  It had been fun and Ernie had been so
sweet, trailing after her loaded down with her parcels.  She had to be
careful not to encourage him--that wouldn't be fair.  But he was such
fun to tease, like the little brother she never had.

Veronique hurried through the hospital to Marion's new room in the
rehabilitation center located in another wing.  Marion was moving
around on crutches, but she still had too much time to think and tended
to fret when Veronique was late.

"Bonjour, Marion," Veronique sang out as she strode through the open
door into the semiprivate ward.

"Hi, Ronnie," Marion whispered.  She put a finger to her lips, and
pointed to the next bed.

Someone new had arrived in the night.  The woman occupying the other
bed looked roughly Marion's age.  She was thin, with long dark hair.
Her eyes were shut, but the arms lying on top of the covers seemed
tense and rigid, giving Veronique the impression she was only
pretending to sleep.

She lowered her voice to a whisper, anyway.

"Voil&

rice.

"Good suggestion back there," he said in a low voice.

"You're a real diplomat."

Ernie smoothed the beginnings of a frown into a smile and made an
effort not to let his annoyance show.  Burton was just trying to make
him feel good.  But why did tall people always think they could throw
their arms across the shoulders of shorter people, like they were some
kind of public leaning post?  Just because he was young and less
experienced didn't mean he shouldn't be taken seriously.  And just
because he was short didn't mean he could be patronized.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SPITTING RAIN HAD DAMPENED the sidewalk when Veronique alighted from
the bus across the street from the hospital.  She had an hour to spend
with Marion before going to the market to buy groceries for the first
day of taping tomorrow.  Yesterday she and Ernie had gone shopping for
pots and pans and other dishes.  It had been fun and Ernie had been so
sweet, trailing after her loaded down with her parcels.  She had to be
careful not to encourage him--that wouldn't be fair.  But he was such
fun to tease, like the little brother she never had.

Veronique hurried through the hospital to Marion's new room in the
rehabilitation center located in another wing.  Marion was moving
around on crutches, but she still had too much time to think and tended
to fret when Veronique was late.

"Bonjour, Marion," Veronique sang out as she strode through the open
door into the semiprivate ward.

"Hi, Ronnie," Marion whispered.  She put a finger to her lips, and
pointed to the next bed.

Someone new had arrived in the night.  The woman occupying the other
bed looked roughly Marion's age.  She was thin, with long dark hair.
Her eyes were shut, but the arms lying on top of the covers seemed
tense and rigid, giving Veronique the impression she was only
pretending to sleep.

She lowered her voice to a whisper, anyway.

"Voih,

Marion," she said, pulling a package of hair color out of her bag.

"Today you are going to the beauty parlor."

Marion struggled to sit up.

"You really shouldn't have bothered, Ronnie.  No one's going to see me
in here."

Veronique wasn't fooled by Marion's protest.  She could see the gleam
of interest in her mother-in-law's eyes and rejoiced at the progress.

"Nonsense.  You are doing it for yourself."

Marion glanced at her roommate, whose face had taken on an almost
imperceptible frown.  Marion beckoned Veronique closer and whispered in
her ear.

"She was in a temper last night when they brought her in.

She's had surgery.  I don't know what it was, she wouldn't say, but you
should have heard her snap at the nurses."

"Perhaps she was in great pain," Veronique whispered back.

"Come, let us go.  We can talk better in the washroom.

' Veronique pushed the wheelchair over to the bed and helped Marion
into it.  Placing a folded towel across Marion's lap, she wheeled her
down the hall to the communal wash and laundry room where there was a
wide sink and a nozzle attachment.

Veronique adjusted the temperature and directed the spray onto Marion's
bent head, wetting her hair thoroughly.

"Tell me about the studio," Marion asked over the noise of the water.

"Have you started taping yet?"

"Tomorrow.  I am so nervous my hands shake just to think of it.  At
least we have agreed on the menu."

"It must be so exciting working in a television studio.  Did you see
Lovers and Strangers yesterday?  I can't believe how mean that awful
Tiffany is to Reilly.  He really loves her, even if she is quite a bit
older."

Veronique laughed uneasily as she helped Marion sit upright so she
could towel-dry her hair.

"You really must get out more.  Tiffany and Reilly are not real
people."

"Oh, I know that."  Marion adjusted the belt of her dressing gown and
shifted her leg on the bit of the wheelchair that held it out
straight.

"What's it like working for an important producer?  Is he nice?"

Scary was the word that came to mind.  She was always afraid she'd
forget and call him Graham.  Afraid of remembering the past; afraid of
not remembering and repeating it.  Briefly she contemplated telling
Marion that Burton resembled Graham.  No, that would only get her
started talking about Graham.

"He wants me to cut my hair!"  She reached for the package of hair
color and flipped the instruction sheet over to the French side.  Thank
heaven for a bilingual country, at least in theory.

Marion eyed her in the mirror.

"It's time you got rid of those blond ends."

"Not yet."  Veronique snapped one bottle into the base of the other and
shook.

"We will do the whole head at once, eh?  It has been so long we don't
need to do the roots separately."

"Whatever you think, dear."

Veronique arranged the towel around Marion's shoulders to protect her
robe from spills, then pulled on the plastic gloves and squeezed a
stream of gel onto Marion's hair.

Marion's eyes were shut, showing thin blue veins on her eyelids.  Her
hands were folded in her lap, relaxed.

"You know, Ronnie, maybe you just need a holiday."

Out Tahiti.

"Mmm-hmm."

"I mean, you haven't been away since Graham took you to San
Francisco."

Veronique's hands stilled, knuckle-deep in foamy goo.

"Pardon?"

"Don't you remember?  It was the second weekend in February.  He called
to wish me happy birthday and to explain why you two wouldn't be over
for dinner.  I didn't speak to you, but I could hear you laughing in
the background."

Ah.  Now, she remembered.  How like Graham to cover his tracks so
carefully.  She'd spent that weekend watching old movies while he'd
flown to San Francisco on a sudden business trip.  Marion had heard a
female voice, but it hadn't been hers.  Back then Veronique had
suspected he , 'd was seeing someone else, although she hadn t realized
he gone away with the woman that particular weekend.

It was 't the worst thing he was capable of.

"I'm orry we missed your birthday dinner."  She hoped her voice didn't
sound too strained.

"Oh, that doesn't matter now, Ronnie."

Veronique's fingers trembled as she worked the color through Marion's
hair.  Sometimes she awoke in the night and wondered whether Graham
would have arranged that last-minute fishing trip if she hadn't
confronted him about that other woman and told him she was leaving. 
She always pushed the thought away, angry with herself for feeling even
remotely responsible for his death.

"Ronnie?"  Marion's voice called her back.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine.  It's just ... San Francisco wasn't so very fun for me." 
She washed her hands and arranged a plastic shower cap over Marion's
hair--the type of plastic cap you got free at a nice hotel.  She
supposed one didn't wear plastic caps while showering with a lover. 
You brought them home as a souvenir for your wife.

"Bon," she said, with a sigh, and set the small kitchen timer she'd
brought in her backpack.  Then she took out a deck of cards, and Marion
wheeled herself over to a small table for folding laundry.  They played
the twenty minutes away, keeping score of their crib hands in the
margins of hair-color instructions.

the'I won again," Marion announced, gathering in the loose cards.

"You're not paying attention today, Ronnie.  Something on your mind?"

Veronique was saved from answering by the timer going off.

"Time to see the new you."

She rinsed and shampooed, then blow-dryed, doing her best to style
Marion's hair.

"Life is strange, eh, Marion?  A few weeks ago I was only a chef.  Now
I'm a TV star and a hairdresser."  She poked a curl, fragrant with
chemicals, into place.

"Well, maybe not a hairdresser.

When you get out of here, you must get this done properly."

"It's wonderful, Ronnie.  Thank you."  But at the mention of leaving
the hospital, an anxious look crossed Marion's face.

Veronique said casually, "The nurse told me about the bridge club. 
They meet tonight, non ?"

"Oh, Ronnie, I keep telling you, it's too soon after Stan's passing for
me to socialize."

"Nobody's asking you to marry again.  It's just a friendly game of
bridge."  Veronique came around the front of the wheelchair and
crouched at eye level.

"Please, Marion, for me?"

"For you?"  Marion looked confused.

"When I go back to Tahiti..."  She grasped Marion's hand as the other
woman's mouth tightened.

"When I go back, I want to know that you have other friends.  You don't
want me to worry or feel bad that I am abandoning you, do you?"

Marion smiled sadly and squeezed Veronique's hand.

"Of course not.  I just don't know what I'm going to do without you."

"When the time comes, you will be strong in mind and healthy in
bodymyou will see.  I talked to the head nurse here about getting you a
home help.  You will let me pay for it from the money Graham left-Non,
I will not take no for the answer."

An answer.  Ronme, we've settled this.  Graham left that money to you."
From down the corridor came the squeak and clatter of the meal trolley.
The aroma of overdone roast beef and packet gravy drifted through the
open door.

"Dinnertime," Veronique announced.

"We'd better get you back before the new girl eats your meal."  She
tossed the used hair-color box into the garbage, gathered up Marion's
towel and wiped down the sink.

Then she took hold of the handles and pushed the wheel chair back to
Marion's room.  Her roommate's bed was empty, and sounds of running
water came from the bath room.  Veronique helped Marion back into bed
and adjusted the pillows so she could sit upright.

"Do you think...?"  Marion began, then stopped.

"No, forget it."

"What?"

Veronique took her jacket from the back of the chair and picked up her
backpack.

"It's too much to ask " "Just tell me, Marion.  I'll let you know if it
is too much."

"I just wondered if I could possibly come down to the studio and watch
Lovers and Strangers being taped sometime.  When my hip is a bit
better, I mean.  And if they allow outsiders in."  I Outsiders were
allowed in.  Friends and relatives of the crew came along frequently.
Sometimes students from the film school.  Veronique imagined
introducing Marion to Burton, and Marion fainting or bursting into
tears at them spitting image of her dead son.  And what of her
feenngs?1

Would seeing Marion with Burton make him appear morel like Graham, or
lesS?  ar'it Veronique gazed at Marion's eager, wistful face.

ion, who had so little to look forward to.

"Yes, I so," she said.  eeii Marion smiled the biggest smile Veronique
had's since before Stun and Graham had died.

"Oh, Ronnie.  Thank you so much."

BURTON PUSHED THROUGH the doors to Channel Seven.  It was Wednesday
morning, and with taping on Flavors starting today he had a lot on his
mind.

He dropped his umbrella in the stand and started across the lobby to
where Sylvia was leaning over Lillian's desk, inspecting a fistful of
long purple fingernails.  "this guy I met at a computer course.  I
woulda gone out with him, but then he started going on about his hard
drive."  She cracked her gum.

"So-o-o-o cute, but he's, like, such a techie."  "What a pity," Lillian
murmured, out of sight behind Sylvia's shapely backside.

"Morning, ladies."

Sylvia straightened away from Lillian's desk to waggle her fingertips
at him.

"Hi, Burton."

Burton jerked to a halt.  Lillian's snowy white hair was shot through
at the temple with neon streaks of lime and purple.  Hair whose soaring
gelled spikes had abandoned all pretension to fluffiness.

"I see your grand niece has advanced to hair color, Lillian."

She beamed up at him from behind the desk, patting her hair proudly.

"Good morning, Burton.  Yes, Sandy's been practicing again.  Don't you
just love it?"

"I've, ah, never seen anything quite like it on ... uh..."

One gray eyebrow lifted as Lillian gazed steadily back and waited for
him to finish floundering.

Burton took a big breath and forced himself to look, really look at
Lillian.  To disassociate himself from his prejudices about appropriate
hairstyles for grandmothers.  When he did, to his surprise, he saw an
attractive woman having fun experimenting with her appearance.

With a genuinely admiring smile, he dropped a hot-pink carnation into
her vase.

"Actually, Lillian, I think it's great."

Ernie came scurrying toward the desk, frowning down at his clipboard.

"Is Burton in yet, Lillian?"

"Right in front of you, big fella," Burton said.

"How's it going?

Everything ready to start taping?"  He clapped an arm around his
assistant's shoulder and steered him toward his office.  For a second
he thought he felt Ernie tense under his friendly hand.  Nah, couldn't
be.

"The electricians have finished wiring the set," Ernie said.

"Bill and the guys are setting up their cameras.  We should be ready to
go as soon as Veronique gets here."

"Great, Em.  With a presenter as, shall we say, unpredictable as
Veronique, it's nice to know I've got a PA who can get things happening
and keep everyone in line when I'm not around."  He held Ernie's mild
brown gaze to impress upon the boy that although expectations were high
and the tasks arduous, he had every confidence Ernie would rise to the
occasion.

Ernie passed the back of his hand across his forehead, which was
covered with a faint sheen of perspiration, "Gee, th-thanks, Butt.  I
mean, Burton.  I'll do my best."

From reception came the sound of throaty laughter a melodious French
accent.  Burton turned.

"Ah, there she is now."

Ironic that her first day on the set should be June second, the date
her work visa expired.  So far he'd had luck getting the Immigration
Department to change collective mind.  He'd only succeeded in raising
cratic interest in her case to the point where they'd asking him a lot
of sticky questions.  Like, why wasn't hiring a French-Canadian chef,
eh?  Just his bad luck the official who'd responded to his inq in Trois
Rivires, Quebec.

Veronique approached, her averted gaze skimming framed stills from
various television shows that lined walls.  How could he get her to
look at him?  It wasn't just his ego at stake, but the success of
Flavors and, ultimately, his documentary.

She came closer.  Ernie's eyes glazed over.  Burton had a brain wave

"Ernie, show Veronique to the dressing room and then take her to
Makeup.  I have to get something from Props.  I'll meet you in the
studio."  He lifted a hand in greeting to Veronique before hurrying
into his office to drop off his briefcase.

When he emerged, Veronique had caught up with Ernie and was bussing him
on both cheeks.

"Bong'our, bonjour.  a va?"

Burton quickly turned down a secondary corridor and ran up a flight of
stairs.  Okay, the dual peck on the cheeks was a French custom, but she
never greeted him like that.  When had she started treating Ernie like
a friend, as well as a colleague?  Would she ever see him that way?
WOuld she ever see him at all?

Ernie, meanwhile, was awash in body heat and Chanel No.  5. But by the
time he'd figured out what Veronique was doing it was too late to press
his lips against her cheek.  She'd already drawn back, digging in her
backpack for something and chattering about the bus, which was ate and
her stocking, which had torn.

Ernie forced another image into his clouded brain.  Rita.  Lovely Rita,
with her smooth dark hair bobbed under her pointed chin.  Rita, whom he
suspected of being too good for him, but who had consented to marry
him, anyway.

"Uh, ggood morning, V-Veronique."  He whipped off his fogged-up glasses
and polished them on his shirttail.  No ties today.  Not even for
Veronique would he wear a noose every day.

"You can put your stuff in the dressing room, and after you get done in
Makeup, we'll meet Burton in the studio."  Makeup.  The thought of
taking We ronique to meet Rita made the perspiration stand out on his
brow.

"Bon."  With a flourish she produced from her bag a large, ripe
mango.

She handed it to Ernie, then pulled out a cucumber, a tomato, some
green onions and a bouquet of fresh cilantro, and piled them into his
unwilling hands already burdened by a clipboard and pen.

"I knew something was missing from the menu the other day when we were
planning the grilled pork Polynesian," she said.

"Mango salsa.  The grilled pork, he must have mango salsa."

"Oh, no," Ernie said, alarmed.

"Button's not going to like adding another dish at the last minute."

"Poof.  He will love it--it's colorful and quick, and low-fat, too.  It
has absolutely no effect on the waistline."

"It'll have a big effect on the schedule.  At rehearsal yesterday, we
just squeaked in on the timing."  Almost dropping the cucumber, Ernie
clutched the mass of fruit and vegetables tighter to his flannel-clad
chest.  A paper fell out of his clipboard and fluttered to the floor.

"You can't add things at the last minute, Veronique.  Burton won't
allow it.  Sure, he's a bit of a stickler, but that's why he's the
best--" She cut him off with a conspiratorial smile that made his
stomach drop.

"Er-r-rnie," she purred.

"We will just have to surprise him.  We will show him how well it
works."

"Veronique!"  he pleaded.  He didn't like the sound that "we."

"Don't worry, Ernie.  It will be fine.  The mango takes just two
minutes to make.  Chop, chop, chop, done."  Burton thought he was
reliable.  Burton was him to keep Veronique in line.  Ernie drew
himself up Veromque, little taller, made his voice a little deeper."

forbid you to make mango salsa."

She laughed and pushed his chest lightly, dislodging the mango. 
Despite his desperate effort to catch it with his elbow, it fell. 
Veronique reached for it, trapping it against his upper thigh.

"Oop, et la.

Mustn't bruise the fruit."  She glanced up at him with a sly lift of
her eyebrows.

Ernle's cheeks flamed.  She was flirting with him.  He was gonna mess
up his career.  And his engagement.  And he was only twenty-two.  Oh
God, oh God, oh God.

"Here, take these back."  Ernie shoved the produce into her open
backpack as if it was stolen goods, his gaze darting from side to
side.

The corridor was empty, but with microphones in every second room, the
walls had ears.  No, that was paranoid.  Ernle picked up his dropped
schedule and mopped his forehead.

"Don't do it, Veronique.  I beg you."

"Such a worry warp, Ernle."  She smiled her dimpled, dazzling smile.

"Now, don't tell Burton.  I'm counting on you."  She slung her pack
over a shoulder, causing her cream silk blouse to strain across one
curving breast, sublimely unaware of the havoc she was creating in his
conscience-control center.

"Which way to Makeup?"

Sweating profusely, Ernie led her to the dressing room where she hung
up her jacket, then to Makeup.  The door was open and Rim was at the
counter arranging her cosmetics and brushes.  Oh God.  She would take
one look at his guilty face and know instantly Veronique had kissed
him.

"Hi, Rita."  His voice cracked.

Her face lit up at the sight of him.

"Hi, Ernle."  Blushing, she pushed a strand of straight brown hair
behind her ear and shyly braided her hands together in front of her
rose-colored sweater.

His smile instinctively took on warmth.  Then he quickly frowned so she
wouldn't think him overly warm and get suspicious.  Flustered, he
motioned Veronique forward.

"This is Veronique, the chef on Flavors.

Veronique, this

 E

is Rita."  He turned to Rita.

"Taping starts in twenty minutes.

Can you get her ready, please?"

"Sure.  Hi, Veronique.  What beautiful hair you have."

"Bonjour.  Merci."  She smiled at Rita.

"Where should

I sit?"

"Right here."  Rita spun the high swivel seat around and held it while
Veronique climbed onto it.  Then she tied a pink plastic cape around
Veronique's neck and arranged it to protect her clothes.

All right, Ernie thought, as Rita made styling suggestions while
Veronique nodded into the mirror.  He smiled smugly at how well he'd
handled the situation.  They hardly noticed he was there.

"Shall I put your backpack someplace safe.  he sug I gested to
Veronique.  Anything to get that mango away I from he.  rmrror Smiling,
she waggled a finger at him through the " i "You naughty boy.  You know
I need that backpack.  She glanced up at Rita.

"He's so sweet and helpful, non?"

Rita nodded, but a tiny frown appeared between her eye;

brows.  Uh-oh.  Time to scram.  He bade Veronique a hasty goodbye and
left Rim with whispered instructions not to get talked into anything.
Then he raced back to the studio where the crew was assembled, and
doing last-minute checks on the sound and light equipment.  Burton
would know how to handle Veronique.  Where the heck was he??  Someone
called his name and he turned to see Vince'll the floor manager, coming
toward him.  Vince was six foot four and sported a black handlebar
mustache and a Vancouver Canadians baseball cap.  When he stopped in
from!"I of Ernie, Ernie felt like a midget, "Say, Ernie, where's
Burton?  And Veronique?  We'll got to get our asses in gear.  The
studio's booked for another show after lunch."

"I know," Ernie' checked his watch.

"Veronique's Makeup.  I'm sure Burton' Il be along any minute."

Vince lifted his cap, stroked a hand over his receding hairline and
slid the cap back in place.

"Okay.  We're ready whenever the man shows."

He returned to where the camera crew were positioned around the set.

Pausing outside the studio door, Veronique cautiously touched her
hair.

Rim had fluffed her thick mat of curls into a spiraling mass of blond
and bronze, which gave her height and accentuated her cheekbones.  The
makeup she'd smoothed over her face and neck felt unfamiliar and made
her feel somehow unreal, almost like an actor on TV.  Mon Dieu, but
that's exactly what she was.  Her palms grew damp.  This was the
moment.

She pushed open the door at the back of the set.  On the other side of
the studio, beyond the cameras, the audience filled twenty rows on
either side of a center aisle.  Near the edge of the set, she saw Ernie
consulting his clipboard and hurried over to him.

"Ernie.  How much time do I have?"

"Hi, Veronique.  Hey, you look great."  He checked his watch.

"You've got about five minutes till airtime.  Burton hasn't arrived
yet."

"I go arrange myself in the kitchen, then.  I am so nervous, Ernie."

"Me, too," he blurted unexpectedly.

"You?  Never," she declared.

"You look so professional with your clipboard and your headset."

Suddenly the chatter from the crew stilled.  For two endless seconds
there was total silence.  Then the buzz started again, twice as loud,
like crickets in a heat wave.

"Morning, gang," Burton called in the brisk voice he used when he was
in high gear.

"We're running late, so let's get going."

Zut alors't Veronique blinked and looked again.  She recognized him by
his long legs and the black vest he'd been wearing over a white shirt,
but what was that on his head?  And his face!

He had on black plastic glasses with a big nose and a villainous
mustache that stopped just short of hiding his mouth.  Covering his
short coppery hair was a multicolored wig that looked as if he'd put
his finger in an electrical socket.  Her hand went to her mouth to
cover an unladylike snort of laughter.

Calmly he walked over, put up his hand and with a straight face asked,
"How many fingers am I holding up?"  Still giggling, she said,
"Ff-four."

Beneath the black plastic mustache, his mouth curved.

"Good.  That's how many minutes you have before we start taping."

Funny, she'd never noticed before that his smile was higher on one side
than the other.  Or that fine laugh lines bracketed his lips.  She felt
herself warm to him.  He'd played the fool to ease her discomfort.  It
was just a trick to get her to pay attention to his instructions, but
his approach was to persuade rather than coerce.  Unlike the other man
she'd known with eyes like his.

He touched her shoulder and his voice softened.

"Are you ready?"

Swallowing a sudden lump in her throat, she nodded.  Then she looked at
his bulbous plastic nose and started to laugh again.  Burton made a
movement of his head that suggested an exaggerated roiling of the eyes
and gave her a gentle push toward the kitchen.

As she moved off, Ernie came forward, his smile giving way to an
anxious frown.

"Excuse me, Burt ... on, bb-but--" She glanced back.  Oh la la.  Was he
going to give her away?

Luckily for her, Vince had come up to confer, the head camera operator,
stood a pace away, final instructions.  Burton said, "Just a sec,
Em."

Veronique scurried off to the kitchen to quickly unload the vegetable
contents of her backpack into the fridge, sheI

kept a watchful eye out, but by the time Burton had finished with the
others, Ernie was caught up in some crisis concerning the electrical
lead to one of the cameras.  With some relief, she saw Burton disappear
up the spiral staircase to the control booth while Ernie remained on
the studio floor.

Burton paced behind Kate and Marlo, giving last-minute instructions,
while mentally playing around with different camera angles, planning
the composition of shots that would be sent "to air."  He spoke into
his headset.

"Let's have a sound check, Vince, Kate."

On the monitors, three images of Veronique stood behind three teal
granite counters, showing close-ups in right profile, left profile and
straight on.  Through his headset, he heard Vince tell her to say
something in a normal speaking voice.  She looked nervous and
vulnerable and brave.

"A snitch in time saves nine," she recited.

"Birds of a feather talk together."

Laughing at the way she mangled the old sayings, Burton glanced at
Kate, who gave him a thumbs-up.

"That'll do," he told Vince.

"Okay, Bill, pull focus."

Bill zoomed camera one in on Veronique, adjusting the focus on the most
sharply resolved part of the human body, the eyes.  Closer, closer,
fill her face, then just her eyes filled the screen.

Burton knew Veronique was simply looking into the lens the way Vinee
had told her to, but he had the oddest sensation she was gazing
directly at him.  Her eyes were wide emerald prisms, fringed with
dark-gold lashes.  They grew large, larger, drawing him in further,
deeper, fill she was only a blink away.  Till the dark and mysterious
center silently spoke secrets meant for his eyes only.

"Burton?"

Someone was talking.  Vince.  With a start, Burton glanced up.  Then
Bill's camera zoomed out and Veronique face grew small again.  He let
out a breath and spoke through his headset to the floor manager.

"Stand by."

Veronique touched the back of one hand to her damp temple.  Her other
hand gripped the edge of the granite counter.  Just for a moment, when
she'd looked into the camera lens, Burton's face had flashed before her
eyes.  Not Graham's, not a blurry mixture of the two men.  Just
Burton--staring into her eyes as if he was seeing her soul.

In the darkness beyond the floodlights she could just make out the
shadowy shapes of the front row of the audience.  She picked an elderly
man as her talking target.  Then Vince held up a sign--thirty
seconds.

She licked her lips.  Vince made a hand motion that meant she was to
get into her presentation position.  Shoulders back, head high, big
smile... Her gaze flicked to the control-booth window high above the
studio floor.  Between the monitors, she glimpsed Burton watching her
onscreen and speaking into his headset.  A smile lifted the corners of
her mouth.

He was still wearing those silly glasses and wig.

Vince held up another sign.  Ten seconds.  Banks of lights blazed down,
hotter than the Tahitian sun.  Oh la la.  The mango salsa.  Doubt crept
in.  Five seconds.  Vince's fingers counting down.

Two, one.  She took a deep breath.  Rolling.

"Bonjour, and welcome to Flavors..."

Veronique breezed through the crabmeat appetizer and whizzed through
preparation for the Polynesian pork, trying to shave minutes to allow
for the mango salsa.  She hurried so much the knife slipped while she
was an onion, and bright red blood welled across the tip of left index
finger.

"Merde.t" She sucked on her finger.

Vince made a slashing motion to stop the cameras Burton skimmed down
the spiral stairs, flinging off plastic glasses as he strode onto the
set.

"How's that finger?"

She hid her hand behind her back.

"It's okay.  We must go on.  The time."

"Let's see it."  He pulled her arm around, cradling her hand in his.  A
line of blood seeped out of the cut.  He called to someone on the
floor.

"Band-Aid here for Ms.  Dutot."

She tried to tug away.

"It won't look good."

"It'll look worse if you're bleeding all over the main course." 
Someone handed him a Band-Aid.  He tore the wrapper off and swiftly
taped it in place, his warm, strong fingers moving over hers.

"What happened back there?"  he said.

"Wasn't there supposed to be a glaze on the pork?"

She froze.  Should she speak the truth--that the pineapple glaze had
made way for mango salsa?  He knew about cameras and schedules, but she
was the chef, and for her, it was the food that must be perfect.

Swallowing, she glanced away.

"We made a change, remember?"  Silence while he wondered.  Doubted.
Regained faith.

"Okay."  He put his glasses back on and waggled his plastic eyebrows at
her.

"Let's go."

Then he was gone, and Vince was counting down again.

"Three, two, one ... rolling."

Veronique took a deep breath.  She smiled into the camera and held up
her bandaged finger.

"This step in the recipe, you may omit."  Then she wiped down the
cutting board with a clean cloth.

"Bon.  En suite, a perfect accompaniment to the succulent Polynesian
grilled pork is mango salsa."

If Ernie groaned quietly on the sidelines, she didn't hear.  If Burton
was tearing the hair on his fright wig, she wasn't going to risk a
look.  The camera was rolling, and nothing short of Burton yelling
"cut" was going to stop her now.

TEMPORARY WIFE

She whipped out the mango and the other ingredients, babbling nervously
to the audience as she chopped them into small dice.  Maybe if she'd
had time to talk to him before the taping, she could have convinced
him... Too late, too late.

"Mango salsa is an amazing condiment," she told the elderly man in the
front row as she scored the halved mango and its pungent aroma filled
her nostrils.

"It contains all the tastes--salty, bitter, sweet and sour.  Add to
that the sensual texture of the mango, the crunch of the cucumber and
the juiciness of the tomato--" "Cut!"  She heard Button's barked
command ri through Vince's headset.

Vince winced at the sound and brought his hand across his throat in a
quick slicing motion.

Veronique threw a pleading smile in Bill's direction kept on going. 
She threw the chopped ingredients into a bowl and mixed in fresh lime
juice, Tabasco and cilantro.

"Voil&t" she announced proudly to the sound of applause while Burton
stormed back down the stairs and onto the set.

"Take five," he called to Vince.

"Ernie, amuse the audience with one of your dog-show anecdotes."

He strode into the kitchen, snatched off his wig flung it on the
counter where it landed in a from the chopped tomato.

"What the hell do you you're doing?

He spoke in an undertone that nobody else could but his voice was
harsh.  Graham had talked to her that, and now Burton was doing it.
Veronique drew in deep breath.

"I make mango salsa, the perfect side for the pork.  We omitted it from
the menu--a mistake.

simply correct that fact."

How dare he force her to justify a culinary Couldn't he see she'd done
the right thing?  How could help it if he wasn't around to give
permission?  Didn't he know she only wanted to please him?

Mon Dieu, what was she thinking?  Aghast and flustered, she picked up
the wig md mopped furiously at the tomato juice.

Burton edged in closer, looming over her.

"Everything is planned down to the exact second.  To a fifth of a
second.  You know that."

His voice was controlled, but he didn't need to yell for her to hear
his anger.  And she didn't need to look at him to know a storm raged in
the blue seas of his eyes, like a typhoon stirring the South Pacific.

Across the vast room, she heard a knock at the studio door, not the big
double doors the audience had come through, but the smaller door at the
back of the set.  The crew wouldn't knock.

She didn't have time to wonder who it could be.  Up close and in living
color, she was face-to-chest with Burton's displeasure.  Unchastened
and mutinous as a child unfairly accused, she twined a lock of hair
with the bandaged finger while her outrage mounted, squeezing her
breath into a compressed knot that prevented her from speaking.  Burton
had no such problem.

"Look, I'd love to let you do whatever you want," he continued.

"But we've got a schedule and we've got to stick to it or else it's ...
it's chaos.  You may think it's only a little thing, but little things
add up.  Sponsors have paid for airtime.  If we go over, we can't cut a
commercial, so out goes your mango salsa, anyway."

"You said we had plenty of time to tape the first show."

"Plenty of time relative to shows two through thirteen.  And that's the
taping.  The allotted airtime is fixed.  We can't play around with
that.  You can't just take it into your head to change the menu without
consulting me.

Why did you do that?"

"I wanted... Oh, never mind."  She pushed a hand through her hair,
bringing curls flying around her flushed cheeks.  This isn't like me,
she wanted to tell him.  I am orderly and efficient, the way a good
cook should be.  Her outrage subsided.  She'd wanted to impress, not
defy him.  Just as he'd tried to ease her discomfort by wearing that
ridiculous mask.  It didn't seem funny now.  She reached up and pulled
the glasses down his nose, forgetting till it was too late whom she
would see.

His eyes burned into hers.  Her heart seemed to stop beating and for
once she couldn't look away.  Mon Dieu.

Burton stared into Veronique's wide green eyes, and his irritation
disappeared.  Her gaze held apprehension, and if he didn't know better,
a pinch of... sexual awareness?  Hell, he did know better, but it still
looked like desire.  The thought dried his mouth and weakened his
knees.

He was losing it.  Mr.  Cool-as-a-cuke was in emotional free fall.  In
front of a live audience.

The whole place had fallen silent.  For a second thought everyone
somehow knew what had just happened between him and Veronique.  Then
behind him, Ernie cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, Burton..."

He spun around.  With Ernie were a man and a woman.  conservatively
dressed, carrying briefcases.  They "faceless government employee"
stamped all over them.

Except they weren't faceless.  They were right here in his studio,
interrupting a live taping and looking at Veronique with grave
expressions.  In one of those too-vivid sual flashes he was prone to,
Burton imagined them escorting her to a waiting black limousine, which
whisk her straight to the airport and back to Tahiti.

"James Jackson," the stony-faced man said, his right hand.  He had a
broad face, black hair cut and a heard-it-all-before tone of voice.

"M3 Wendy Connery," he said, indicating a woman with thick chestnut
hair that had a swathe of

JtLy'll arising from a pronounced widow's peak.

"We're from the Department of Immigration.  It is my duty to inform you
that Veronique Dutot is illegally employed under Section 27 of the
Immigration Act.  Ms.  Dutot, if you'd like to come with us."

Adrenalihe flooded Burton's body.  His first instinct was to smash a
fist in the bureaucrat's pasty white face.  He forced himself under
control.  The way to deal with this was to be rational, calm,
professional.  Facing the immigration officials squarely, he crossed
his arms over his chest.

"Over my dead body."

CHAPTER EIGHT

"BURTOn!"  VE ROQUE exclaimed.  To the officers, she said, "I am sorry.
Of course I will come with you."

"Veronique!  Don't just give in like that."  Burton her arm and
gestured to Jackson and Connery to him away from the set and crew.

"I've written to people twice now on Ms.  Dutot's behalf and haven't
ceived an answer."

"Ms.  Dutot doesn't fill the criteria for acquiring dency on the basis
of work," Jackson said.  claim she's uniquely suited to her position,
there are ably several hundred French chefs in this country, if
more."

' Burton jammed his hands on his hips and took a breath to regain some
semblance of calm.

"I didn't her because she spoke French," he said, slowly and clearly.

"By 'unique," I meant her the way she comes across on camera.  But
putting her job for the moment, don't you have some kind leniency
clause that allows people to stay grounds?  She has an elderly female
relative who's valid and is emotionally dependent upon her."

"We are aware of Mrs.  Gerritson's condition relationship with Ms.

Dutot," James Jackson "Compassionate stay of deportation is allowed
only person in question, that is, Ms.  Dutot, is medically inpacitated.

I'm afraid we have no choice, given her ova.  Lxxu 13.9

owed status and expired work visa, but to deny Ms.  Dutot further
residency.  She is required to leave the country without delay."

Ernie, apparently out of shaggy-dog stories, had returned to stand a
few paces away.  At this ominous pronouncement, he gave a little
gasp..

Veronique tugged at her hair.

Burton held up a hand.

"Pause.  Rewind.  Are you saying she can't stay because she isn't
married to a Canadian citizen?"

"That is correct."  Jackson turned to Veronique.

"You are required to file a deposition at the Immigration office.  We
can accommodate you immediately."

Before she could answer, Burton put his arm around her waist and drew
her to his side.

"That won't be necessary, will it ... darling?"  She glanced up, eyes
wide.  He held her gaze, hoping she wouldn't flinch.

"Wh-what are you talking about?"  She tried to tug away, but he held
her fast.

Smiling through gritted teeth, he replied, "I'm talking about our
forthcoming marriage of course."

She was speechless, thank God.

Behind him, he heard Ernie's squeak of protest.  Officer Connery spoke
for the first time, her smooth face unsmiling.

"I must inform you it is against federal law to marry for the purpose
of obtaining residency on Canadian soil."

Burton laughed, a bit too heartily.

"It would sound fishy to you people, I suppose.  But we ... we're crazy
about each other.  We can't wait to get married."  Good God, had he
really just said that?

James Jackson and Wendy Connery exchanged a glance that suggested they
didn't believe he had either.

"Naturally we have criteria to determine whether a couple is marrying
out of a genuine desire to be husband and wife or out of expediency."

Burton swallowed.

"Naturally."

"There will be an investigation, and interviews with both parties,"
Jackson went on.

"So far we've only word for it, Mr.  O'Rourke, that you and Ms.  Dutot
are getting married."

"Say something," Burton hissed to Veronique, willing her to go along
with this.  Yes, he was doing it for Flavors, and for his documentary
on farming, and even for Marion whom he'd never met, because she was
important to Veronique.  But there was another reason.  It had
something to do with the effect Veronique had on his central nervous
system, and the way her face kept appearing before him at odd times of
the day and night.  He didn't have time to analyze it now, he just knew
he wasn't ready to let her out of his life yet.

"Are you in love with this man?"  Officer prompted.

Veronique swallowed, conscious all eyes were upon her.

"I ... ah, already sometimes I feel like he is my husband."  She tugged
on Burton's hand, dragging him aside.

"Excuse us, please," she said to the woman.

"Burton and need to talk."

"What is it?"  He took her other hand and gripped both tightly.

"We're in a tight spot here."

"I know!"  she said in a hoarse whisper.  For a she clung to his hands,
then loosened her hold on "What you are suggesting is crazy and wrong.
You don' need to do this.  You can get another chef.  One that not make
you so angry."

Burton renewed his hold on her hands, and despite protest, the firmness
and strength of his grip It took him a moment to speak, as though he
was for words.

"I don't want another chef.  I want you."

Her heart did a funny little flip-flop, bu meant it the way it sounded.
And he didn't.

"I'm not being altruistic or romantic, Veronique," added.

"I want you, because crazy as you make

r ........ s..a.

you do make me crazy--you also have charisma in front of the
audience.

I need this show to be a success or I can kiss goodbye the chance to
make my documentary.  Now do you understand?"

Of course she understood when he put it so clearly.  It was a neat,
clean thrust, like a filleting knife between the ribs.

"Mais oui.  What else could it be?"  she asked with an elaborate
shrug.

"It's not as though I thought for a moment you might love me, or that I
could love you."  And she laughed, to prove to them both how ridiculous
it was.

A small silence followed.  She glanced up to see hurt and confusion in
his eyes.

"Is the idea of marrying me really so repugnant?"

"Repug... I don't know that word, but it means something bad, non?  I
think you are a nice man.  I only know I don't want to marry anyone, I
had enough of that for a while."

"What about your mother-in-law if you have to leave Canada?"

"She will be all right."  Marion could exist without her.  Of course
she could.  The hospital, or a Social worker, would find her a home
help and make sure she had what she needed to survive.  But it would be
hard for her, and lonely, and she might sink further into that place in
her mind where she was afraid to leave the house even to collect the
mail at the end of the drive.  Would a public-health worker or even a
private nurse have the time to prod poor Marion into recovering her joy
in life?

"Do you really think it will work?"  she asked doubtfully.

"Long enough for us both to get what we need, I hope."  The whole idea
was monstrous.

Why was she even pretending to think about it?  She glanced at the
Immigration officers.  They were watching her and Burton, Skepticism
evident in their expressions and body language.  How would Marion feel
if Veronique got married again so soon after Graham died?  yet how much
worse would it be for Marion if she had to suddenly leave the
country?

Veronique, Burton murmured urgently, "you've got to make a decision."

He raised her hands and kissed her white knuckles.

The touch of his lips on her fingers sent confusion into another
dimension.  She couldn't be feeling this ... this... whatever it was
she was feeling.  He wasn't Graham.  He wasn't Graham.

Somehow she got enough breath past her constricted throat and into her
lungs to Say "Okay."  She could do this.."  for Marion.

He released his death grip on her hands to pull her into his embrace.

With his cheek on her temple, his breath warm in her ear, she
stiffened, trying not to feel the swirling heat that was filling her
veins.

"Do you think you can hug me back?"  he whispered.

"Make this look real?"

She swallowed a hysterical bark of laughter.  She had no idea what was
real anymore.  She put her arms around his waist, and pressed her head
against his chest.  The cloth beneath her cheek covered warm flesh and
a beating heart.  She clung to hope, which was really only the absence
of despair, and prayed the government people would interpret the
moisture in her eyes as tears of happiness.

Awkwardly they pulled apart, but Burton kept his arm around her waist
as they walked back to Officers Jackson and Connery.  On the other side
of the studio, the crew had gathered in a low buzz of wondering.  Ernie
stood on own and appeared to be going into shock.

Burton cleared his throat.

"Sorry to keet he said to Jackson and Conner.

"My, ahem, fiancee and ] were just discussing moving up the wedding
date to commodate the, uh, changed circumstances.  We'd a big church
wedding, caterers, live band, the whole

bang, but well, the most important thing is that we're together. 
Isn't that right, Veronique?"

"Oui, c'est vrai."  She spoke quietly, not looking anyone in the eye.
It was important they be together.  What did it matter what the reason
was?

James Jackson handed her his card.

"You must come to the office within the next day or two and complete
some forms, then we'll schedule interviews to establish your
eligibility for residency.  If you plan to marry, I wouldn't waste any
time sending out the invitations."

His dry tone made it obvious that James Jackson and Wendy Connery, no
longer faceless bureaucrats but living, breathing enemies, wanted to
give Burton and Veronique as little time as possible to cook up a story
between them.

Burton left to see them out, and Ernie came up to Veronique, his young
face as round and white as a bowl of blancmange.

"Congratulations, Veronique.  I had no idea you and Burton were ... I
mean, that you two---" He broke off as color flooded his cheeks.

"Pah! Ernie, we are not lovers."  She spoke in a low voice, so no one
else would hear her confession.

Ernie blushed harder.

"I wasn't sure.  You must really want to stay in Canada."

She threw up her hands.

"That is the last thing I want, but my mother-in-law is ill.  I must
take care of her."

Ernie scratched the top of his head.

"You mean Mrs.  O'Rourke?  I didn't know she was sick."

"Mais non.  I have never met Burton's mother."  She would have to now,
she realized with a start.  What a box of worms they had opened!

The studio door opened and Burton reappeared.  The buzz of talk from
the crew faded and died.  His gaze swept over them, hardening briefly
when it rested on Ernie and Veronique huddled together.

"Where's the audience, Em?"

"I told them to stretch their legs and asked Brigit in PR to organize
coffee for them."

"Good work.  Gather round, folks," he said to the milling crew
members.

"I'd like a quick word with all of you."

Veronique moved forward with the rest.  Burton came through the crowd
to put his arm around her shoulders.  She tried to relax but felt
unnatural standing at his side pretending to be his fiancee.  How would
she manage as his bride?

"I guess you're all wondering what's going on."  Heads nodded amid a
murmur of assent.

"Veronique and I are getting married.  It's sudden, I know, but ...
well, when you know what you want, you've got to grab it with both
hands and hang on tight.  If anyone from Immigration asks you about our
relationship, you can say you don't know anything because I am a very
private individual who does not discuss his personal life with his
coworkers."

"That's true enough," Vince said.  He lifted his cap to smooth back his
thinning head of hair.

"Just one thing.  I'm sure no one wants to screw up whatever you two
have got cooking--if you'll pardon the pun--but what if they ask us how
you two get along on the Set?"

"Hmm..."  Burton released Veronique to pace while he thought.

"How about, we fell instantly and madly in love, but we're both
strong-willed people who strike sparks each other."  He glanced around
the faces before him.

"Okay?"

"Oka-a-ay."  Bill didn't look convinced.

"Maybe you're right.  As a story line, it's a bit Burton scratched his
jaw, paced some more.  And came with zilch.

"Come on, guys.  What's the big deal?  professionals.  How do you
suppose we'd act?  and I aren't likely to go off in a corner and start
OUt, are we?"

No, no, theft heads shook in agreement.

1..

"If we're a little tense, it's because we're working out the bugs at
the start of a new series."

"Aah, you're always tense," someone said from the back of the room.

"Well, thank you very much."

"Excuse me, Burt ... on," Ernie piped up.

"They might wonder why Veronique doesn't have an engagement ring."

"Good point, Em.  We'll take care of it right away."  He spun around to
Veronique.

Her face was very white, her green eyes wide and wary.  Mutely she
nodded her head just a fraction.  Burton felt a sinking sensation in
his stomach.  He rarely experienced self-doubt, but marriage,
Veronique, the federal government--it was huge.  They were all unknown
quantities, and Veronique the biggest unknown of all.  Had his ego been
so caught up in the challenge that he'd gambled until the stakes
exceeded the prize?  He wouldn't know till it all shook down, but right
now, one thing was certain--he had to brazen it out.

"Okay, let's get back to work.  Ernie, get Rita in here to fix
Veronique's hair.  Vince, round up the audience.  Bill, let's set up a
mirror over the range top so it'll look like we're shooting from
directly above the pan.  Veronique..  ," He moved over to her as the
others dispersed to perform their various tasks.  He stood close, but
without touching, afraid of touching, now that it could mean so much.

"It's going to be all right."

"We cannot fool them, Burton."

"I don't have to pretend an attraction to you, Veronique."

She glanced up, alarm in her eyes.

"Attraction is not love.  Anyway, I don't want you to be attracted to
me."

"I only meant that we can fool them.  You don't have to worry about me
demanding my conjugal rights.  This marriage will be temporary and
platonic.  In name only.

Even so, we need to get to know each other in a hurry.  Are you busy
tonight?"

"I am going to help Marion move to the nursing home.  She is finished
with the rehab center, but her doctor doesn't think she is ready to be
on her own.  I don't know how I'm going to tell her I'm getting married
again."

He would have to tell his mother, he realized.  Which meant her book
club friends and the whole aerobics class would know.  He groaned.  At
least it would get her off his back about Melissa.

"Tomorrow then.  Don't think about it now.  We have to finish the
segment."

He reached up to brush her cheek with his fingers, caught her eye and
was about to stop.  Then he saw Bill watching them curiously.  Might as
well play the part if it made it easier for people to believe and back
them up.  Deliberately he let his fingers slide through her hair to the
back of her neck, then bent his head to press a kiss on her temple.

Beneath his fingertips and his lips, he could feel her tremble.  He
pulled away, not wanting to speculate on the whys or wherefores.

She wouldn't meet his gaze, so he handed her over to Rita, armed with
brushes and powder, and walked away, his heart beating fast.

BURTON WAS HURRIEDLY going through his in-tray, determined to have an
early night for once.  The first day of taping hadn't gone too badly,
considering, but what with the mango salsa and the feds he was
exhausted.

Damn, he thought, when he came across a handwritten memo from Ed
Murphy.  The old man wanted to see him, Now.  The time noted was 5:00
p.m. It was now 6:15.

Murphy must have heard the news.  Burton headed the elevators, going
over in his mind various arguments justifying his forthcoming
marriage.  He could either present it as evidence of supreme company
loyalty, or as succumbing to uncontrollable passion.  On the whole, he thought Murphy
might be more inclined to buy the loyalty defense.

Burton stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the fifth
floor.  The one thing he must not do was mention Lost Harvest in
connection with this particular escapade.  It would only convince
Murphy he was becomihg unhinged and further jeopardize the chances of
his documentary.

Sylvia had left for the day, her computer keys silent, her monitor
shrouded in plastic.  Burton knocked and was about to walk in when he
heard Murphy call "Wait a minute."

Something odd about his voice made Burton pause, hand on the knob.

"Murph?"

"That you, Burton?"  Murphy said, coughing.

"Hang on."

Hearing muffled sounds, Burton unabashedly put his ear to the door.  A
drawer banged shut, there was a faint hissing sound and then, finally,
Murphy bellowed for him to come in.

The odor of fresh cigar smoke combined with pine-scented air-freshener
almost choked him on the spot.  He swung the door open and shut a few
times before stepping into the office.

"When did you take up smoking again, Murph?"

His boss glared him straight in the eye.

"I didn't."  Burton glanced at the thin curl of smoke seeping out of
the desk drawer.  Murphy wasn't getting off this easy.  He sniffed the
air.

"I'm sure I smell something."

The lines etching either side of Murphy's down-turned mouth sunk
deeper.

"Well, you don't."

Burton strolled over to the desk, affecting an air of unconcern.

"What the hell, eh, Murph?  They're probably wrong about smoking being
bad for you.  Everybody knows statistics can be made to show any damn
thing all.  And if it helps you to concentrate--" "Go to hell,
O'Rourke, or you'll drive me to drink, well.  Now, park your butt in
that chair and tell me what in God's good name is going on down there.
Sylvia came back from coffee this afternoon babbling about how you're
getting married to that Frenchwoman."

Burton pulled up a chair and told Murphy the whole story.

When he was done, Ed just sat there, shaking his head.

"You've got yourself in a real mess this time, O'Rourke.  What's the
matter, can't stand your own cooking any, more?"  He started to chuckle
at his own joke, then frowned as the laugh turned into a cough.

"You're going to go through with it, are you?"

Burton got to his feet, spreading his hands "I don't have any choice,
unless I can get someone else to marry her.

Ernie might, but Rita would have my balls for breakfaat."

c'Why didn't you check her residency status before hired her, damn it?
And why didn't she have the to mention her work visa was running
out?"

"She did.  She told me about it before she signed contract," he
admitted, scraping a hand through his "I knew it was a gamble, but I
thought I could sort it I didn't count on red tape being so bloody
binding."

"The solution's simple," Murphy grunted.

"Get other chef."

Burton shook his head.

"Veronique's too perfect.  maybe not perfect.  In fact, she's a pain in
the butt the time, but on camera she's fantastic.

She's going make this show."

Murphy reached for the humidor and extracted of jelly beans.

"I thought you didn't even want to do show."

"I'm committed now.  I want it to be a success."

Murphy chewed.

"Is what you're doing legal?"

"The question is, can they prove it's not?"  Burton leaned two hands on
the back of the chair and gazed earnestly at Murphy.

"What is love all about, anyway?  How do you define when it begins?
Look at love at first sight.  Lots of whirlwind romances culminate in
legitimate marriages."

"Which is probably why the divorce rate is so high," Murphy growled.

Burton waved the objection away and took up pacing again.  "if
circumstances were different--" like if Veronique didn't hate the sight
of him"---I'd take her out, get to know her, quite possibly fall in
love--" if he wasn't halfway there already "--and, after a suitable
time had passed, I might very well ask her to marry me."  At least his
mother was going to be pleased, he thought.

"The same scenario is happening now, except we've bypassed '. , the
dinner-and-drinks stage, and gone straight!,:11,0?

"The marriage bed?"

It was a pleasant thought, but not to be dwelled on.  Not if he wanted
to keep a rein on his libido.  He'd promised Verouique a platonic
relationship, and that was what she was going to get.

"What are you saying to me, Ed?"  he said, frustration coming to the
fore.

"Are you telling me not to marry her?  Because if you are, you're doing
Channel Seven a big disfavor."

"The hell with the station!  I don't want you getting burned.  You
barely know this woman.  For all you know this could be a setup and she
could take you for all you've got.  Get a prenuptial agreement.

Protect yourself."  Burton had always found the idea of prenup
agreements abhorrent.  He was certain Verouique had no designs on his
bank account, but he was touched by the old man's concern.

"Thanks, Murph.  I'll check into it."

"Aah, it's nothin'.  I want Flavors to be a success, too.

If it's not, I know you'll never get off my back until you get to do
your damn documentary."

"You're right there," Burton agreed cheerfully as he prepared to
leave.

"If at first you don't succeed, try, try, again.  Right, Murph?"

He saw Murphy glance at his desk drawer.  The smoke had stopped, but
cigars went out, they didn't burn down.  As soon as he was out of the
room, he'd lay five to one Murphy would be lighting up again.

"Right, Murph?"

"Yeah, yeah, right."  With a last regretful glance at the drawer, he
pushed on the armrests to heave himself up from his chair.

"Hang on.

I'll walk out with you."

IT WAS ALMOST EmHT by the time Burton chugged up the gravel drive to
the farmhouse and parked beside his mother's Volvo.  Across the fields
to the south, Mount Baker floated above the horizon, a white shark's
tooth gleaming in a salmon-pink sky.  Since he was off early and
Veronique was busy, he'd called Catherine to see if she wanted to
finish sorting through Granddad's things get her And if the subject
came up, he might just mention that, oh, by the way, he was getting
married on Friday.  Would she like to come?

The door was open, so he pulled on the screen door walked in.

"Mother?"

he called.

"Where are you?"

"Hi, Burtie.  I'm in your grandfather's room."

sounded muffled.

He walked down the hall and paused in the doorway Grandad's room.

"How's it going?"

Catherine was kneeling on the rag rug, her head shoulders beneath the
bed.  At the sound of his voice withdrew, dragging with her a battered
cardboard box.  lifted the top copy of what must have been several ca
des worth of Playboy magazines.

"What on "Why that dirty old son of a gun," Burton said

14D

surprised grin.  He took the magazine from Catherine's hand and flipped
to the center to study Miss March, 1975.  "Now, why couldn't I have
found these when I was a teenager?"

Catherine rolled her eyes.

"Thank heavens Dad had the sense to hide them."  She rose to her feet,
a hand on the small of her back.  Her navy blue sweatpants and top were
laced with dust.  She sneezed.

"You can put them out for recycling."

-"Gee, I don't know, Mother.  A collection like this is probably worth
a mint.  Will you look at that."  He tipped the magazine sideways, a
mischievous eye out for his mother's certain disapproval.

"Don't be crude, Burton."

Burton tossed the magazine back into the box.

"I didn't think to look under the bed when I was here last.  You didn't
come across the chess set there, did you?"

No, she said, dusting off her knees.

"Do you remember the last time you saw it?"  Her voice sounded
artificially casual.

The bedsprings were old and sank beneath his weight.  Had he just
imagined the flicker of guilt in her eyes?

"I

'think it was Easter," he said.

"Granddad and I played a game before dinner, but I remember putting it
back in its cabinet.  You know how he always liked having things in
their proper place."

Catherine moved to the dresser, opening and shutting drawers he knew to
be empty.

"Maybe he took it.  out later and left it somewhere.  He was
eighty-one.  Getting a little forgetful."

"He would never have forgotten where he put that chess set."  He
watched his mother twitch the curtains shut against the coming
twilight, then glance agitatedly around the room.  Was she looking for
something else to be sorted out, cleaned up, tidied away forever?

"What is it, Mother?"

"I beg your pardon?"  She tried for innocence, but within an instant
her face crumpled.

"Oh, Burtie!"  she cried, and came to sit beside him on the bed.

"I'm so sorry."

He put his arm around her.

"Why?  It's not your fault the chess set is missing."

"Maybe it is."  She wiped at her wet cheeks with the flat of her
hand.

"The week before Dad died, I was out here.  He ... II ... we had a
fight."

"What about?"

"It was April, and he was doing his income tax.  He all his financial
papers spread out on the kitchen table.  happened to see the insurance
premiums that were due be paid against death taxes."  She paused,
indignant.  you know that without insurance, when someone whoever
inherits has to pay tax on the property the as if it had been sold?  Do
you have any idea how that would be on a place this size?  A quarter of
a at least."

Burton nodded.

"Mr.  Bingham explained all that to the day after the will Was read.
But don't worry, had insurance.  Well, you must know, you just said saw
the papers.  If he hadn't, I would have had to sell farm just to pay
the taxes."

"It's outrageous.  The thing is, last year was so wet crop was
practically mined.  He had hardly any income not enough to cover the
insurance premiums.  I he get a loan, but the stubborn old fool
wouldn't hear it.  Said he didn't want to pass on debts when he died.
was almost as if he knew he was going to go."  Tears her eyes.

"The last time I ever saw him, we fought.  Burtie, if only I could live
that day over again."

Burton put his other arm around her and held her, eyes squeezing shut
against the tears.

"Shh, Mother, okay.  It's okay."  His voice was thick and he could
speak.

"He knew you loved him',

 "m' laL, Y 147

Grief and love wrapped them in silence.  They held each other,
remembering, slowly gaining comfort from shared sorrow.

At last Catherine heaved a deep sigh and drew back.  She smiled bravely
and blinked away the moisture in her eyes.  Sniffing a little, she
continued.

"I couldn't let the matter drop.  I could tell he was really worded and
not wanting to admit it.  I told him if he wouldn't borrow, he should
sell off a few acres to get the money."

Burton snorted.

"He'd never agree to that.  But what does all this have to do with the
chess set?"

Catherine pulled at the handkerchief tucked in the cuff of her
sweatshirt sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

"It was sitting on the table, half-covered by papers, one of his games
against himself in progress.  I picked up one of the pieces and ... I
don't know, I guess my subconscious was at work because I said, "This
set is an antique.  It must be worth a lot of money."" A sudden chill
prickled the hack of Button's neck.

"You think he sold it to pay the insurance premiums?"

"I don't know.  But right away he picked up the chess set and started
packing it away, saying, "You're right, it's worth a great deal of
money," Then he looked me through and through with those fierce blue
eyes.  I swear, Burtie, I didn't mean for him to sell it.  I knew how
much it meant to him, and to you."

"Exactly.  That's why I can't believe he would sell it."  Burton rose
from the bed to pace across the room.

"But what if he thought you might sell it to get him the insurance
money."

"I wouldn't do that!"

"I know.  But what if he was so afraid of losing it that he didn't want
to take any chances?  He must have been under a lot of stress, trying
to pay his taxes and insurance.  What if he hid it somewhere?"

"It's possible, I suppose," Catherine said slowly.

"But if he hid it instead of selling it!  how was he able to pay the
insurance?"

Burton stared out the window at the barn and the chickens scratching in
the dust.  And thought about an old man for whom passing on his land
intact to future generations had been paramount, even if it meant dying
poor.

Catherine got up and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I guess the important thing is, he saved the farm.  Have you decided
whether to rent this place out or live here yourself?."  Burton wiped a
hand down his face and moved away.  Selling didn't occur to his mother
as an option.  He felt like a traitor even thinking of it, and he sure
wasn't ready to talk about it.

"No.  Let's take these boxes out, then start on the other downstairs
bedroom."

"Okay.  First thing tomorrow I'll call around the antique shops just to
make sure he didn't sell the chess set."

"That would be a huge task," he protested.

"You'd have to check every antique store and pawnshop from Vancouver to
Hope."

"That's okay.  I'll do it."

Burton took a step back to wrap his arms around his mother, feeling her
sorrow and her fear and her determination to make it up to him.  He
should at least tell her about his meeting with Don Chetwynd, but why
add to her worries now?  He wasn't going to do anything till that chess
set was found.

"We'll get it back, don't worry."  He placed a smaller box of farming
magazines into his mother's arms, then hoisted Granddad's box of secret
pleasure onto his shoulder.  They walked out to the car and waited
until Catherine had placed her load in the trunk of his Tercel for
transport to the recycling depot before he said, "Are you doing
anything next Friday?"

"I'm getting my hair done in the afternoon?"  she replied, dusting off
her hands.

"Why?"

"I'm getting married at lunchtime."

When her knees started to buckle, he wished he'd told her when they
were in the house and there was a chair she could collapse onto.  As it
was, he had to take her arm and sit her down on a granite boulder by
the edge of the driveway, her hand over her heart, while the grass
turned dewy in the dusk and the neighboring farm dogs took turns
barking the news out over the valley.

"Oh, Burtie, I'm so happy for you!"  she said when at last she was able
to speak.  She got up again to hug him, and her eyes glistened in the
fading light.

"This is so quick!  But Melissa is such a lovely girl.  I just knew
you'd like her."

He rolled his eyes at his mother's willful optimism.

"I never even called Melissa.  It's Veronique, the Frenchwoman you saw
on tape.  The one who's hosting the cooking show."

"Oh.  Her."  Catherine wiped the corners of her eyes with her
fingertips, blinked and smiled.  She was already adjusting to the news,
starting to like it.

"It's not exactly a love match."  He had to get that in before she
started naming her grandchildren.

"What is it, then?  Should I sit down again?"

"Let's go inside and make some coffee."

"Oh, my goodness, Burton!  She's not pregnant, is she?"

Once he'd told Catherine the whole story, it took three cups of coffee
before she calmed down.  Like Ed Murphy, she was against the match.

Unlike Ed, her objection wasn't over what Veronique might do to his
unsuspecting bank account, but how she would rain his chances of
finding, and marrying, someone he did love.

"For crying out loud, Mother," he said finally, setting his cup down
hard on the pine table in the kitchen.

"This isn't till death do us part.  It's just temporary, two or three

months at the most.  When it's time for her to go back to Tahiti,
we'll just have it annulled."

Annulled.  The word had a hollow, barren sound.  He'd never given
marriage a whole lot of thought, but somewhere at the back of his mind
he'd expected to be in love, at least.  Well, this wasn't the time for
sentiment.  Entering a temporary marriage wasn't that big a
sacrifice.

Despite his assurances to Veronique, the only thing that worried him
was whether they'd be able to pull it off with Immigration.

VERONIQUE WAS WORRIED, and because she couldn't pin down the exact
source of her anxiety, her worry grew.  She rolled her assorted
problems over in her mind.  There was Marion--she was an obvious source
of concern.  The same went for the threat of deportation and the
Immigration people in general.  And then there was Burton's crazy idea
of forming a marriage of convenience--oh la la.  All of these were bad,
but none of them quite accounted for the nebulous feeling of disquiet
that floated around the edges of her mind.

So in spite of the lowering clouds and the blustery wind, she put on
her wet suit and carried her sailboard across Cornwall Avenue and
through the little park to the beach.  Leaving her shoes on the
seawall, she hopped barefoot onto the cold, pebbly sand.  Briefly, she
shut her eyes, recalling the fine-grained beaches of Tahiti, black as
the pearls for which the island was famous, and hot as a stovetop.
Water so warm it felt like a lover's embrace.

The water of English Bay was choppy and cold, and the salt spray stung
her eyes.  She waded out, pushing the board before her.  Icy water
seeped into her suit through the ankles and wrists and trickled down
her neck, making her shiver.  When she Was waist deep, she climbed abo
kneeling to drag the heavy sail dripping from the water.

cau the and the board forward the crest of a wave.  Many times during
her claustrophobic marriage she'd sought the freedom of the wind and
the waves.  Or like now, she'd taken to the ocean to empty her mind of
the tangled details of her problems, so a solution could work its way
into her consciousness.

In Tahiti she used to sail around the island or across to Moorea,
wearing only a bikini, sometimes just a pareau knotted around her hips,
while the frigate birds wheeled overhead.  Here, she went back and
forth across the bay clothed neck to ankles in a constricting wet suit,
sometimes ending up on Wreck Beach where nudists sunbathed among the
scattering of salt-bleached logs.  There she would peel off her wet
suit and lay naked in the sand against a giant Douglas fir.  She'd
never mentioned this to Graham, of course.  Such freedom was just an
illusion.

She hadn't told Marion about her upcoming marriage because there seemed
little point.  The whole thing would be over before they knew it.  She
was used to protecting her mother-in-law, so it wasn't this minor
deception that worried her.

The wind shifted to the north, and Veronique changed tack, the muscles
in her arms straining to maintain a finn grip on the crossbar as she
crossed the board to the opposite side.  Strength, balance,
fiexibility--a person needed them all.

The marriage might not even take place if Immigration denied her
claim.

At the moment she would almost welcome a deportation order.  It would
absolve her of responsibility and send her to where she wanted to go.

A sailboat came toward her, its prow dipping into the troughs of the
waves and back up.  Seasick, a boy hung over the rail.  Veronique
turned her sailboard out of the boat's path, lifting on the crest of a
wave and surfing down the other side.

Marriage to Burton.  He had no claim of love on her, no fight to expect
... anything.  Except, of course, that she fulfill her contract for
Flavors.  She was surprised he'd committed himself in front of
everyone, but she supposed that, like Graham, for him work was
everything.  Or perhaps marriage meant so little that he could treat it
as mere words on paper.  He, she felt certain, would have no trouble
dealing with the platonic nature of their marriage.

Her sailboard cut through a white-capped wave and dashed a spray of icy
saltwater in her face.  Stung, her eyes shut, and the memory flashed
back of that moment on the set when she'd looked into Burton's eyes and
felt some thing inside catch fire.  She flicked her head, tossing the
water out of her eyes.  Her anxiety crystallized.  So that was what had
sent her out here on this miserable day.

She felt something for him.  But was it leftover attraction from early
days with Graham, or worse--something new?

The more she went over it, the more her perceptions became muddied. 
She couldn't, after all, separate Burton from her image of Graham.  So
she blanked her mind, letting the roar of the wind and the cry of the
gulls displace her eddying thoughts.  At last she turned back to the
beach, chilled to the bone, her arms and legs trembling with fatigue.

She had no solution to her problem, except a resolve not to let these
feelings, whatever they were, grow.  She was going home.

Nothing, and no one, was going to stop her.

CHAPTER NINE

Em'm WAS WORRIED, TOO---about Rita.  His first mistake was not
complimenting her on her new haircut when he'd picked her up after
work.  Styled, she called what Lillian's grand niece had done to it
during lunch break.  He could have done better with his dad's tin snips
and a jar of Vaseline.  He'd liked her hair the way it was before, a
soft, shiny curtain that hung to her shoulders.

Gearing down his trusty old Volkswagen Beetle at the entrance to the
subdivision where Rita lived with her mother, he wondered what the big
deal was about a haft-cut.  He bet Veronique didn't fuss over her
haft.

He sure knew better than to say that, because his second mistake had
been to innocently agree that Veronique was chic--whatever the hell
chic meant.  He'd just wanted to make amends for screwing up on the
hair thing, but right away Rita had gone all hurry.  She'd crossed her
arms beneath her breasts and stared silently out the window all the way
back to Surrey.

Petunias bloomed in two neat circles of earth cut into Rim's front lawn
and were watched over by a pair of garden gnomes in red trousers. 
Ernie pulled into the driveway of the two-story house and cut the
engine.  A marmalade tabby jumped onto the hood of his car and eyed him
through the windshield.  Rita's standard poodle poked her curly black
head over the top of the fence separating the side yard from the front
and let out a few joyous yips.

"Rita?"  he said tentatively.  That morning she'd invited him to stay
for dinner, but maybe she'd be in a better mood if she didn't have to
cook.  She didn't really like cooking, though she was pretty good at
it.

Rita made a production out of getting her purse and her shopping bag
full of hair-care products together.

"Yes?"

"What do you say we go out to eat?"  He was going to suggest Stavros,
their favorite restaurant, then he remembered Burton saying that Greek
food was passe.  "There's that new French restaurant over in White
Rock--" "So you want French food now?  Is that it?"  Her voice had an
injured sound, and two spots of red stained her cheeks.

"Huh?"

"You know what I'm talking about, Ernie.  I saw the way you looked at
her."

"Who?"  he squeaked, though he knew dam well who she was talking
about.

He just hadn't thought he was so obvious.

"Veronique."

"I thought you liked her.  You said yourself she was chic."

"Oh, ErnieI Sometimes you just don't have a clue."  Rita swiped angrily
at a tear that had broken free and threatened to run down her cheek.

"Do you have any idea how humiliating it is for me to see you fawning
all over her in front of everybody?"

"She's going to marry Burton!"

"YOu know that's just a setup so she can stay in Canada.  You spent all
day Tuesday shopping with her, but you never want to go shopping with
me."

"We had to get things for the show!"

"Oh, sure, How do I know what else you two got up to?"

"Nothing."  Then he remembered that afternoon when a mango had been all
that stood between Veronique's hand and his thigh.  He couldn't help
it, he blushed.

Rita's eyes widened and filled with glistening tears.

"Oh, ErnieI" He reached for her, but she twisted away from him and
pushed open the door.  Her bag dropped and a bottle of shampoo rolled
down the driveway.

While she bent to retrieve it, Ernie got out and hurried around the
car.

"Rita.  Honey."  When she straightened, he put his arms around her and
her bags.  She averted her fac but didn't move away.

"It's you I love.

Nothing happened, I swear."

She looked up, her expression a mixture of grief and accusation.

"But you wanted something to happen."

Maybe in some parallel universe, but Ernie knew better than to say such
a thing.

"No, honestly.  Please, Rita, don't cry.  I love you.  Your hair is
beautiful.  You're beautiful."

She sniffed and glanced up at him beneath wet lashes.

"Do you really like my haft?"

Oh, boy.  Ernie took off his glasses and began to polish them, partly
out of nervous habit, partly so he wouldn't have to look at her in full
focus.

"I ... I like you any way you are.  I really mean that."

Rita heaved a big sigh and wiped her eyes.

"Oh, Ernie.  I know you do.

I'm sorry I got so silly.  It's just ... I don't know.  Lately you
don't seem to even see me when you look at me.  I thought maybe if I
did something different... That's why I got Sandy to cut my hair.  I'm
not totally sure I like it myself.  I just wanted something
different."

Ernie listened to her with a sinking heart.  He didn't understand half
of what she was saying, but he did hear her say she wanted something
different.  As in different boyfriend?  No, no, no.  He leaned over her
bags and, ig-noting the twitch in the living-room curtains, took her
lips in a deep kiss.  A French kiss.  For a split second, a corner of
his mind flashed on Veronique.  He moaned, blocking his thoughts and
deepening the kiss further.

"Oh, Ernie," Rita breathed when they broke apart.

"I've got goose bumps."

It was Rita he wanted.  No question.

"So, how about dinner?"

She hesitated.

"Mother's expecting us to stay in."

"She's a big girl."  Then he winced, because Sheila

Grafton was big--as in very overweight.

"Sorry, I mean, why don't we see if she wants to come with us?"  I "She
doesn't like eating out unless it's Chinese.  You wait in the car and
I'll sort it out."  Rim planted a tiny kiss on his lips and ran up the
path to the front door.

Ernie backhanded the perspiration off his forehead as he walked back to
the Volkswagen.  He'd had no idea Rita jealous He wasn't the type to
play around, but he was so j had to admit it was a boost to his ego
that she thought

Veronique would even look at him.

Rim was back in ten minutes with fresh lipstick and dry eyes.

"Mom doesn't mind staying home," she said, fastening the seat belt
across her lap.

"She's on some new diet, anyway."

"So ... have you thought about which restaurant you want to go to?"  he
said, starting up the engine.

She sighed.

"If you really want French, I guess we'll go French."

"We don't have to go French.  I like Greek, too.  In fact,

I like Greek better."

"Do you really?"  Her glance was wistful.  "Yes."  "Okay," she said,
smiling happily.

"Let's go French."

DAMN.  DAMN, DAMN, damn, damn.

Burton glanced at his watch as he burst out of the conference room and
broke into a lope down the corridor ward his office.  Today of all
days, his meeting with writers of Lovers and Strangers had run
overtime.

mother had called at least a dozen times.  And Ernie had driven him
crazy by humming the wedding march morning.

He hated being late, even for his own wedding.

He grabbed his coat and the umbrella he'd bought this morning--dark
green with a varnished teak handle and brass fittings--and hurried down
to reception.

"Where's Ernie?"  he asked Lillian, pulling on his coat.

"Right here, boss."  Ernie came puffing around the corner.

"Have you got the ring?"  Lillian asked.  The figure of calm, she came
around her desk to straighten Burton's tie.  Burton jammed a hand into
his pants pocket.  "Yep."

"And the license?"

"Yep.

Let's go, Em."

"Wait a minute."  Lillian picked a white carnation out of her vase,
broke off the stem and poked the fresh, peppery-scented flower into
Button's lapel.

"You look very handsome."

"Thanks, LIl.  You're a doll."  He kissed her on the cheek.

She held on to his arms and whispered in his ear, "This could turn out
better than you think."

"I sure hope so," He turned to go, then on impulse, pulled the whole
dripping mass of flowers from the vase.

"You don't mind, do you, Lil?  I won't have time to stop at a
florist."

"Of course not."  She helped him wrap the stems in computer paper and
all but pushed him out the door.

They arrived at the courthouse, a modern hanging garden of glass and
greenery, a few minutes past noon.  Burton groaned when he saw his
mother.  She wore a dark blue suit, a silk corsage left over from
Easter and a resigned smile.  There was no sign of Veronique.

"Maybe she changed her mind," Catherine said, looking hopeful.

"No, Mother.  She's probably just..."  He broke off, having no idea
what might be keeping her.  Other than her visits to Marion, he knew
nothing of her life off the set.

Going back through the revolving door, he scanned the sidewalk in both
directions, peering through the lunchtime crowd for his reluctant
bride.  Why was he so nervous?  It was just a piece of paper.  A piece
of paper that ought to stand for love and cherish till death did them
part--not for the length of a television series.  He paced the
sidewalk, feeling like a character in one of his old sitcoms.

Then he saw her.  Hurrying toward him, hair loose and glowing, the
black cashmere dress he liked so well clinging to her shoulders and
hips.  It wouldn't have been his choice for a wedding dress, but what
the hell.

Maybe, he thought in a burst of optimism, when she got to know him she
would like him better.  After all, familiarity bred... No, no, that
wasn't right.  He rubbed his temples, trying to collect his thoughts.

When she got within ten feet, she looked up and their eyes met.  It was
hard to say if it was alarm or anticipation that widened her eyes, but
for him, that instant of eye contact went way beyond platonic.

"Hi," he said, nervously smoothing back his cowlick.  He handed her the
bunch of flowers, then leaned over to kiss her on the cheek.  Her skin
was cool and soft, and slightly damp with the moisture in the air.  She
started to jerk away from his lips, so he whispered, "They might
watching.  No, don't look around.  Look at me."

She couldn't, of course.  She buffed her face in his der while
pedestrians parted around them.  He put his arm around her and felt her
trembling.

"It's okay," said in a low voice.

"It's going to be okay.  Our will only be in public."

She glanced up, brushing her curls from her and smiled briefly.

"I am sorry I'm late.  Thank you the flowers.  I don't think about a
bouquet."

Or an appropriate dress, or anything else associated a real wedding. 
He felt suddenly foolish and wanted to the boutonniere from his
lapel.

"The others are inside," he said, and guided her through the revolving
door.

Ernie turned as they entered the lobby, his expression a tragicomic
mixture of eager and wistful at the sight of Veronique.  She kissed him
on both cheeks, making him bloom with pleasure.

"Bonjur, Ernie."

"Uh, bon-joor, Veronique."

Burton's hand tightened around hers.  She still didn't kiss him in
greeting.  She kissed Lillian and Ernie and God knew who else, but not
him.  Stepping back, he said, "Mother, this is Veronique Dutot.

Veronique, Catherine O'Rourke."

His mother held out her hand with a too-gracious smile and murmured a
cool pleasantry.  Then she took his free arm, pulling him aside. 
Burton glanced back to see Veronique looking at them and twining a
finger through her hair.

"She's wearing black to her own wedding?"  Catherine said in an
undertone.

"I hate to say it, Burton, but I'm beginning to think you were right
the first time--this woman is trouble."

"It's just a dress," he whispered.

"It's not as though this is a church wedding.  Or, or ... we're in
love."

One perfectly shaped eyebrow arched infinitesimally.

"I saw the way you looked when she kissed Ernie."

"She can't kiss me---I'm her boss," he said, not having the foggiest
notion of French etiquette.  He glanced over to see Veronique
straightening Ernie's tie and teasing him.  His blood pressure
soared.

She only ever looked at his tie to avoid looking at his face.

"So why does it make you so tense?  And why doesn't she look you in the
eye?"  She put a hand on his jacket, imploring him.

"Oh, Burtie, I don't want to see you hurt.  It's not too late to call
it off.  You don't owe this woman anything."

"We've been through this," he said grimly.

"I'm not changing my mind."  He glanced at his watch.

"We'd better get clown to the rgistrar's office.  Please, Mother, be
nice."

Veronique watched the exchange between Burton and his mother with a
sick feeling in her stomach.  But she took Button's arm and together
they led the little procession down the stairs to the basement floor
where the office was located.

Two other couples and their witnesses were in the ing room when they
entered.  One bride was decked ankle-length white muslin and had
flowers in her hair, while her husband-to-be wore a tuxedo jacket over
jeans.  They sat nose-to-nose, arms wrapped around other, giggling. 
The other couple was about twenty older and more staid; but the way
they held hands and quiet glances they exchanged left no doubt of their
tion.

"I am very hungry," Veronique said suddenly.

we eat lunch first, non?"  All morning she'd been too vous to eat, and
now, when the moment was upon her stomach did nothing but rumble.

She hadn't meant for Burton's mother to hear, but erine O'Rourke
slanted her son one of those eyebrow looks.  He just uttered a hapless
laugh and nothing.

Oh la la.  Veronique shrank back, a hand to His mother hated her, and
Burton thought it was all a i Still, it was thoughtful of him to bring
her Avoiding their eyes, she buried her nose in the mass.  And saw,
half-hidden by stems and leaves nel Seven logo and a few lines from one
of spreadsheets.  Her empty stomach mined over on itself, her eyes
threatened to weep like the sky.

A clerk came out of an inner office and called names.

The service was mercifully short.  When the're pronounced them husband
and wife, Veronique lifted her head high.  She was a Frenchwoman.  She
would fulfill her part in this marriage with no weak longings for false
sentiment.

Burton touched his lips to hers and she fought to still the inner
trembling, vowing if she could ever bear to go through this again in
the future, she would marry for nothing less than love.

Then Ernie gave her a peck on the mouth and his eyes were moist, too.

Burton glared at him but for once didn't make some snappy remark.

Catherine O Rourke's eyes were cold and dry.

"Be good to him," her new mother-in-law said, embracing her stiffly.

"He's all I have."

"I do not harm him."  Impulsively Veronique hugged her.  Catherine had
been cheated out of a proper daughter-in-law and a church wedding.  She
wanted the real thing for her son.  What woman wouldn't?

Catherine responded with a perplexed smile.  Veronique wondered if
Burton had told her about the resemblance he bore to her first
husband.

How close was he to his mother?  So many things she didn't know about
her new husband.  It had been the same with Graham.  And it filled her
with trepidation.

They emerged onto the street, newly wed.  This was not the way she and
Ghislaine had pictured their weddings as little girls.  There was no
music, no flowers, no friends and family to wish her love and happiness
in her new life.  Only gray, drizzling skies and the uncaring faces of
strangers hurrying along crowded downtown sidewalks.

"So," Burton said, clapping his hands together with a forced smile,
"how about that lunch?"

"I'd better get back to the studio," Ernie said, looking regretfully at
Veronique.

"Rita's waiting for me."

"See you later, then.  Thanks, Ernie."  Burton turned up his collar at
a gust of wind and, in doing so, knocked the

TEMPORARY WIFE

carnation from his lapel.  He made a grab for it, but landed in a
puddle and a pedestrian stepped on it, leaving the petals muddy and
bruised.

Straightening, he said.

"Mother?"

"No thank you, darling.  I'm having my hair done, member?  Anyway, I'm
sure you two will want to be alone."  Catherine gave him a peck on the
cheek, threw a vague smile in Veronique's direction and hurried down
the sidewalk, pushed along by the wind.

Having her hair done?  Veronique thought.  After the wedding?  Outrage
coursed through her on Burton's behalf.  Yet he did not seem
concerned.

It did not matter, she told herself.  It did not matter.

Then they were alone and Burton was pressing something solid into her
hand.

"This is for you."

She glanced down, surprised.

"Thank you, brella?  I lose them."

"You won't lose this one.  We could go to Marietta's.  haven't made a
reservation, but I know the head This wasn't a wedding feast.

"A hamburger will do."

A smile crept onto his face.  A real smile.

"I didn't haute chefs ate hamburgers.  With ketchup and relish!  ?,
everything.

She laughed, her mood lightening.

"No, with sauce and pickled truffles.  Of courser with ketchup relish.
Just no fast-food burger.  I refuse to eat off board and plastic."

He tucked her hand into the crook Of his arm.  on, then, Mrs. 
O'Rourke, let's go have lunch."

His warmth spread down her arm and chased the from her toes.  But ...
Mrs.

O'Rourke?  That Was his not her.

Burton took her to the Jolly Jumbuck, a pub just the corner.  While he
went to the bar for drinks, fingered the shiny gold wedding band he'd
placed finger.  She'd just gotten used to not wearing a ring here she
was with another.  When he'd talked about rings a couple of days
before, she'd suggested she wear the old wedding band Graham had given
her rather than buy a new one.  Burton had looked at her strangely and
said "No" very firmly, adding a second later that the Immigration
officials would be bound to notice the ring wasn't new.  She hadn't
thought of that, but most likely he was right.

"Champagne!"  she exclaimed when he came back with a bottle of Dom
Perignon.  Could this mean more to him than she'd thought?

"It occurred to me they might be watching," he said, untwisting the
wire around the cork.

Veronique glanced dubiously around the smoky, crowded pub.

"Do you really think so?"

"I have no idea, but we don't want to screw up now."  He popped the
cork and poured out two glasses, then clinked his glass against hers.

"To us--for better or for lunch."

She smiled at that and took a sip.  The bubbles tickled her nose, and
the alcohol went straight to her head.  It felt very strange to be
Mrs.

Burton O'Rourke.

"Now, let's get down to business."  He pulled out a notepad and pen and
began to jot down notes.

"You don't like fast-food restaurants but you do eat hamburgers.
Champagne, yes... What's your favorite color?"  He glanced up, pen
poised expectantly.

She had to laugh.

"In what---clothes or flowers?  Do you think you can find out all my
likes and dislikes over lunch?"

"We've got to start somewhere."  He ripped a page out of the notebook
and passed it across the table.

"You'd better make notes, too.  My favorite color is blue--clothes and
flowers.  I grew up in Vancouver, the only child of an only child."

"Lonely child," she murmured.

"Not at all."  He sipped at his champagne.

"My friend lived next door.

Mother had lots of friends, with children about my age."

"What about your father?  Where is he?"

"He died five years ago of a heart attack.  We weren't very close--he
was away on business a lot--but we a good relationship.  Granddad was
more of a father to me Birthday?"

"December 25."

"No kidding.  What a bummer."  He noted it down "Where were you
born?"

"Bordeaux.  My father was capitaine in the merie.  The French police,"
she explained.

"I have sisters--I am the youngest.  When I was very small lived in
Alg6rie before we move to Tahiti."

"Ah, Tahiti.  I picture a tropical paradise with bare-breasted women
lounging on the banks 'of coral goons."

She laughed.

"You have been influenced by "More like Mutiny on the Bounty," he
admitted.  what' sit really like?"

Her eyes closed as she transported herself mentally.  is paradise," she
said, her voice dreamy.

"You awake the sound of the cock crowing, and every day is so you need
put on only a pareau--a strip like a... sarong.  Home was a
Tahitian-style wooden with big windows--no glass, you understand--but
that prop up to let the breeze flow through and give In the backyard we
have an avocado tree and a The beach is close by, black sand.  The
water is warm a bath and the coral is many colors.

Fish of all sizes flash like the neon through the clear turquoise
ter."

Burton had propped his chin in his hand to listen to "I can see why
you'd want to go back.  What about family?  Tell me more."

He sounded as though he was really interested.  Unlike Graham, who
hated to hear her talk about her life in Tahiti or her family.  Or any
part of her life he couldn't dominate.  But then, Burton was probably
interested only to the extent he needed the information for the
interview.

"My parents are retired and live in Bordeaux, but they spend the
winters in Tahiti.  My sister, Ghislaine, lives outside Papeete.  She
is married and has two children, Coralie and Hugo."

"Go on," he said, writing quickly in his bold, slanted hand.

"Ghislaine is a flight attendant, but she is looking for a job closer
to home.  Her husband, Donaldo---his mother came from Spain--is captain
on a charter sailboat.  His cousin, Jean-Paul, owns a marina and is
building a floating restaurant.  I might get a job there when I go
back."

"Oh."  He frowned when he heard that, but he noted it down.

"Not everything about Tahiti is paradise," she continued.

"There are tropical ulcers that take months to heal, mold that grows
everywhere, and the wet season where we snap at one another's throats.
And typhoons that can smash your house and scatter the pieces like
twigs."

She twirled her champagne glass by its stem, watching the bubbles float
to the top.

"As time goes on, you learn to accept the bad with the good.  My first
husband didn't experience Tahiti long enough to really love it.
Probably he never would have."  She sighed.

There was a silence.  Burton put down his pen.

"I'm sorry."

Her gaze dropped.  She shrugged.

"Me, too."

"I think we should stay at the farmhouse," he said.

Her head came up, and her alarmed gaze danced around his shoulders.

"We?"

"Our marriage won't look genuine unless we live together.  My apartment
only has one bedroom, and if you're going back to Tahiti it doesn't
make sense for you to keep your apartment.  Anyway, I've got to fix the
place up before I can sell, and it's easier to do it if I'm staying out
there."

She frowned.

"But it is so far.  I must be close to Marion."

"We'll be coming in every day for work.  The nursing home you mentioned
isn't far from the studio.  I'll drive you or you can use my car."

"I didn't think about us ... living together."

"Don't worry.  The farmhouse has lots of bedrooms, so we won't get in
each other's way.  I'll pick you up after work.  We can take some of
your stuff out to the farm and stay for the weekend.  Okay?"

Like Graham, he'd taken charge.  She glanced around the pub, wondering
if one of the gray-suited men sipping their second pint over a long
Friday lunch was taking notes for the government.

"Okay."

"Good."  Burton checked his watch.

"I have to get back for Lovers and Strangers.  Give me your address and
I'll pick you up around six o'clock."

She wrote it down on the piece of paper he'd given her--still barren of
any details of his life--and passed it back.  This marriage was
different to her first in at least one respect.  She could not get hurt
because she didn't love Burton.  How could she?  She didn't see him as
a person in his own right.

MARION NOTICED THE raNG right away.

"Some flowers for you, Marion."  Veronique tucked her bridal bouquet
into an empty vase and filled it with water from the bathroom.  Only
one flower was missing--a gardenia which she'd pressed between the
pages of the book of English sayings she carded in her backpack to read
on the bus.

Marion set her crotches aside and lowered herself into a cushioned
wicker armchair in the glassed-in porch that overlooked the garden.

"What's that on your finger?"

"Pardon?"  Veronique instinctively covered the ting, then took her hand
away to regard the plain gold band with feigned surprise.

"The ring," Marion said.

"It looks like a wedding band."

Veronique swallowed.

"Oui."

"It's not the one Graham gave you.  That had rows of diamonds on it."

Veronique had always hated the ostentatious ness of that
ring--something else she'd never been able to say.  She took a deep
breath, and when she exhaled, the bare facts tumbled out.

"I am married again.  To my producer, Burton O'Rourke.  It was this
morning."

Marion gripped the arms of her chair, the bluish veins on her thin
hands standing out.

"Married!  But ... it's only been six months since Graham died."  Tears
filled her eyes.

"Married.  I wasn't even aware you were seeing anyone."

Of course Marion couldn't possibly understand.  Not only did she not
know the facts, Marion was a woman who talked to her husband's photo,
who still had all his clothes hanging in her closet, who cooked his
favorite meals even though he wasn't alive to eat them.

Veronique scooted her chair forward and placed her hands over
Marion's.

"Please do not distress yourself, chore Marion.  It is the marriage of
convenience only, although you must not say so to anyone."

"I don't understand," Marion said, her voice tearg, She cast about for
a tissue.

Veronique reached into the side pocket of her backpack and drew out the
handkerchief with the letter B monogrammed in the corner.  She handed
it to Marion, wondering if she would comment on that, as well.

"My work visa ran out," she explained.

"The immigration officials say I must leave the country.  The only way
to stay was to marry another Canadian."

"But you said you were going back to Tahiti."  Abruptly, she lowered
the handkerchief, eyes wide.

"Oh!  You did it for me.  Oh, my dear Veronique.

You shouldn't have done that.  How do you know what he's even like?"

Veronique made a sudden decision.  She handed Marion her crutches and
helped her to her feet.

"Come, let us kill two birds with one bone.  We will get your
wheelchair and take you up the street to the studio.  You are going to
meet him."

"What?  But I can't possibly.  I don't want to meet the man who's taken
you away from Graham."

Veronique held her ex-mother-in-law's arms and looked her directly in
the eye.

"Marion, Graham was a wond ... won ... he was your son.  And my
husband.  But he was gone long before I met Burton.  They are two
Separate people with nothing to do with each other, except..."

Oh la la.  How could she have forgotten?

"Except what, Ronnie?"  Marion struggled to get the crutches under her
arms.

Veronique thrust her fingers into the back of her hair, tugging and
twining it into knots.

"You mustn't be shocked, but Burton, he look just like Graham."

Marion laughed nervously.

"My dear, that's impossible."

"DoEs MY HAIR LOOK all right?"  Marion fretted as Veronique pushed her
through the doors into the Channel Seven building.

"You look wonderful."  Veronique wheeled her across the lobby, pausing
at the front desk to say hello to Lillian.

Lillian looked up from her computer.

"Veronique?  I didn't expect to see you here today.  Congratulations,
by the way.  You may not realize it, but Burton is considered quite a
catch."

Veronique shrugged, too embarrassed to reply directly.

"Lillian, this is Marion.  Has Burton started taping Lovers and
Strangers yet?"

"Hello, Marion," Lillian said warmly.

"Veronique has told us all about you.  I hope your hip is starting to
heal."

"It gives me trouble in the damp weather, but it's on the mend, thank
you."  She reached back to pat Veronique's hand.

"Don't know what I'd do without Ronnie."

Lillian smiled and turned to Veronique.

"Taping starts in a few minutes, but if you hurry you might catch
Burton in his office.  I just put a call through to him a minute ago."
She turned to Marion.

"Are you going to watch the show being taped?"

"Oh, I would love to.  It's my favorite show.  I've watched it every
day for the last twelve years."

"We better hurry, Marion.  See you later, Lillian."  She pushed on down
the corridor.

"Did you see her hair?"  Marion asked in an astonished whisper when
they were out of earshot of the front desk.

Veronique laughed.  Lillian's hair had undergone some amazing
transformations in the past couple of weeks.  Currently it was a
luscious pale caramel color with sugar frosted tips that looked
surprisingly good against Lillian's delicate skin.

"Maybe we try that shade on you next, eh?"

"Not on your life!"

Ahead of them, an office door opened.  Button's door.  Veronique's
hands turned clammy and slipped on the plastic handles of the
wheelchair.  She let go and stepped forward, wishing she could somehow
prevent this meeting now that it was actually about to happen.

Burton's expression when he saw her surprise and warmth in equal
parts---did something funny to the pit of her stomach.  Her gaze went
to the wedding band on his left hand.  Somehow she'd half expected him
to take it off when she wasn't around.

She glanced back at Marion and was shocked.  Far from being surprised
or upset at seeing Graham's double, her mother-in-law merely smiled
expectantly.  Zut alors!  Had she dreamed the whole thing?

"Salut, Bur-r-rton."  Nerves thickened her accent.

"Zis ees Marion, my ex-muzzer-in-law.  Marion, zis ees Burton O'Rourke,
my--" She choked over what to call him.  Husband?  Producer?

"Pleased to meet you, Marion."  Burton bent to take her hand.

"I'm sorry about your accident.  Although it's thanks to you we have
Veronique with us."

"It's wonderful to meet you, Mr.  O'Rourke," Marion exclaimed.

"I just love your show."

"Marion would like to watch Lovers and Strangers being taped,"
Veronique said.

"Okay?"

"No problem."  He glanced at his watch.

"I'm going to the studio now.

Want to come along?"  And without appearing to hurry them, he had them
moving quickly down the corridor.

"You know, I haven't missed an episode in twelve years," Marion said.

Burton smiled.

"I'm glad you enjoy it.  I've only been producing it for seven years,
but it's always nice to meet a fan."

"I'm a fan, all right.  Although lately that Tiffany has made me so
cross," Marion complained as Veronique wheeled her along beside
Burton.

"Ever since she came out of the institute, she's been a different
person.  And so mean to poor Reilly.  I had hopes they were going to
get married."

Burton nudged Veronique aside and took over the wheelchair.

"Can you keep a secret?"  he asked Marion in a low voice, i "Oh, yes!"
Marion's reply was breathless with excitement.

"Tiffany is Reilly's mother."

"No!"

"It's true," he replied.

"She's keeping Reilly at a distance because she doesn't want him to
find out it was she who stabbed his uncle--who is really his
father--with a fondue fork."

Marion gasped.

"She murdered Jonathon?"

"Don't you dare tell a soul," he warned.

"Or my boss will have my head."

"Cross my heart."  Marion pursed her lips tight.

"I can keep a secret, can't I, Ronnie?"

Biting her lip, Veronique nodded.  Then Burton placed his hand in the
small of her back and murmured in her ear, "Can you keep a secret,
Mrs.

O'Rourke?"  Her laughter vanished as a rush of pleasure spiraled
through her.  She drew away, murmuring something, she hardly knew
what.

In the studio Burton parked Marion in a level spot and said goodbye
before striding down to the set.

Veronique sat in an aisle seat next to Marion.

"So, does he not look like Graham?"

Marion's thin gray brows came together as she appeared to give the
question some thought.

"Not really.  Oh, maybe a little around the nose and the mouth."

"And the eyes and the jaw,.."  Veronique couldn't believe Marion didn't
see it.

"No, not so much the eyes.  Possibly you see more of a resemblance than
I do.  You see..."  Marion's voice became soft.

"I still think of Graham as he was when he was a little boy."

She peered at Veronique through the semidarkness.

"You married him because you think he looks like Graham, didn't you?"
she said gently.

"Oh, my dear, I know how much you must miss him."  Her glance strayed
to the set where Burton had gathered the talent for a last-minute pep
talk.

"I hope for Mr.  O'Rourke's sake he'll be able to live up to Graham's
memory."

CHAPTER TEN

THE HUMIDITY IN VERONIQUE'S apartment hit Burton like a sauna.  She
answered the door wearing a of hot pinks and orange, and a short, tight
pink T-shirt hugged her firm breasts and exposed her navel.  was not
the sort of wife he'd once vaguely imagined ing, but he could probably
learn to live with her.

"Come in."  She clutched a large copper to her chest.  Silver earrings
tinkling, she the apartment before he could recover enough to Her
apartment was like her, warm and bright, and was more greenery than in
the conservatory abe th Park.  Burton half expected to find a parroting
in the foliage, or an outrigger beached near the Ah, there was a
sailboard propped in a corner.  Close.  glanced around, noting the
interesting bits of pottery carved wood lining the mantelpiece and the
framed tercolors decorating the walls.  Nice.  Very nice.

But none of it was packed and ready for the trip out Langley.

He glanced at his watch.

"Have you got any boxes suitcases ready?  I'll take them down to the
car.  we could grab a hamburger at a drive-through on our to the
farm."

She stopped pouring water into an asparagus fern reminded him of a
Triffid, and her mouth twisted in disgust.

"I do not eat fast food, remember?  Relax.  be a moment only."

Relax.  Sure.  Like her definition of a moment was the same as his.
Even though he'd allowed time for it, getting married had thrown his
whole schedule out of whack.

"Can I help you with the watering?"

"No, thank you.  Sit down.  You look tired.  We are in no hurry."  She
moved languidly among her plants to the bluesy warble of a French
chanteuse as if she had all the time in the world.

He was tired.  Chronically tired.  But he wanted to get going, get all
the awkwardness over with.  Yes, it was a platonic marriage, but all
afternoon he'd been picturing the two of them, alone in his
grandfather's house as husband and wife .... With a start he realized
he was staring at her bare midriff.  That did it.  He'd give her
fifteen minutes, then he was packing for her.

Man, it was hot in here.  He removed his jacket and pulled his sweater
off over his head, wondering if she'd object to him stripping down to
his boxers.

"Must be a helluva heating bill."

She passed him on her way to the kitchen to refill the watering can.

"The landlord pays it," she said over the sound of running water.

"For the basement suite to get enough heat, the thermostat must be
turned way up, and so the top floor gets very hot.  He had a hard time
renting the place, but for me, it's perfect."  She came back out of the
kitchen and glanced around with a sigh.

"I am going to miss it.  I'm also worried about what to do with my
plants.  Can we take them to the farm?"

"I'm not sure they'd survive the climatic shift.  Do you have a friend
you can give them to?"

She bobbed her head back and forth sideways in that funny way he'd come
to interpret as "I don't want to talk about it."  She said, "I will ask
the woman who lives downstairs to water them for me until I can find
them a home."  She paused in front of him, watering can in hand.

"Would you like a drink?"

Burton smiled.

"I soaked my roots this morning.  Perhaps something cold, in a
glass?"

"There is beer in the fridge.  Would you like to help yourself while I
finish?"

"Sure."  He entered the kitchen through an arch in the wall.  It was
long and narrow and looked as if it had once been part of a much larger
room that had been partitioned when the house had been broken up into
apartments.

"I wouldn't have picked you for a beer drinker," he remarked, about to
take two bottles from the top shelf of the fridge.

"Can I pour you one?"

"Non, merci.  I don't drink beer."

Had she bought them for him?  Or someone else?

put one bottle back and set the other on the counter.  pulled out his
notebook and pen and flipped to the headed Veronique.  He wrote

"Doesn't drink beer."

She swished past him, as beautiful and scented as any tropical flower,
and set the watering the sink.  At the sight of his notebook her
eyebrows "Are you writing about me again?"

He folded the notebook and tucked it back in his "I've got a lot on my
mind.  If I don't write things I forget."

"So when Monsieur Jackson asks you a, the interview, you will say,
excuse me one moment, I consult my Veronique handbook."  She made a
face and mimicked him flipping through a notepad.

"Let'i see, is it filed Under D for drink or is it B for beer?"
laughed' her throaty laugh.

Burton gazed at her, fascinated by the way the thing shifted on her
hips, creating a shadowed where cloth parted from skin over the hollow
of her belly.  He took a step closer to her.

Her laughter faded to a smile as she cast him a shrewd glance and
neatly sidestepped him.

"Go and sit the chair by the fireplace while I will finish watering my
plants."

Burton took his beer and did as commanded.  He rubbed a hand along the
wooden arm, admiring the smooth, glowing grain and even finish.  The
chair was obviously old, but the dark purple upholstery covering the
seat and back looked new.  It was similar to his grandfather's chair
except that the legs were straight and not on rockers.

"Nice job on the refinishing, whoever did it."

"I did," Veronique said, turning the apartment into an Amazonian rain
forest with a mister.

"Very nice.  And these other pieces... ?"  He waved his beer bottle,
indicating a refinished coffee table and a wooden stool with a puffy
fabric top.  Nothing matched, but the polished wood and the traces of
dark purple that ran through fabric and pottery tied everything
together.

"I did them all.  Graham called it junk, but they have much
character.

Better than that awful modern stuff."

Burton thought of his spare teak furniture he was rarely around long
enough to sit on.  It was comfortable enough but utilitarian rather
than inviting.  Not like this.  He leaned back in the chair and shut
his eyes.

He drifted.  The bluesy music, the steamy heat, the scent of tropical
flowers... His mind conjured up a sultry evening in the French Quarter
of New Orleans, a doorway, and leaning in it was an exotically
beautiful woman with bewitching green eyes.  She spoke and her voice
was a purr.

"Do you like French music?"

"Love it," he murmured.  Without opening his eyes, he lifted his beer
to let the icy bitter liquid slide down his throat.

He wanted to reach for her, but his arms were too heavy to move.  With
a throaty laugh the woman drifted away down the street, her curving
backside briefly illuminated by a street lamp before she disappeared
into swirling mist .... He slumped further into the chair, hovering
consciousness and sleep in a dreamlike trance, aware of Veroulque
moving around the room.  At point the bottle was removed from his hand
and placed the stone hearth.

The quiet sound of things being into boxes and the faint clang of
clothes hangers skipped off the surface of his deep relaxation.

He had no idea how long he sat like that, neither nor asleep.
Eventually he surfaced into consciousness to the aroma of butter and
garlic and the sound of something sizzling in a pan.

BUnking, he sat up and stretched, yawned, and was instantly alert, more
rested than he'd in weeks.

Veronique peeked in from the kitchen.

"Ah, you awake now."  "Yes.  Are you cooking?"  He tried not to sound
hopeful, but the rumbling in his stomach threatened drown him out.

"Just an omelet.  Come and eat."

Just an omelet turned out to be a creamy concoction eggs and wild
mushrooms and some savory green made it into one of the most delectable
dishes he'd eaten.

"Fabulous," he said, tearing off a chunk of crusty guette and layering
on thick, sweet butter.  If he had marry, he could have done worse than
to marry a "What is that herb?  I know the taste--I just her the
name."

"Tarragon.  I grow my own herbs.  They are comin me, so I hope you
don't mind."

With a nod of her head, she indicated two big boxes loaded with potted
herbs.  Beside them was box containing copper-bottomed pots and a knife
bristling with deadly culinary weapons.  Beside that, huge, soft-sided
suitcase that bulged like a

He swallowed.  All this was supposed to fit in his Tercel--a small car
already packed with his gear?

"Uh, sure.  Whatever we can't take tonight we'll come back for
tomorrow."

"Did you ever find your chess set?"  she asked, laying knife and fork
across her empty plate.

"No.  My mother thinks Granddad may have sold it to pay some insurance
premiums."

"What do you think?"

"I don't think he would sell it for anything.  But I haven't a clue
what could have happened to it."  He pushed back from the table.

"I'll do the dishes."

"Thank you."  Veronique stretched, showing a tantalizing length of rib
cage.

"I like the cooking, but not the cleanup."

Burton made a mental note to install a dishwasher at the farm.  He
liked to eat, but also not "zee clean-up."  If possible, he'd encourage
the one without incurring the hassle of the other.

"Tell me," he said, rinsing a soapy plate under a stream of hot water,
"how do you eat like that and stay so thin?"

Veronique shrugged, "I work long hours in hot kitchens.  I do the
furniture.  I windsurf.  I am never, how you say, 'lazing about."  But
mainly I don't eat a lot--just well."  She leaned an elbow on the table
and propped her chin on her hand.  A tiny smile played around the
corners of her mouth.

"Aren't you going to write that down?"

"Good idea."  Burton drained the water from the sink and, quickly
wiping his hands, left the dishes to dry in the rack and pulled out his
notebook.

"Non, non, non."  Veronique was on her feet and grabbing for a dish
towel.

Burton stopped writing.

"Non?  What do you mean, MOn?"

She extracted her expensive chef's knife from the drying rack and
brandished it at him.

"You wash up in my

kitchen, you always, but always, dry the knives lately."

"It's just a knife..."  he started to say, then better of it.  It was
her kitchen, her knife, and he seemed to recall, were known for crimes
of I'll make a note of that."

He started to write, then stopped.

"Say, do you any photograph albums?

Pictures of your childhood?  Y, family?  I would remember pictures far
more clearly words."

Veronique slid the knife back into the block of "But of course."

Going to the living room, she pulled out a thick battered photo album
from the bookshelf beside the place and sat on the couch.  With no
other option, if was to look and she to explain, Burton sat beside her.
were far enough apart that they didn't need to touch, close enough for
him to be fully aware of her warmth, bare skin of her arms and her
intoxicating scent, "What's that perfume you're wearing?"

She cast him a shy smile.

"It's not really perfume.  Mono , pure coconut oil perfumed with petals
of the flower, the gardenia of Tahiti."

"May I?"  he asked, and gently lifted her wrist to his nose to her
skin, which was pale and soft on surface.

"It's very nice," he said, feeling a little Before he knew what he was
doing, he brushed his along her inner arm to the hollow of her elbow,
his lips to her skin for one shuddering second.  It was than wanting to
kiss her--he wanted to inhale her.

"You're tickling me."  She laughed, a nervous and took her arm back.
Yet when he looked up, she staring at him, eyes dark green and
intent.

She glanced quickly back at the photo album.

"This in Alg6rie with my sisters," she said, pointing at a
photograph.

"I was four and a half."

He squinted down at the album.

"Is that a parrot on your head?"

She laughed.

"They are peacock feathers we found on the lawn of the French Embassy.
We played dress-up while the grown-ups had a garden party."  She turned
the page.

"Here are my mother and father."

"Your mother looks like she enjoys a laugh, though I couldn't say the
same about your father.  Is he as forbidding as he looks?"

"He is a good man, but sometimes he wears his kdpi, his policeman's
hat, at home, as well as at work.  We were scared of him when we were
little.  Now we tease him and don't let him take himself too
seriously."

She turned to the next set of photos, and a look of bittersweet
nostalgia that might have been mistaken for physical pain crossed her
face.

"That was my home in Tahiti.  Look at the bougainvillea," she said,
pointing to a profusion of scarlet-and-fuchsia-colored flowers massed
along a low stone wall.

"That is me on my Vespa.  I must have been on my way to work at the
resort on the other side of the island.

And there is Moustache, my little cat.  Ghislaine has him now."

"Moustache," he repeated.

"Is that ... mustache?"

She beamed.

"That's right.  See his long whiskers?  But you must be exactement with
the pronunciation.  Moos-rash."  Her lips pushed outward, making a kiss
out of the word, then retreated, causing him to ask her to repeat it.
Moos-tash," she obliged.

"Teach me to speak French," he said, enthralled.

"Non.  What for?"

"I mean it.  I know the basics everyone learns in school, but I've
always wanted to be able to converse in French."  Yes?"  She was still
skeptical.

"Yes," he said.

"Please?"

She gave a little shrug.

"Okay."

Burton went back to poring over the photographs.  He actually wanted
to speak French, she marveled.  She thrilled by his absorption in her
island--and reluctant believe in it.  How much of his interest had to
do getting past Immigration?

"What do you do for entertainment?"  he asked.  there theaters,
nightclubs?"

"Papeete has all sorts of modern entertainment.  mostly we come
together with friends and cook a big Maybe one of the guys go to the
wharf and buy a freshly caught, and we prepare it with some nice We
drink a little, we talk a lot.  We have a good time.  night breeze is
so soft and warm we sit outside.  have a guitar..."

She broke off with a shrug.  How could she convey feeling of life in
Tahiti to someone who thought cold rain shower was refreshing?

"I went to Bali once for a little R and R after the war in East Timor,"
he said, stretching an arm the back of the couch.

"No telephones, no computers, hurry, no worry.  If Tahiti is even half
as nice, you're to be going back there.  The French love of food and
ture and the island way of life--what a great tion."

He didn't sound like Graham, Veronique of the gentle touch of his hand
in her hair.  He wash' scornful, skeptical or disparaging of her
language and ture.  Cautiously she glanced sideways at him.  At menthe
hardly even looked like Graham.  At least, he look like Graham on the
surface, but she seemed now be seeing past the familiar features to
something It was so confusing.

Confusing, too, were the desire weaving themselves into the erotic
tapestry gertips made as they lightly stroked the nape of her neck
"Maybe I'll come for a visit sometime," he "Would you show me
around?"

Veronique went very still, remembering.  Maybe could show me around,
Graham had said after complimenting her on the poisson cru.  Now she
bobbed her head sideways.

"Peut-tre."  Maybe.

She turned another page, and instinctively flinched.  Burton's fingers
tightened on his side of the album.  Graham's tanned face gazed up from
every photo.

There was a close-up of him smiling at her over lunch at the resort.

Graham coming from the water, snorkel gear in hand.  She and Graham on
the beach at Venus Point, his arms wrapped around her while she gazed
adoringly into his face.  It hurt, that one, because they looked so
very much in love.  Ten months later she'd cut up her wedding dress for
kitchen rags.

"You can see the resemblance?"  she asked.  Marion might not think
Burton and Graham looked alike, but Veronique would dare any stranger
to tell them apart.

"Yes, it's uncanny.  Spooky, even."  He stroked back a lock of hair
from her cheek, exposing her face.

"Are you all right?"  he asked, so gently she almost wept.

She shrugged, wishing she could go back to that time when love was
simple and desire an emotion she welcomed.  Button's other arm was
around her shoulders now, pulling her toward him.

"I know it hurts," he said, "but don't be sad."

And then his lips were coming closer to hers, his blue eyes familiar
yet newly dazzling .... God help her, she wanted to kiss him.  At the
last second, Graham's face superimposed itself over Button's.  She
turned away, gasping for breath.  Oh la Ia.  Just who had she been
about to kiss?

"Veronique?"

She picked at the edges of the plastic sheets holding the photos in
place.

"Just because we are married doesn't mean we are husband and wife."

"I know."  Rebuffed, his voice was no longer gentle.

Veronique made a move to replace the album in the bookshelf.

"Wait.  We can use those photos of you and Graham he said, still in
that hard voice she'd never heard "It'll look to Immigration as though
we've known other longer than we have."

"Non?"  She clung to the album, appalled.  It was enough marrying a
stranger who resembled her hated late husband.  It would be quite
impossible to look at the past and smile.

He eased it from her grasp.

"I know you're not him," he said, compassion softening his voice.

"Maybe you never will be.  But think of Marion."

Knuckles clenched in front of her tightened mouth, she watched as he
tore back the sticky pages and peeled photo after photo of her and
Graham.  Oddly enough, seemed to pain Burton, too, for two sharp fines
had pea red between his eyes.

Burton grimly completed his task, feeling like the gest jerk who'd ever
lived for what this was doing ronique.  He didn't know why the hell it
should hurt so much.  Ego, he guessed.  When he was done, he Veronique
the loose photos for safekeeping, but with burst of fresh tears, she
pushed them away.  Frowning, tucked the photos into his breast pocket
and carried rival's image like a ghostly doppelganger next to his

VERONIQUE OPENED HER EYES and, for a moment, know where she was.  In
the center of the plank ceiling squatted a pearly pink glass fight
fixture seemed to double as a fly trap.  Ah, the farmhouse.

She put on blue jeans and thick socks, a shirt and Marion's big ivory
sweater, and went out to kitchen.  She made herself coffee and toast,
and sat in the upholstered wooden rocker.  It would be very sanded down
and oiled, she thought, chipping at the peeling varnish with her
thumbnail.

Burton came in, buttoning the sleeves of his tan corduroy shirt, his
coppery hair wet and gleaming.

"Good mot--" He stopped short.

"Bonjour," she corrected him, then noticed the odd expression on his
face.

"What is it?"

He gave his head a little shake and moved toward the counter and the
coffeepot.

"That was my grandfather's chair."

She sprang out of it.

"You don't like me sitting there."

"No, it's okay.  It's just ... when I saw you there, it reminded me
that now we're living here and he's gone."

She went to stand on top of the heating vent beneath the window to warm
her feet.

"You sit there.  It's your chair now."

His chair.  His farm.  He realized suddenly the source of his
ambivalence.  He wanted the farm, but he wanted it the way it was when
he was a child--worry free.  He didn't want the responsibility of
hundreds of bushels of seed potatoes waiting to be planted, later to be
harvested.  If he sat in Granddad's chair, he had to walk in Granddad's
shoes and ride Granddad's tractor .... The phone rang.

He walked over to where it hung on the wail and picked up the
receiver.

"Hello!" "Burton?  Don Chetwynd here.  Glad I caught you.  Listen, I've
got a couple of young fellas in my office fight now, brothers they are,
who've looking to buy a parcel of land in your area."

"I told you I'm not ready to---" "Sell.  I know, but just hear me out.
These boys are just starting out, pooling their resources to buy some
land.  Their daddy's got a farm over near Chilliwack, but there are
four sons and they all want to farm," "Look, Mr.  Chetwynd--" "I've
told them you're not ready to vacate, and they're willing to let you
stay in the house till the end of the year, just so long as they can
start working the land.  Now, do yourself a favor and think about it. I
can bring 'em by for a look any time you say.  No obligation.  I'm not
trying to pressure you, but you don't know when you'll get another
offer like this."

"They haven't made an offer."

"I'm betting my bottom dollar that once they see your property, they're
going to make you that offer.  Whaddaya say?  Shall I bring 'em by?"

It seemed the perfect solution.  Granddad's place would remain a farm,
and he could go back to doing what he did best with a clear
conscience.

But in spite of what Cbetwynd said, Burton did feel pressured.

"I'll have to think about it and call you back."

Hanging up, he took a cup from the cupboard and poured himself a
coffee.  Veronique had returned to the table to sit on a
straight-backed chair with her knees tucked up to her chest.  Her hands
were wrapped around her steaming cup, and her face held a mildly
questioning expression.

"That was the real-estate agent," he said.

"He's got an interested buyer.  Farmers."

"But you haven't found the chess set."

"That's why I put him off."  Burton spread jam on a piece of toast and
walked over to the window.  The orchard which his grandparents had
planted nearly fifty years ago would be spared the ax.  Yet even
selling to farmers was hard to accept.  Was he just hanging on to
childhood memories?  Was he having trouble letting go of the last link
to Granddad?  The path toward the future suddenly seemed muddy and
indistinct.  What if he took a wrong turn and there was no way back? 
He hated this feeling of weakness and indecision.  He needed to do
something.

He took his cup to the sink and brushed the crumbs from his hands.

"I'm going to fix the front steps," he said.

"Make yourself at home.  Do whatever."

She uncurled her legs and tipped her cup to drain the last of her
coffee.

"Would you like me to help?  I can use a hammer and a saw."

Frowning, he shook his head and started to leave the room.

"This is something I need to do myself."

"Burton?"

He paused at the doorway and looked back.

"Do not be too hard on yourself.  You will make the right decision in
the end."

He nodded, oddly touched by her confidence.  And grate-fill that
although she thought he was wrong, she didn't feel the need to keep
telling him so.

Granddad's tool chest was in the ham, along with the ten-foot length of
two-by-six lumber with which he'd intended to replace the broken
step.

Burton had stored it in here after the ambulance had taken Granddad
away.  Now he hoisted it to his waist.  It was awkward and unwieldy,
but not that heavy.  Not for a man who'd spent his life doing physical
labor.  Maybe the doctor was right, and Granddad's heart attack was a
fluke of timing.  It was a consoling thought, even if it didn't help
Granddad.

Burton carried it back across the yard and around to the front of the
house, visualizing Granddad making the same short journey.  Had he
staggered the last few steps?  Had he felt a stab of pain in his heart
as he fell?  What were his thoughts in those final seconds?  If Burton
had turned up half an hour earlier, could he have been saved?

He dropped the length of wood to the ground with a thud, flattening the
grass beside the path.  Then he set to work pr ising the nails out of
the broken board to lift it off and make way for the new.  He'd
measured and cut-the new piece of wood and was setting it in place when
eronique came out the front door, her backpack slung over her shoulder,
the umbrella he'd given her in hand.

"I'm going to walk down to the farmer's market we passed last night to
get some things for dinner," she said, pausing at the step above the
one he was working on.

Burton pushed the hair off his forehead.

"Take the if you want."

"Thanks, but I like to walk.  Guess what?  I found new eggs in the
henhouse.  And one of the hens is I wonder who has been feeding
them."

"The Vandermeres, our neighbors to the east," he "I really should get
over there to thank them and let know we're here."

"I also found a few vegetables out back.  Someone had a garden there
between the orchard and the house."

He straightened and went to rummage through the box for a level.

"My grandmother.  She grew under the sun.  Canned most of it, too."

"The soil is good," Veronique said.

"It wouldn't much work to make again the garden.  grow well by the side
fence.  And there is and peas " Her excitement seemed to check
mid-sentence.

"Well, better not get carded away."

Burton could see what she was thinking--whatever planted she wouldn't
be around to harvest.  Nor would The seed potatoes weighed on his
conscience.

She stepped over the loose board to the bottom step, down to the
ground.

"For dinner I am thinking some asparagus with hollandaise sauce to
start, by chicken grilled t la diable.  Accompanied by the potatoes
roasted with rosemary and garlic."

Burton squinted at the liquid-enclosed bubble dead-center in the level
atop the new board.  great," he said, beginning to salivate.

"You know, don't have to cook "He broke off at the hurt look her
face.

"I love to cook," she said, "especially in kitchen.  But it's no fun
cooking for just myself..."

"I guarantee I'll be appreciative."

"You better," she teased, bopping him lightly with umbrella as she
turned to leave.

"Or next time you get tuna casserole."  Tqu MARKET OFFERED less choice
in imported fruits and vegetables than the city, but the produce was as
fresh as if it had come out of the field that morning.  There was also
a small butcher-cum-deli where she picked out a plump chicken.  On
impulse, she bought some packets of seeds and a tray of marigold
seedlings to plant beside the front door.

Her laden backpack was starting to feel heavy by the time she turned
into the driveway.  Behind her, a horn beeped and a white pickup track
rolled to a stop, its motor idling.  A woman of about her own age with
an open, friendly face and short dark hair escaping from a ponytail
poked her head out the window.

"Hop in.  I'll take you up to the house,"

"Merci."  Veronique laid the seedlings on the floor of the truck,
hoisted her backpack onto the seat and climbed in.

"Are you--" "Jill Vandermere, from next door.  I was coming over to
feed the chickens."  She put the truck back in gear and started up the
hill.

"So it is you we have to thank for taking care of them.  I am
Veronique.

I am ... staying here with Burton for a while."

"Great.  It'll be nice having another woman my own age close by.  We
can always use new blood around here."  Veronique's eyebrows rose.

"New blood?"  Jill laughed.

"It's just an expression."

"New blood.  That's good," she said, smiling.

"I collect expressions."

Jill's brown gaze strayed to Veronique's wedding ring.

"Are you and Burton married?"

"Sort of."

Grinning, Jill shook her head.

"I didn't know there was such a thing as 'sort of' when it came to
marriage.  You're either in it or you're not.  I'm married to Rick,
Hank and Mary's son.  It's their farm, but we're gradually taking it
over.  We'd like to expand, but--" she shrugged "--it's hard to find
land close by."  She glanced down at the seedlings.

"I see you're planting flowers.  You're welcome to come over and take
cuttings any time.  We've got a huge garden."  Veronique smiled at her
and at the serendipity of their instant rapport, knowing even without
further words they would have things in common.  There could be details
and confidences exchanged ... if.  Always thef.  She thought of the
seed packets tucked in her backpack and felt unaccountably sad by what
could and could not be allowed to grow.

"Thank you," she said, "but I probably won't be here very long."

When they arrived at the house.  Burton was nowhere in sight.  But as
Veronique got out and set the marigolds beside the newly repaired step,
she heard the sound of ham-meting coming from the barn.  More
repairs.

She admired the fact that he did the jobs around the farm himself. 
Many men would have disdained dirtying their hands or simply not known
how to use the tools.  His grandfather had taught him well.

She went back to the track where Jill waited, the engine running.

"Would you like to come in for coffee?"

"Thanks, I'd love to another time.  But if you me, I'd better get back
and help Rick and his dad planting the potatoes while the weather's
clear.  They say more rain is on the way.  Oh, by the way, tell Burton
we'll bring back the..."

She broke off as a pale blue Volvo came up the drive and parked beside
the truck.

Another neighbor?  Veronique wondered.  The real-estate agent with
someone to view the property?  The car door opened, and a tall,
dark-haired woman holding a brown paper bag emerged.

Zut alors.  It was Burton's mother.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CATHERINE O'ROURKE WORE a cherry red linen dress, the simple lines of
which accented the smooth sweep of her shoulder-length dark hair and
elegant gold jewelry.  She had style, Veronique gave her that.  And
from the size of her smile, she clearly intended to be a good
mother-in-law.

Veronique said au revoir to Jill and, as the truck rumbled back down
the hill, went to greet Catherine.

"Bon-jour," she called cheerfully, equally determined, that discord not
originate with her.

"Hello, Veronique."

Veronique's eyebrows lifted.  This mother-in-law actually pronounced
her name correctly.  She felt Catherine's bright blue gaze,
disconcertingly like Burton's, inspecting her.

"Burton is in the barn," she said, hoping she'd want to see him fight
away.

But Catherine proceeded to the steps, pausing to test the new board
with one black patent pump before continuing on into the house.

"I'll wait for him to finish.  I know how he hates to be disturbed when
he's working.  Here, I brought you a little housewarming gift."

"How thoughtful..."  Her voice trailed away.  The bag contained
something heavy, solid and still warm.  She heard the clink of a lid
against its base and caught a faint but distinctive aroma.

"Tuna casserole," Catherine said with a bright smile.

"Burton's favorite.  I know you must be too busy to cook."

"Merci bien," she murmured, forcing a smile in return.

She was never too busy to cook.  But she stepped back so Catherine
could precede her down the hallway and into the kitchen.

At the counter, she slid the casserole out of the bag onto a hot mat
and gave a little gasp of surprise.  The dish was not Pyrex but
pottery, the glaze a medley of natural greens with dark brown accents.
She turned to Catherine, her smile genuine.

"It is beautiful."

Catherine waved a hand.

"One of the ladies in my book club makes them.

After all, you missed out on wedding presents."

Her tone was faintly accusatory, as though Veronique had caused her own
misfortune.  Who did Catherine imagine would keep the casserole dish
when the marriage was over?  Veronique wondered.  Her son, whose idea
of a good dinner was dinner out?  Or Veronique, Who would soon be
shedding belongings in preparation for departure?  Still, it was a nice
thought.

Maybe.  She cast a sideways glance at her new mother-in-law.  She
wasn't quite sure about Catherine.

"You will stay to dinner, of course?"  Veronique picked up an oven mitt
and lifted the lid by the cluster of acorns that formed the handle.  On
top of the casserole was a layer of... crushed potato chips?  Mon
Dieu.

Quickly, she put the lid back on.

"Oh, I wouldn't like to intrude "Catherine said, moving toward the
sink.

"Non, I insist.  You will stay for dinner."  If for no other reason
than to help them eat this ... this... Veronique switched on the oven,
placed the casserole inside, then turned to Catherine.

"Would you like a glass of wine?"

Catherine was filling the kettle.  Faint color rose in her cheeks,
matching her dress.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said.

"I grew up in this house.  I guess I haven't adjusted to it not being
my home anymore."

Her sigh was just loud enough to be heard, yet not so

 E

loud as to sound complaining.  Formidable.

"But of course it is your home," Veronique said.

"It certainly is not mine, though I like it very much."  She threw down
her oven mitts and faced Catherine squarely.

"I

know you are worded about Burton, but I am not the problem."

Catherine looked taken aback.

"Well, I know he's upset about the chess set and his documentary.  But
if I may speak frankly, I don't feel this is the best time for him to
take on a wife, especially one who's not in love with him."

"He does not love me, either."  Surprisingly it hurt a little to say
that.

"We have the understanding.  I do like him, and I wish him well.

That is why you must talk to him, convince him that even after he finds
the chess set, he should not sell the farm."

Catherine laughed shortly.

"Burton would never sell the farm."

"The real-estate man called this morning to say someone is interested
in buying.  Burton is thinking about letting them come and look."

Catherine's face went pale.  She reached for a chair.

"You did not know?"  Catherine shook her head.  Veronique threw up her
hands and burst into an impassioned tirade in French about les hommes.
While she ranted, she got out a glass tumbler and a bottle of cognac,
and poured Catherine a stiff drink.

Catherine took a big sip.  Coughed, blinked and gave her head a rapid
shake.

"That's better, thank you.  I agree men can be pigs, but I rather
object to being the mother of a swine."  ii Heat rose in Veronique's
cheeks.

"You understood?"

"Oui."  A faint smile appeared on Catherine's face.

"I majored in languages at university," she continued in French.

"And did a year as an exchange student in Pads.  I'm a bit rusty."
Rusty, perhaps, but it was music to Veronique's ears.  She pulled up a
chair and poured herself a small cognac.

"You speak very well," she said in French.

"I can't believe Burton didn't tell you he was thinking of selling the
farm."

"He talked about the impracticality of living here, and how he didn't
like the idea of renting, but I didn't ever think he'd seriously
consider selling.  But you say he's had an offer?"

Veronique shook her head.

"It hasn't gone that far yet.  All he said was some farmers were
interested in looking at it."

"If he sells to anyone it will be to a farmer."  Catherine's manicured
fingernails tapped the table in little clicks of frustration.

"I'd hoped he would marry and have children and raise them out here on
the farm."  She sighed.

"I'm not wrong to want that, am I?"

"No," Veronique said slowly, "but perhaps that is not his dream."

Catherine snorted.

"Burton dreams in Technicolor, with his finger on the fast-forward
button."

Veronique laughed.  Her eyes met Catherine's and the other woman gave
her a warm smile, the first genuine smile since they'd met.

Catherine reached for her hand and gave her fingers a squeeze.

"Slow him down, Veronique," she said, her voice suddenly urgent.

"Slow him down long enough for him to find out what his dream really
is."

Veronique's smile disappeared.

"We are husband and wife on paper only.

I cannot influence him."

"I think you can.  I've seen the way he looks at you."  She paused.

"His father died of a heart attack when he was fifty-five.  Burton's
not like Tom--he doesn't drink much or smoke, and he doesn't
overeat--but he pushes himself too hard.  Maybe I'm just being a
typical mother, but I worry about him."

Veronique tugged at a lock of hair.  She and Burton would have to be
far more intimate than they were, or were likely to be, for her to
affect his future.  Such intimacy was impossible for her, and possibly
damaging for him, if what Catherine said about the way he regarded her
was true.

"You could persuade him better than I--" She off, hearing his footsteps
outside on the porch.

she recognized his walk.

"Speak of the devil," Catherine said wryly, revertin to English.

"Burton hasn't listened to his mother since he was a teenager."

"I heard that," Burton said, coming down the hall into the kitchen. 
Two pairs of curious female eyes turned at his entrance.  He stopped
short at the unlikely sight of his mother and Veronique gossiping over
a drink.  Suddenly wary, he fought the impulse to hightail it back to
the barn.

"You were supposed to.  Because it's tree, isn't it, Burton?"  His
mother's voice held an undercurrent he couldn't place.

He laughed the fatalistic laugh of the doomed.

"I refuse to answer on the grounds it might incriminate me."  He went
to the sink and washed his hands.  Drying them on the towel, he sniffed
the air.

"What's that?"

he said, glancing at Veronique.

"I thought you were making some fancy--' Her warning glare cut him
off.

"Your mother kindly brought your favorite dish."

Funny, it didn't smell like grilled chicken with mustard, the latest in
a string of new favorite dishes, each a product of Veronique's mastery
in the kitchen pulling rank over the camera crew for.

No, it smelled like ... tuna casserole.  His favorite, right.  When
he'd been ten years old.

"Thank you, Mother.  You really didn't have to."

"It was meant as a housewarming gift, but that's not exactly in order."
Catherine twisted her nearly empty cognac glass.

"Why didn't you tell me you'd taken steps toward selling the farm?"

Burton glanced at Veronique.  For once she met his gaze head on,
transmitting waves of courage and support.  It was only for an instant,
and then she disappeared out the back door with a murmured comment
about picking something or other.

He got a beer from the fridge and sat in the chair Veronique had
vacated.  She'd abandoned him to his mother's reproach, but it didn't
matter.  They'd just exchanged their first ever silent communication.

"I kept hoping I'd come up with another solution," he said, twisting
off the cap, "but there are only so many options."

"You could have talked to me about it," Catherine replied, sounding
hurt.

"You don't have to take the whole burden on yourself."

"I was going to that night we were out here, but I thought you had
enough to worry about.  Or maybe I just knew you'd be unhappy about it
and I didn't want you to try and talk me out of it."  Before she could
do so now, he went on.

"I think I've figured out what Granddad sold to pay the insurance
premium on his death taxes."

"Oh?"

"The pick-planter."

Catherine looked taken aback.

"The machine he used to plant potatoes?

It's gone, too?"

"Yep.  I knew something was missing from the barn the first day I came
out here after he died, I just couldn't put my finger on it."

"He sold the pick-planter when he had a barn full of seed potatoes and
a crop to put in," Catherine said slowly.  She slapped her hand down on
the table.

"That just shows you how much he wanted to hang on to the farm.  Don't
let him down by selling out."

Guilt propelled Burton to his feet, and his chaff scraped backward
against the lino.  He paced across the room to grip the side of the
window frame.  Outside, in the remnants of Gram's garden, Veronique
was picking something and putting it into her wicker basket.

"For God's sake, Mother, I'm not a farmer and I have no intention of
becoming one."

"I wasn't suggesting that.  But you could still live here."

"It's too far from my work."

"Maybe you work too much."  She held up a hand.

"Okay, I won't start on that.  But you could always rent it Out.  '
"And have to deal with strangers living here?  People who might wreck
the place?"  He rubbed his temples, feeling the beginnings of a tension
headache.

"There'll be strangers living here if you sell," she replied sharply.

"Drop it, Mother.  We've had this argument before."

"All I can say is, your granddad was lucky he didn't live to see you
disappoint him."

He shot her an angry glance and she covered her face with her hands.

"I'm sorry, Burtie.  That was an awful thing to say."

"I didn't know this place was so important to you," he said stiffly.

"It's not for myself," she replied, wiping her wet eyes with her
fingers, "But for you and your children.  If you ever have any, that
is."

"Definitely don't start on that, Mother.  If it makes you feel any
better, I'm not selling until I find that chess set.  And at my present
rate of success that could be well into the next century."

The back door creaked and Veronique came in through the laundry room,
her basket filled with delicate green stalks.

"Oh, you found the asparagus bed!"  Catherine exclaimed, getting up to
look.

"I can't believe it's still going.  My mother and I planted that
together over ten years ago."

"It needs some thinning and some weeding, but it grows beautifully,"
Veronique said, holding up a stalk and pretending not to see
Catherine's red-rimmed eyes.

"Asparagus with lemon butter will go nicely with tuna casserole,
non?"

"Perfect," Catherine said.

"Perfect," Burton echoed, thinking longingly of hollandaise sauce and
poulet a la diable.

DUSK WAS FALLING when they stepped onto the front porch to wave
Catherine off.  Veronique hung back, but Catherine came up and gave her
a hug.

"Bon chance, my dear," she whispered.

Veronique saw her own emotions reflected in Catherine's clouded blue
eyes--confusion, worry and hope.

"Merci.  Good luck to you, too."

Catherine turned to Burton and he gathered her into a hug.

"Oh, Burtie," she said, "I know it's a dilemma.  But please, don't be
afraid to talk it over with me."

"I won't," he said gruffly.

"As long as you remember it's my decision."

With one last squeeze, he released her.

Catherine started down the steps.  When she reached the one Burton had
repaired, she glanced at it, then at Burton.  As Veronique watched, an
odd look passed between them, a baffling exchange of some deep
emotion.

She glanced away, unwilling to intrude, but curious to know more about
this family she'd married into.  The more she learned about Burton, the
more she liked and admired him.  He'd not only eaten his mother's tuna
casserole without a grimace--an action as courageous as it was
caring--but even when Catherine had gone out of the room briefly, he
hadn't betrayed her by expressing his true feelings.  Feelings that
were obvious to Veronique after witnessing the gusto with which he
devoured her meals.

Veronique and Burton watched in silence as Catherine's car disappeared
down the gravel drive.  The clouds had disappeared, leaving the pearly
sky

streaked with salmon and aqua.  Shadows stretched across the grass,
but the air was balmy and softly scented.  The perfect summer evening
beckoned.

"I guess I'll go look in the cellar for the chess set," Burton said,
but he made no move to leave.  He turned to Veronique and in the dusky
twilight his eyes were a deep blue.

A shivery anticipation raised gooseflesh along her arms.

This ... attraction she felt for Burton didn't mesh with her plans. 
She was falling for him when she should be keeping her distance.

Yet she was loathe to part with his company.

"What is it about that step?"  she asked, gesturing to the bottom
plank.

Burton jammed his hands into his back pockets, and his gaze swept past
her, across the farmyard and up the green slope behind the barn.  His
shirt flattened against his chest as he sucked in the soft evening air.
At last he said, "My grandfather had a heart attack while repairing
it."  "But--' "I was supposed to be helping him, but I was too busy."
His voice was bitter with regret.

She could see it was eating him up inside.

"And you think it is your fault he's dead."  She kept her tone flat,
used deliberately stark words.

"No!  Okay, I did at first," he admitted.

"But when you put it like that ... well, it's nonsense."  He sighed.

"I just wish we'd had time to talk about some things."

She placed a hand on his forearm, feeling the texture of the dark hairs
laid over his skin and the muscle underneath.  It was the first time
she'd voluntarily touched him.

"It is natural to wish for more time."

"I guess you know what it's like to miss someone."  His gaze,
responsive, flicked down to her hand before meeting her eyes.

"Don't go into the cold, dark basement on such a beautiful evening,"
she implored.

"Stay.  Enjoy the sunset with me.

Her words brought a warm, glad smile to his lips.  He moved closer,
till she was sure he was going to take her in his arms.  Wanting, yet
fearful, she held her breath, a wave of anticipation thrilling through
her.

Then, inexplicably, he backed away.  His hands dropped to his sides and
his fingers curled into his palms.

"Don't tempt me," he said with a short laugh.

"It's hard enough--" He cut it short and abruptly turned on his heel.
The screen door banged shut behind him.

Veronique put a hand to her forehead, feeling the adrenaline subside,
cooled by his curt reaction.  What was happening to her?  When had she
started craving his touch?  Part of her longed to run after him.  She
took a step toward the front door, then stopped herself.  If he was
strong, she could be, too.  This temporary marriage, this situation,
would only work if they didn't let their attraction grow.  Keeping busy
would help.

She found Burton in the laundry room putting new batteries in a
flashlight, The door leading down to the basement was open.

Veronique hovered on the kitchen side of the doorway.

"Do you have sandpaper?"

"Sure, what for?"  He didn't look at her, just clicked the battered
steel flashlight on and off, testing the light.

"If you don't mind, I would like to refinish your grandfather's chair.
I think it is oak underneath."

"You'd be wasting your time," he said shortly.

"Everything will go when I sell the farm."

"You might be foolish enough to let this farm go," she said gently,
"but you will never get rid of your grandfather's chair."

He smiled and shook his head.

"Okay, you got me there.  But you don't have to do this.  It's too
much."

TEMPORARY WIFE

She shrugged.

"I enjoy the work.  It gives me satisfaction to restore something to
beauty and usefulness."

"Go ahead, then," he said.

"Just don't give me any more lectures about working too hard."

They laughed together, and although she felt a pang of loss for what
hadn't happened, Veronique was relieved she and Burton were still
friends.

The big hand on the clock over the stove moved slowly around to the
next hour while she sanded down the chair arms to a pale, wide-grained
wood.  Outside the kitchen window, night fell.  The house was quiet and
peaceful, but for the rasp of sandpaper on wood and the faint sounds of
Burton moving around in the basement.

When she'd finished the arms, she rose, stretched and made herself a
cup of tea.  Sipping it, she studied the chair.  To sand the base
properly she'd have to take off the seat cover.  She had an idea the
springs needed replacing, anyway, so hard was the seat.  Setting her
cup on the table, she grasped the chair at the top of the rockers and
turned it over.  Oof, it was heavy.

Using a pair of pliers and a hammer, she pulled out the upholstery
tacks that held the worn fabric in place.  They came away easily, and
she noticed curiously that there were sets of tack holes in the wood;

apparently the cover had been pulled off and replaced sometime in the
Past.

The last tack came out and she popped it into a glass jar with the
others.  Righting the chair, she peeled off the old fabric.  Underneath
lay a thick layer of foam padding, which she lifted off so she could
get at the springs.

Mon Dieu!  What was this?  She let the square of foam drop to the floor
and leaned over to lift a large wooden box from inside the base of the
chair.  It was heavy and old, with squares of light and dark wood
inlaid in an alternating pattern.  It rattled when she picked it up.
The chess set.  Her heart beating fast, she fumbled to undo the metal
latch at the side.

Veronique picked up one of the large, elaborately carved chessmen and
slowly turned it in her fingers.  They were very beautiful, definitely
old, and it was quite believable that Burton's grandfather, or anyone,
could have sold them for a lot of money.  Burton would be so happy to
have them back.  He would... She gripped the black knight so hard the
tip of his lance bit into her palm.  He would sell the farm.

Her first instinct had been to run to the top of the basement stairs
and shout out the good news.  Now she went very still and thought of a
mother's plea for her son.  She agreed with Catherine that the farm was
good for Burton.  If only he lived here a little longer, she was sure
he would decide to keep it, whatever the cost.

It wasn't her decision to make, a little voice told her.

In the end, she argued with herself, he would have the chess set and
the farm.

Not daring to let herself think any further about what she was doing,
she placed the knight back in the box and relatched the lid.  Silently
she tiptoed out of the kitchen, the box clutched to her chest to stop
it from rattling.

She was halfway down the hall when she heard his footsteps coming up
from the basement.

For a moment she couldn't move.  Then with a burst of energy, she ran
the rest of the way to her bedroom.  Swiftly she opened the cupboard
and shoved the chess set into her empty suitcase, then threw some dirty
clothes on top.  She stood back, breathing hard and telling herself it
was for his own good.

She had other reasons, vaguely formulated, that had nothing to do with
Burton's needs and everything to do with her own.  Perhaps she was
projecting on him her own longing for a place to belong.  She didn't
want to think about it too deeply.  She only knew she wasn't ready for
Burton to sell the farm.

Burton came into the kitchen and saw Granddad's disassembled chair
spread over the floor.  He went through to the hallway, brushing
cobwebs off his shoulders.

"V ronique?"

She came out of her room, shutting the door behind Her face was pale
and she licked her lips nervously.  " Oui ?  " "Is something wrong?" 
he asked.

"Non, what could be wrong?"  She walked past him back into the kitchen,
took her place in front of the chair and started to sand the base
around the tack holes.  looking up, she said, "You did not find the
chess set?"  Her voice was curiously flat, making it more a than a
question.

"I found cobwebs and dust and a lifetime of stored but no chess set."
He noticed the worn and discarded holstery fabric tossed to one side.

"My fabric remnants in the cedar chest in the dining room.  could
probably find something in there to recover seat."

She nodded and kept on sanding, scraping away the nish in large sweeps
of the gritty paper.

Burton leaned back in his chair and tried to cast objective glance
around the room.  Maybe he should the walls and replace the lino with
something more em.  On the other hand, whoever bought the place want to
choose their own color scheme and floorings It was the land that was
worth something, not house.  Not to anyone but him and his mother, And,
it seemed, curiously enough, to Veronique.

"We should talk some more about the interview Immigration," he said.

"You want some more facts about me?"

"No, this time I want to know how you think."

She glanced up, almost, but not quite, looking him the eye.

"Do you mean like, what do I think of the East situation, or do you
mean, if I had to come back as another animal, what would I choose?"

He smiled.

"I was thinking of something closer to home, such as ... oh, why is it
you don't like the rain?"

She laughed huskily.

"You have to ask?  Because it is cold and wet.  I get the cold and the
sneezing.  All the time."

"Viruses cause colds, not the weather.  Once you adapt to the different
bugs here, you'll get fewer colds."

She tossed away the worn piece of sandpaper and sent him a skeptical
sideways glance.

"I do not intend to adapt to your bugs.  Anyway, it's not just the
rain, it is the constant threat of rain."

"It must rain in Tahiti."

"Yes, but it's a warm rain," she said, taking up a new piece of
sandpaper.

"In Tahiti, everything you touch is warm.  The sand, the trees, the
buildings."

"It does sound nice.  Is there anything you like about Vancouver?"  '
"Oh, yes.  The mountains, the cherry trees that line the streets in
spring, so pink and fluffy and sweet-smelling.  And the air is very
fresh and energy-giving."  She started to scrape again.  One leg of the
chair was bared to the pale gold wood beneath.

"What would you like to come back as?"

"A seabird," she said without hesitation.

"One that could fly all the way to the South Pacific."

He had to ask.

"I'd come back as a horse."

"Why a horse?"

"Granddad used to keep a couple of Arabian horses.  He taught me to
ride, and whenever I came to visit I'd take off for hours of cantering
along the road or through the fields.  It was great."

Veronique turned the chair and started another leg.

"And you think the horse shares your enthusiasm for running all day?"
she said humorously.

"What you really want is to relive your boyhood."

He thought about that for a moment.

"I think," he said slowly, "that what I'd like is to take the best bits
of my boyhood and incorporate them into my adult life.  Do you think
that's possible?"

"I think they are already there, in your memory and in your
imagination.  It is what you choose to do with them that counts."

He saw where this was leading, right back to his plans for the farm.

Rising, he strode across the room.

"Maybe we should concentrate on our recent history.  We'll have to show
Immigration it's plausible for us to have fallen in love."

"How do we do that when we are not always at ease with each other?" 
she murmured.

"You're right, we have to deal with that.  we need to do something
physical together, to be comfortable touching without one of us jumping
out of our skin."  He thought for a moment.

"I've got it."  Striding back to where she was sitting, he took the
sandpaper from her hands and pulled her to her feet.

Alarm leaped to her eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"It's an exercise I learned in a management course."  He led her to the
middle of the living-room floor, then turned her so she was facing away
from him.

Beneath his hands, her shoulders trembled.  With the interview less
than a week away, it underscored just how far they had to go.

He stepped back a pace.

"When I count to three, I want i you to fall backward, arms at your
sides, as though you were falling into a swimming pool or onto a bed.
I'll catch you.  "But--" Her head swiveled around, eyes wide.

"Marriage is based on trust.  I'll catch you."

"Trust," she repeated, sounding agonized.

"I will try."

She clenched her fists, then unclenched them.  Started to fall, then
caught herself, tottering a little.

"Come on.  You can do it.  I'm right behind you."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she muttered.

"One, two, thr--" "Attention!"  she cried, and fell backward, straight
as a ramrod.

Burton caught her easily, his arms tightening around her waist. 
Through her silk sweater he could feel the warmth of her body, and the
soft fabric slid sensuously beneath his fingers.  Her head fell back on
his shoulder, sending the scent of her hair into his nostrils and
directly to his brain.  He'd barely managed to resist kissing her
earlier.  Now that she was in his arms... "Let me up!"  she cried.

Reluctantly he set her back on her feet.

"Are you okay?"  he asked, wishing he could remember an exercise for
establishing and maintaining eye contact.

"Yes," she said, her cheeks pink.

"Do you do this with Ernie?"

"Ernie doesn't have a problem trusting me.  He almost hero-worships
me."

"Sometimes you are too much making the joke with him," she scolded
gently.

"He 'is sensitive."

"He can take it."  Burton mined his back to her.

"Now, you catch me."

"Mon Dieu!  You are so tall.  But I will try."

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," he said, starting to have second
thoughts.

"You are a lot smaller than me."

She braced one foot in back of the other and held out her arms.

"You can squash me like the bug, but I will not let you down."

"Okay, here goes."  But he couldn't move.  Her imagery had set off a
vivid motion picture of real damage in his mind.

"Come on," she urged.

"Don't be a baby."

I'll hurt you."

"No, you won't.  I am very strong.  I lift the big pots, I beat the
sauce.  Un, deux, trois.."  allez!"

Without allowing himself to think about it another second, Burton put
out his arms and fell back.

She let out a soft grunt as the full impact of his height and weight
landed on her.  Gripping hard to support him, she staggered backward,
preventing him from regaining his balance.

"Let go---" "Oof!

They were both down.  Veronique lay motionless beneath his back.  He
rolled off immediately, but her eyes were wide and staring.  He
gathered her up in his arms, and then they were on their knees, facing
each other.  Her mouth opened, her hands clutched at his shirt, but
couldn't speak.

"Are you all right?"  he asked urgently.

"Breathe out slowly.  Now in.  Do it again.  Okay?"

She nodded.  He released his own breath, relieved.  He didn't know
which had taken the greater act of faith--for her to catch him or for
him to fall.  But amazingly, she was looking straight at him without
flinching.

More than that, for the second time tonight there was a light in her
and a tremulous smile on her lips.  He just had to believe she wanted
him to kiss her.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered.  And lowered his mouth to hers.

This was no chaste kiss meant for public He tasted her eagerly and she
responded.  For weeks he'd hungered for this, and now she was in his
arms.  Her were heaven and earth combined.

While his head spun starry infinity, his blood flowed hot and thick as
lava.  And when he gathered her closer still, feeling her slight press
against him, passion warred with tenderness, until passion threatened
to overwhelm.

She eased away a little, her breath both warm and cool on his moistened
lips.  He pressed her head onto his shoulder and stroked her hair. 
They were both trembling.  Shock.  Nerves.  Desire.  Suddenly he didn't
want to look into her eyes.  Afraid he might see that her feelings
didn't, after all, match his.

"Burton?"

"Yes?"  He loosened his hold and slowly met her gaze.

Her face was alive with wonder; her skin flushed and glowing.

"I caught you."

He smiled into his wife's eyes.  They were shy, but welcoming.  He
could hardly believe his good fortune.  Wanted to kiss her again.

"I knew you would."

She laughed, a rich, throaty sound.

"You did not."

"I wanted to believe."

"Maybe that's enough."

Drawn by the way her mouth moved, he leaned closer.

"I can do better if you want me to."

They hovered on the brink of another kiss.  He was willing; she seemed
to be debating.  Private kissing hadn't been part of the deal.  But
things had changed since he'd said that.  He'd changed.

"I think ... I think I'm falling in love with you."  His voice was
husky.

Her gaze turned wary and she pulled away a little more.  Within the
space of seconds, the mood changed abruptly.  Then it hit him.  Maybe
all the time she'd been kissing him she'd been thinking of Graham.  The
thought made him feel sick.

"I know you miss your husband "he began, his voice tight.  She
swallowed hard.

He was in agony but compelled to continue.

"I think it's fine and right that you loved him so much you can't be
with another man so soon.

But I can wait, because--" with a finger he lifted her face to his and
couldn't stop the

TEMPORARY WIFE

yearning note from entering his voice "--when I kiss you I want it to
be me you're making love to, not the memory of your dead husband."

Her eyes widened in horror, reminding him of the night they'd met.

"You have it wrong," she said in a choked voice.

"The reason I couldn't look at you is not because I miss him, His
memory fills me with rage.  I didn't love my husband, I hated him."

Burton couldn't breathe.  Couldn't comprehend.  Janus-like, his image
of Veronique turned on itself and showed the opposite face.  All this
time he'd thought she'd loved her husband and was grieving his loss.

Instead--what did this mean?  That when she looked at him she saw not
the painful memory of someone loved and lost, but.."  a man she
hated?

The thought was staggering, the situation appalling.  One look at her
stricken expression assured him she hadn't liberately misled him.

Still, he felt horribly tricked.  It was all an optical illusion.  He'd
been looking at the the vase when he should have been seeing the image
of opposing faces.

One thing hadn't changed---Gram still stood between them.

Love or hate, Burton thought fiercely, he would overcome her memory of
her late husband.  He would make her see him for himself, and love or
hate him on his merits.

Veronique couldn't look one more second at the bulent emotions blowing
across Button's face.  He obviously thought she was a monster, but she
couldn't explain.  She hardly knew what to make of her confused longing
for him; she only knew she couldn't allow herself to feel this way.  Or
for him to know and feel encouraged.

"I'm sorry," she cried, forgetting he had no knowledge of either her
feelings or her betrayal.  She got to her feet and ran.  And when she'd
put the length of the house and a locked door between them, she fell on
the bed and sobbed.  For herself, for Burton and for what might have
been.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ANOTHER MONDAY MORNING.  Rita turned at the knock the makeup room door,
half hoping, half afraid it be Ernie.  Lately nothing seemed right
between them.  it was Veronique, coming to have her hair and face in
preparation for the taping of the fifth and sixth se of Flavors.

"You have changed your hair!"  Veronique said, ing around Rita to see
the back.

"C'estfantastique.t" Rita blushed under Veronique's admiring gaze.
lian's grand niece Sandy, did it."  Rita pulled at one dyed reddish
lock uncertainly.

"Do you think Part of her hated asking her rival to bolster her but it
wasn't Veronique's fault Ernie was acting so Veronique always looked
good no matter what she and Rita would have given anything to know how
she it.

"But of course!  The color brings out those pretty lights in your
eyes."

Veronique plopped down in makeup chair and swiveled to the mirror.

"Don't you it?"

Rim got out the plastic cape and tied it around ique's neck.

"Er... My boyfriend thinks it's awful.  didn't actually say so, but I
could tell."

It hurt, when all she'd wanted was for him to notice her again.

"Poof!  What do men know?  He will get used to it."  Veronique flipped
her hair out from under the plastic lar.

"We must be quick, please.  When I checked

kitchen this morning, the food had not yet been delivered and I forgot
I need to prepare the pomegranates en avance.  Burton is already in a
terrible state."

"I can imagine," Rita said, rolling her eyes.

"Oops, sorry," she added, a hand to her mouth.

"I forgot you two are married now."

"It's all right.  You can talk to me the same as before."  Well, that
was hardly true, even though everyone at the station knew the real
reason Veronique and Burton had gotten married.  But Rita kept her
mouth shut and her expression bland as she smoothed on the Pan-Cake
makeup.  She'd gotten some practice at that when those government
people had come snooping around.  Like everyone else at Channel Seven,
she'd said nothing that could work against Burton and Veronique.

"Do you want the Fresh Melon lip gloss or the Succulent Succotash?"

"Oh la la.  You decide, Rita.  You have good color sense.  I am used to
putting food in my mouth, not smearing it on my lips."

Through the mirror, Veronique saw Ernie go by the open door.

"Oh, look, there's Ernie.  He will know what to do about the food.
Salut, Ernie!"

Rita ground her teeth at the warm familiarity in Veronique's voice.

Sometimes she wished she and Ernie had made their relationship
public.

She didn't seriously think Veronique was interested in Ernie, but she
could be awfully flirtatious.  Okay, she was French, but that didn't
make it any easier to bear.

Ernie poked his head around the door.

"Morning, Veronique," he said in that deep-voiced unconscious imitation
of Burton he only used around Veronique.  Then he squeaked back to
normal.

"Hi, Rita."

Rita felt a flood of misery and jealousy at rating second.

Veronique was oblivious, of course.

"Ernie," she said, "do you know if the food has arrived?"

"Yes.  It's all laid out in the kitchen."

"You are trs genial!"  She blew him a kiss in the mirror.

"Uh, I gotta go," he said, his cheeks reddening.

"One of the mikes is on the blink."  He waved and disappeared Out the
door.

Veronique waved back.

"He is sweet, non?"  she to Rita.

Earle didn't have a chance of resisting a woman like Veronique.  Rita
dug the comb in harder than she meant to.

"As sweet as Burton?"

"Ouch!"  Veronique cast her a surprised glance in the mirror.

Rita felt ashamed and angry at herself.

"Sorry," she muttered, on the verge of tears.

"So tell me about your boyfriend, Rita, the one who does not like your
new hair?"

Rita darted her a pained glance in the mirror.

"It's Er-hie."  Her tone said, Of course you know this.

"Ernie?"  Veronique looked astounded.

"Burton's Er, hie?"

"My Ernie," Rita asserted.

"We're engaged."

"Engaged?  How wonderful."

Her brilliant smile lit her face.  Then she sobered.

"You mustn't take any notice of the way I tease him, Rita.  As for your
question, Ernie is as sweet as apple tart, but for me, Burton is
breakfast, lunch and dinner."

A weight seemed to lift from Rim's heart.

"Really?"  Then her smile faded and she sighed.

"Ernie is really special, you know?  He's just not very ... assertive.
He's easily led."

Veronique patted her hand.

"Give him time.  He will gain confidence."

Rita untied the cape and removed it, careful not to get any dustings of
powder on Veronique's dress.

"It's not just that.  Lately he doesn't seem to appreciate me.  I ...
was wondering, actually, if you would give me some fashion tips.  You
always look so great."

"Moil" Veronique exclaimed, laughing.  She slipped down off the
chair.

"I am glad to help if I can.  Turn around.  Yes, with legs like yours
the skirt should be shorter.  Tuck in at the waist, like so.  You have
a wonderful figure, Rim.  All you need to do is show it off."

Rim stood in front of the mirror, feeling quite racy with her skirt
hiked up and her sweater cinched in, Could she do it?  Yes.  To keep
Ernie, she could do anything.

Veronique gazed at her, smiling, and her next words seemed to mirror
Rita's thoughts.

"Don't underestimate Emie's love for you.  I bet if he thought he was
losing you, he would do anything to get you back."

CHAOS.  HE WAS SURROUNDED by chaos.  Burton ran down the spiral
staircase, his headset looped around his neck, his feet barely touching
the steps.  He took a flying leap off the third to last stair and
landed running.  With a commanding flick of his hand, he summoned Vince
and Ernie.

"What's the holdup'?."  he demanded.

"Is that microphone working yet?"

Vince lifted his baseball cap to run a hand over his scalp.

"We pulled one off another set.  It's being hooked up?"

"Good.  Ernie, what's the status of our chef?.  Is she ready yet?"

He could see Veronique over in the kitchen, making last-minute
preparations.  She'd hardly spoken on the drive in this morning, and
not knowing where they stood was making him very tense.

Ernie pushed his glasses up his nose.

"It's kind of complicated .... " "Just give me the facts," Burton
snapped.

"She's ready, but the pomegranates she ordered aren't

ripe enough.  She can't start the appetizer till we get some more.  '
"Have you got someone onto that?"

"I sent Joe down to Granville Market as soon as I found out."

"Okay, fine."  Burton tried to think calmly.

"We'll have to begin with the main course."

Ernie shook his head.

"Problem is, boss, she pomegranate juice for the main course, too.
She's making some Pc?sian lamb thing."

"In that case, we'll start with dessert."

Ernie consulted his clipboard.

"Uh, that would be the pomegranate granita."

"What!"  It was all a bad dream, and any second would wake up.

"Granita is a kind of icy, sherbety thing--" "I know what granita is,"
Burton said, pinching bridge of his nose.

"What I don't understand is why we have three dishes all using
pomegranates!  Did I this?"

"Yes sir.  You liked the.  idea of a theme tying the together.  I think
your exact words were "That's the most sensational--'" Burton cut him
off by starting toward the kitchen at fast clip.

"In the future, Ernie, when I start tossing superlatives, give me a
swift kick and remind me of time I allowed an entire show to be based
on one ament al fruit."

"Yes sir."  Ernie hurried along beside him.

"We're doing week six this afternoon, right, Em?"

"Yes, but--" "So we'll switch the order and do it this morning,"

"I don't think she'll go for that," Ernie said.

"Part week six's menu builds on something she makes in five."

Burton stopped in his tracks.

"She's not constructing fourth lane for the Lion's Gate Bridge, for
crying out loud."  He took a deep breath.

"I'm almost afraid to ask... Week seven?"

"We don't have the ingredients.  I told you it was complicated."

Burton resumed his long-legged stride toward the kitchen.

"No, Ernie.

Calculus is complicated.  Einstein's theory of relativity is
complicated.  This is chaos.  Chaos, Ernie.  To be avoided at all
costs."

"Gee, sorry, Burt."

Burton had neither the time nor the inclination to take notice of
Emie's slip.  The crew dodged him and cameras rolled out of his way.

None of it was her fault, he reminded himself.  Not the pomegranates,
not the farm, not even the fact that he was falling in love with a
woman who hated the sight of him.

Veronique watched his long-legged approach, her stomach fluttering
nervously.  Oh la la.  All that energy and tension was not good for
him.

But it made her feel justified for hiding the chess set and delaying
the sale of the farm.  Then he was stepping around the counter, and the
tiny kitchen was filled with his overwhelming aura of urgency.

"I understand the pomegranates haven't arrived."

Her fingers formed a death grip around a wooden spoon.

"Ernie has ordered more."

"When you auditioned, you said "A good cook makes do."  Can't you
substitute something?  Raspberry juice?"

The suggestion brought on a near-hysterical burst of laughter.  She'd
stayed out of his way yesterday but still slept badly last night, and
this morning Burton had hardly spoken to her.  They couldn't go on
ignoring the kiss.  She was frazzled and tired and she had a horrible
feeling Rita had applied her makeup unevenly.

"Raspberry juice is no substitute for pomegranate juice, which is tart,
not sweet.  More pomegranates are coming.  We can wait a few minutes,
non?"

"No."  He rubbed the back of his neck.

"We don't even have time for this discussion.  Is there anything we can
do?"  She thought for a moment.

"We could start the Lamb Faisinjan, I suppose.  The pomegranate juice
isn't added until about halfway through."

"Now you're talking.  I'm going to stay on the floor while we retape
the opening sequence.  It wasn't bad the first time, bat now that
you're a little more practiced, I think we can make it even better.  Do
you still remember it?  Good."  He adjusted his headset and started to
back off the set.

"Veronique, can you look at me?"

Something in his voice, some hint of hurt quickly covered up, made her
look.  For an instant their eyes connected.  Mon Dieu.  He still
thought she was seeing her first husband.

She twisted a lock of hair at the back of her head around one finger.

"Yes, Burton, I can look at you.  But about the other night--" He
glanced at his watch.

"Can we talk about this later?"

"All I want to say is, I don't think we should talk about it.  I think
we should forget it happened."

"Forget we kissed?  I don't know if I can."  He stepped forward again
to tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, barely skimming the lobe
with his finger.

"What if I said, The appetizer made me ravenous and I'm ready for the
next course?"  "Then you better eat somewhere else," she said quietly,
her skin still tingling from his touch.

"In three months we divorce."  He wasted five whole seconds just
looking at her.

"We're not going to last even three months if we don't convince
Immigration our marriage is genuine.  Like it or not, we have to
pretend we're in love."

Two HOURS LATER, the gofer Ernie had sent to the market reported back
after making the rounds of Granville Island, New Westminster and
Lonsdale Quay Markets, plus dozens of produce outlets in between.  The
pomegranates he brought back would be ready tomorrow at the earliest,
Veronique declared, and not a minute before.

Burton had nothing else scheduled and was too frustrated by the delay
to sit at his desk doing paperwork, so he consigned the haft-finished
lamb to the fridge and took off with Veronique for the farm.

"Are you still angry?"  Veronique asked as they pulled off the freeway
and onto the exit ramp for Langley.  Burton hadn't said a word since
they left the station.

Startled out of his worries about mountains of sprouting potatoes,
Burton said, "Angry?  No.  It wasn't your fault.  It's a bad season for
pomegranates or something."

"I do not mean the pomegranates."  She cast him a sideways glance that
slid away even as he turned to look at her.

"Oh, that," he said with a wave calculated to look more casual than he
felt.

"Don't give it another thought."  He didn't see any percentage in
further exposing his feelings.  His misunderstanding about her husband
aside, they'd both made it clear from the beginning that the
arrangement was short-term.  Today she'd confirmed that; in spite of
their kiss, nothing had changed.  He was still determined to make her
see him for himself, but he wasn't so pathetic he had to beg for it.

And he wasn't going to mention the word love again.  Ever.

"You were so quiet," she persisted, "I couldn't help wonder..."

"I was planning the rest of the day."

And then there was more silence.  It was just after noon when he turned
the car into the driveway.  The sky was overcast but the air
temperature warm, and rain looked some way off.  After a quick lunch of
reheated soup, Burton went out to the back porch and stuck his feet
into

 E

Granddad's gum boots.  He came back through pulling on a pair of worn
leather gardening gloves.

"What are you doing?"  Veronique asked lazily.  was still seated at the
pine table sipping coffee, her tucked up under her on the chair.

"The pomegranates defeated me, but the I can't look at those empty
fields another day.

were still alive he'd have the whole crop planted by now."

"How you going to plant potatoes without the cry?"

"The old-fashioned way.  By hand."

"Are you crazy?"

"Probably."

She put her feet down and drained the last of her "Then I will help
you."

In the barn Burton loaded potatoes into a while Veronique shook the
straw out of some buckets found in a corner and filled those, too. 
With the bumping over the rough ground and buckets in walked out to the
plowed field that rose in a gentle behind the barn and the house.

Veronique scanned the long rows of turned dirt stretched ahead of them
to the horizon and for of yards to the right and left.

"How many acres did say?"

"Two hundred," Burton replied, "but only are plowed."  They turned and
headed for the row of l lars that marked the eastern boundary.

"Granddad likely have put the rest into corn, but I'm not going worry
about that now."

Only one hundred acres, Veronique thought.  For people to plant a field
that size by hand would take But she said nothing.  This exercise in
futility--and willingness to help---had nothing to do with growing
tatoes.  Burton needed to do this one last thing for grandfather.  To
make amends, to carry on, to

keep the old man alive through working his land.  And she had this
idiotic desire to spend time with Burton.  To be physically close to
him.  He was falling in love with her.  She couldn't get his words out
of her mind even though she prayed he wouldn't utter them again.  Head
down, once again avoiding his eyes, she stepped clumsily through the
soft hillocky dirt in Burton's grandmother's big rubber boots.

At first they tried planting side by side on parallel rows.  Burton
showed her how deep to plant, how far apart.  It was not so very
different from growing potatoes in her kitchen garden.  Bend, scoop out
a hole, drop the potato in, shovel over the dirt.  Bending and
straightening, inching along, it was backbreaking work.  After twenty
minutes she paused to stretch, pushing a hand into the small of her
already-aching back.

Burton looked up.

"Go back to the house.  You don't need to do this."

"Perhaps if we work together," she suggested.

"You dig the holes and I put in the potatoes."

"Let's try it."

They worked in short sections, Burton hoeing a trench while Veronique
followed, dropping in the potatoes at regular intervals.  Then she
shoveled the dirt back over them while Burton hoed another trench.  The
method was a little faster, a little smoother, and as they progressed,
they developed a rhythm.  Hoe, plant, shovel, hoe, plant, shovel... "Do
they not need fertilizer?"  Veronique asked, pausing to separate two
potatoes whose sprouts had tangled and grown together.

Burton leaned on his hoe.  He brushed a gloved hand across his
forehead, leaving a dirty streak in its wake.

"Granddad did things the old-fashioned way.  He grew peas in this field
last year' they add nitrogen to the soil."

"For someone who is not a farmer, you know a lot about it."

He seemed a little surprised himself.

"I guess I've spent so much time here over the years some of it rubbed
off."  He sunk his hoe into the dirt and, with a grunt, dragged it
along, furrowing through the dark, rich soil.

"Doesn't mean I like it."

Veronique turned away to hide a smile.

"No, not."

Eventually they had panted one entire row.  Standing at the top of the
slope, Veronique gazed at their accomplishment with silent pride.  A
warm hand gripped her and she glanced up into Burton's smile.

"Pretty good, eh?"  Burton said.

"It's very good."  She didn't point out the hundreds rows left to
plant.

Or the fact that tomorrow they'd have to leave it and go back to the
studio.  They both knew the magnitude of the job and the impossibility
of finishing.  Nor did she suggest he rent a picker-plant, or whatever
they called it.  Maybe later he would get the machine and finish the
job properly.  But she could see that for now he felt good to have
simply made a start.  And she felt good for having helped him.

"Tell me about yourself," Veronique said when they'd started back
hoeing and planting.

"What do you like to when you're not working?"

He told her he liked listening to blues, but not country and western;

when he read, it was science fiction; and he'd seen every Hitchcock
film half a dozen times.  His friends were scattered over the globe, a
legacy of years on the l road as a photojournalist.  He kept in touch,
but visits were sporadic, and although he didn't come right out and say
so, Veronique got the impression he would have liked have a circle of
friends closer to home--if he wasn't so busy with his work.

She was pondering the similar gaps in their lives when a gust of wind
caught her across the cheek, and a wet drop splashed onto her nose. 
She glanced up.

streaks of heavy rain were slanting across the base of the mountains,
and in the middle distance, a bank of black clouds was rolling in
across the valley.  A storm was heading their way.

"Burton," she called, but he'd already seen it.

"You head in," he said.

"I'll just finish this row."  They were about a third of the way
through the fourth row, heading toward the house.

Finishing the row together would take an hour; twice as long if he did
it by himself.

"Are you crazy?  You'll get soaked."  Drops were falling steadily
now.

He shrugged and dug a trench with his hoe.  Reaching past her for the
bucket of spuds, he placed it in the trough between the rows and picked
up the shovel.

"Go on," he said.

"Just because I can't leave a job half-done doesn't mean you should
suffer."

She wanted to leave, but she couldn't let him do this alone.  She was
married to a madman, but he was her husband-for better or worse, for
colder and wetter, in sickness and in health .... Wresting the shovel
from his hands, she began to mound the dirt around the seed potatoes
nestled in their earthy beds.  He frowned and started to say something.
She lifted her chin, silently defying him to try to make her go back.
His brief smile warmed her through despite the chilling drops falling
on her neck and hands.

The rain poured down.  The soil became wetter, heavier and more and
more slippery.  Rivulets snaked down the slope between the rows, and
Veronique discovered that her boots leaked.  It was hard to shovel,
hard to see, hard to stay upright.  Twice she slipped and fell into the
soft, wet dirt and had to struggle back up, aided by a strong hand from
Burton.  Rain soaked her thin jacket and her jeans, got in her eyes,
dripped from her hair.  Conversation ceased in their determination to
get the row planted.

She sneezed twice, jamming wet, mud-streaked fingers

against her nose so Burton wouldn't hear and tell her to go in.  She'd
built up a sweat that, added to the chill and wet, made her feel
feverish.

Finally, soaking wet, muddy from head to toe, aching, they reached the
end of the row.  This time when Burton told her to go inside while he
put everything away, she didn't argue.  Sneezing and shivering and
aching in her bones, she ran splashing across the yard to the house.

Merde, she thought, another cold.

TIlE NEXT DAY STARTED badly and got steadily worse.

Veronique awoke with a congested nose and a prickly feeling at the back
of her throat.  Burton loaded her up with cold remedies she didn't want
to' take and dropped her off at the nursing home with a terse "If it's
raining, call me.  I'll come and get you."

She paused at the half-open doorway to Marion's room.  Her spirits sank
further when she saw Mother-in-Law ii Number One in her wheelchair
staring morosely out the window, her hair uncombed, her face pale and
unmade up ii DepresSed again.

Suddenly Veronique felt unbearably burdened by the task of coaxing
Marion into a happy, functional future.

Why had she taken it on?  Why had she even thought she was capable of
it?  Every week seemed to be one step for- il ward and two steps back.
Getting Marion to join the il home's bridge club, her goal for today,
now appeared to II be monumentally out of reach.

"Bonjour, Marion," she sang out with determined cheerfulness as she
gave a knock and entered the room.

"How are you today?"  "Oh, hello, Veronica."  Marion turned, mustering
a fee l ble smile.  Her eyes were bright, as though she'd been crying

"I guess I'm fine.  Janice, my roommate at the rehab center, came to
visit me.  She's back in her apartment, fully recovered."  Marion went
back to staring out the window.

"She came to visit?  But I thought you did not get along."

"Oh, she's quite nice once you get to know her.  It's just that she was
in such a lot of pain at first."

"I'm glad.  It's not right that you sit here by yourself.  Hey, you
know what?  There is a bridge club here, too.  They meet this morning.
I am going to get your brush and your lipstick and a mirror, and we
will get you ready.  D' accord?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said listlessly.

"I won't enjoy it."

Veronique felt like screaming, she was so frustrated.  Maybe she was
wrong to jolly Marion along.  Maybe she should stop pushing and let the
woman take responsibility for her own happiness.  Then again, maybe if
she persisted just a little longer, Marion would make a breakthrough.

It was so hard to know what was right.

It wasn't until she'd brought the toiletry bag from the bathroom and
handed it to her that she noticed something in Marion's lap, half
hidden under her palm.

"What is that?"

Marion turned her hand over.  PhotOgraphs.  Graham as a boy.  Graham as
a teenager.  Graham and Veronique on their wedding day.  Graham and
Start, smiling widely, all decked out in their fishing gear.  Dressed
for death.

Marion sifted through the photos, selected those that didn't include
Start and handed the rest to Veronique.

"I'd like you to have these."

Veronique didn't know how to refuse, only that she had to.

"Merci, Marion.  But I cannot take them from you.  Please, you keep
them.  I have others."  More than she wanted.

"Not of him as a boy.  See, he doesn't look like your nice Mr. 
O'Rourke in this picture, does he?"

Veronique held the photo closer.  Perhaps not surprisingly, there was
little resemblance between the ten-year TEMPORARY WIFE

old and Burton, although it made her wonder what Burton had looked like
as a boy.  The longer she knew him the less he reminded her of her
first husband.  That was both a blessing and a danger, she was just
beginning to realize.

"No, he doesn't."

"Well, then, you keep it.  I know you said you married Burton to stay
in Canada, but I can't help think you chose him because he looks like
Graham.  I understand, I really do, though I worry about you.  I'm too
old to think about marrying again, but you shouldn't live in the
past."

Veronique pulled up a chair and sat down facing Marion, their knees
nearly touching.

"Your life is not over.  You must believe that.  Also, you must not
worry about me."

"You're grieving over Graham," Marion replied.

"It's natural, but is it fair to Mr.  O'Rourke?"

Mon Dieu.  She could not let Marion go on thinking this way.

"Marion, there is something I must tell you," she said gravely.

"It is not easy for me to say, and it will not be easy for you to
hear."

"What is it?"  Marion's face looked naked and vulnerable.

Veronique took a deep breath and clasped both of Marion's hands in
hers.

"I married Burton not because he looks like Graham, but in spite of
it."

Marion's brows knit together.

"I don't understand.  Didn't you like Graham's looks?"

"Yes, at first.  You see..."  She hesitated.  How little did Marion
need to know to understand?  How much could she say without Marion
hating her?

"At first, Graham and I were very much in love," she began again.

Marion smiled.

"But we didn't really know each other.  We married too quickly."

Marion nodded wisely.

"You did it again."

Veronique made a face in frustration.  Marion was still having trouble
with the concept of a temporary marriage.

"Forget about Burton for now.  The truth is..."  Suddenly she was fed
up with pussyfooting around.

"The truth is, when Graham and I got to know each other we discovered
that our love was not real and lasting."

Marion slipped her hand out and patted Veronique's.

"You don't know what you're saying, my dear.  You're rationalizing your
new marriage.

You and Graham would have gone on forever."

"Non" Veronique jumped to her feet.

"I am telling you, I did not love Graham.  He did not love me."

"Graham adored you."

"He didn't even like me.  He was horrible to me.  I was going to leave
him."

"No!"  Marion's denial was firm and swift; but traces of anxiety
creased her gentle face.

"He cheated on me."

"Not my son--" "And he hit me."

"Stop!"  Marion burst into tears and covered her face with her hands.

"Oh, please stop."

Veronique hugged her arms around herself.  She hadn't meant to say so
much.  Marion was sobbing, and tears streamed from her own eyes, as
well.

"I'm sorry, Marion," she said, kneeling to put her arms around the
other woman.

"I didn't want to hurt you."

"He really ... hit you?"  Marion's face was wet and pale, her voice
trembling.

"Once."  Discovering the other woman had made her pack her bags; the
blow he'd struck had made her impervious to all pleas, threats and
demands.  Thank goodness they'd had no children, Marion was shaking her
head, tears streaming.

"Not Graham.  Not my sweet little boy.  He'd never do anything like
that.  I can't believe it.  I won't believe it."

Marion wept as though she'd lost her son all over again.  She voiced
her disbelief over and over, until Veronique wondered who she was
trying to convince, herself or Veronique.

Veronique held her, wishing with all her heart she hadn't destroyed
Marion's image of her son.  Being understood wasn't worth taking away
Marion's happy memories when memories were all she had.

"I'm sorry, Marion," she said, stroking her hair back from her damp
face.

"I should not have told you this.  I'm sure Graham was a good man," she
lied.

"We just weren't right for each other."

Marion's sobs slowed.  She took the handkerchief Veronique held out and
dried her reddened eyes.

"Don't go trying to make it out to be nothing now that you've said
it."

The harshness of the reprimand chastened and surprised her.  With
Marion, she sometimes felt as though she were dealing with a child. 
Now the tables had turned.  Inflicting wounds had taken away
Veronique's authority; 'receiving them had given Marion dignity.  The
last, at least, was good, but it was so unfair.  Veronique had been
hurt, too.

"He was a good son," Veronique offered meekly.  Marion clutched the
photos of Graham to her breast, and fresh tears filled her eyes.

"Of course he was a good son.  There was never any question of that."

"Come," Veronique said.

"I will help you to the bathroom to wash your face.  Maybe the bridge
club will take your mind off this."

Marion's face set mulishly.

"Don't push me, Veronica.  When I'm ready to go to the bridge club, I
will, and not a moment sooner."

"Yes, Marion."

There was no answering squeeze when Veronique bent to hug her
goodbye.

Veronique felt a sneeze coming on and pressed a finger beneath her
nose.

"My handkerchief," she requested.  It was too wet to use, but too
important to lose.

When she stepped outside, rain was pouting onto the

city from the dark clouds banked against Grouse Mountain.  Half a
block away, a bus swooshed in close to the curb.  With no time to open
her umbrella, Veronique ran for it.  She was soaked, but she got
aboard.  Her change clinked down through the cash receptacle, and she
swung into a seat as the bus swayed back into traffic.

The vinyl seat was cold beneath her wet stockinged legs.  She hooked
the umbrella over the seat back in front.  Only then did she remember
Burton telling her to call him for a ride.  Oh, well, she thought
apathetically.  She would be there soon enough.

Misery and habit sent her thumb curving repetitively over the
monogrammed B in the corner of the handkerchief.  She'd hurt
Marion--maybe even set her recovery back.  And in the process, she'd
hurt herself.

If a lie had bound them together, the troth had set them adrift.  She
felt as though she were bobbing lonely on the open sea, with Marion
moving away in the distance like a sailboard that had been knocked out
from under her.  For, like a sailboard, Marion had been both drag and
lift--responsibility and support.  Veronique wished she could transfer
her guilt and Marion's pain into anger at the man who had created this
situation, but he'd become a speck on the horizon, too insignificant to
attach any emotion to at all.  She shut her eyes and tried to pretend
she was floating on the warm waters of her homeland.  She would give
anything to see her sister, to be back in the loving embrace of her
family, to let her weary soul make landfall on the warm sands of
Tahiti.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BURTON STOOD AT HIS DESK, rapidly dividing papers between his out-box,
his still-to-do box and the circular file on the floor.  He checked his
watch.  Veronique should have been back by now, but maybe she'd
probably gone directly to Makeup.  Taping of Flavors was due to start
in five minutes, and after yesterday's fiasco, the budget couldn't
afford another minute wasted.

Ernie poked his head in the door, puffing as though he'd been
running.

"Hi.  The crew's ready to go.  Where's Veronique?"

"What!  You mean she hasn't shown up yet?"  Burton threw down his
papers.

"She said she'd only be a few minutes at the nursing home.  I knew I
should have waited and driven her to the studio."

"Maybe she missed her bus," Ernie suggested.

"Maybe she isn't paying attention to the time," Burton countered,
scowling.  He was annoyed she was late, but he was even more worried
something could have happened to her.  When had that started?  He
checked outside the window.  Raining.

What a summer.  At least she had her umbrella.

"Let's get down to the stUdio.  I want everything double-checked,"
Burton said, coming around the desk, "By the way, everything okay
between you and Rita?"

Ernie, about to stride off, stopped so fast he wobbled on his
cross-trainers.

"Y-yes, why do you ask?"

"Rita came to me yesterday asking if it was really your

job to be running around after Veronique's pomegranates."

"Isn't it?"  His voice came out on a squeak.

"It is.  But Rita's a nice gift.  You don't want to lose her by making
a fool of yourself over an older woman."  Burton scowled again.

"A married woman."

"Gee, Burton, I thought you and Veronique weren't really ... I mean I
thought your marriage wasn't r-real " Ernie's glasses started to fog
up.

Burton stepped to the doorway and loomed over him.

"As long as she and I are together, the marriage is real.  Got that,
Ernie?"

Ernie's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

"I g-got it, boss.  Nothing's going on between me and Veronique."

"I know that.  Maybe you should let Rita know, too."

"Yes sir.  Right away, sir."  Ernie shot off down the corridor.

Burton followed, feeling worse, not better, for having slapped Ernie
down.  The kid didn't deserve it, and Burton knew his own obsessing
over Veronique was not good.  She wanted to forget the kiss he couldn't
get out of his mind.  With that kiss, he'd kissed goodbye any
objectivity he'd ever had about her as an employee.  With that kiss, he
sealed his fate--he was no longer the reluctant bridegroom, but a
frustrated lover.  He groaned.  Why had he gone and said he was falling
in love with her?  Ernie wasn't the only one in danger of making a fool
of himself.

Burton was pacing the set like a trapped wolverine, snarling and
snapping when Veronique arrived twenty minutes late.  She was dripping
wet and sneezing, her hair a bedraggled mess, and her clothes, which
ought to have been adequate for June, were drenched through.

He stood back and took deep breaths while Lillian brought her a cup of
hot tea with lemon.  He paced some more while Rita whipped the hair
dryer into action.  He ground his teeth while Ernie fussed over her and
handed her a tissue every time she sneezed.  Thin-lipped and silent,
i] he waited till the others had finished with her, then he shooed them
out of earshot.

"What happened?"  he said, his voice low and tense.

"You told me you'd only be a few minutes.  You're late.  I And you're
soaked.  Where's your umbrella?"  Veronique's hand went to her mouth.

"My umbrella!  I must have left it on the bus.  Oh, I am so sorry.  It
was your wedding gift to me."  A wedding gift for a non wedding Burton
tried to contain his irritation, to keep it separate from the job.  So
it hadn't been a romantic present or anything she'd wanted, just
something she'd badly needed.  So what?  Why should she take care of
it?

Just because it had been the nicest- looking, the highest-quality, the
absolutely best umbrella he could find.

"Forget it," he said, tight-lipped.

"We have more important things to worry about.  Like the fact we're now
half an hour behind schedule.  Do you know what overtime for an entire
crew does to a programming budget?"  She bit her lip and looked away.

"I am sorry."  Hell, now she was going to cry.

"Don't do that.  Your eyes are red enough as it is.  Did you have to go
and get a cold just when we're in the thick of taping?"  He remembered
too late that she'd caught the cold by helping him carry out his insane
notion of planting potatoes by hand.

He was about to apologize when she snapped back, iD "Yes, I got a
cold--just to annoy you.  What do you think?"  "I think you're not
taking this show seriously.  Yester-"I day was a mistake.  But today?
Running around in the rain, i getting soaked, leaving your umbrella on
the bus--" His il voice had become more strident with every word.  He
broke off and shoved a hand through his spiky hair.  He was losing it.
Really losing it.

"I had to see Marion.  You knew when you hired me , she was the only
reason I am here.  And now ... and i now..."

Her eyes filled with tears, but she set her shoulders defiantly.

"You are upset over a lost umbrella when she is struggling just to
cope.  I am struggling to cope .... " "I am not upset about the
umbrella.  It's just ... it's typical of your ambivalence--toward me,
toward the show, toward this whole damn country."  He flung an arm
wide.  And almost clipped Ernie on the nose.

"What is it, Ernie?"  he barked, turning on him.

"Don't yell at him!"

Veronique shouted.

"If I am so ambi--ambilva..."  Her hand flew upward in a sharp
gesture.

"Whatever it is you say--maybe you should find another chef."

"Maybe I should," he snarled.

Outrage flashed in her vivid green eyes.

"I will not hold you to our contract.  Call Monsieur Mumbling Mustache.
Better still, call Madame Emily Up-Herself.  She is the one you really
wanted, non?"

"No!"  At his protest, Veronique seemed to have no trouble looking--no,
glaring--him in the eye.

"Excuse me, B-B-Burt ... on," Ernie cut in again.

"We're ready to start."

"Not now, Ernie."  Burton took his eyes off Veronique for only a
second, but when he lOOked back, she was striding away, waving her
hands, turning the air blue with her French.

He charged after her and caught her by the arm.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"I'm quitting," she snapped.

"You don't care about me, or the farm, or anything but the show and
your career.  You think I need you, but I don't."

"Without me and my show, you'll be deported."

Veronique went pale.

"Then I will be deported.  I am going back to my apartment.  Au
revoir."

Burton threw his hands in the air.

"Fine, go.  I don't

need prima donnas around here.  I'll find another chef, no problem."

He watched her walk away, their angry words echoing in his ears while a
sick feeling formed in the hollow of his stomach.

Au revoir.  Finis.

ERNIE THREW A FURIOUS glare at Burton--how could he just let her
go?--then took off after her himself.  He caught up with her in the
corridor, a little way down from Makeup.  He glanced nervously at the
open door, wondered where Rita was right now, and decided it couldn't
be helped.  Flavors, everything, was at stake.

"Veronique!"  He reached out to touch her arm.

"Don't go."

"He sent me away.  I have no choice."  Her shoulders lifted in a
careless shrug, but her face was white.

"He didn't mean it.  He's like that, sort of abrupt.  He does it to me
all the time."

"Ah, but he doesn't appreciate you, Ernie."  Veronique touched him on
the cheek.

"He doesn't take you seriously."

Ernie couldn't help himself, he leaned into her palm.

"He does.  He just doesn't always show it."

Part of him wanted to trash Burton, instead of defend him, but he liked
his job, and Burton really was a pretty great guy, and Veronique
wouldn't ever go for him, anywaY, and it was Rita he wanted to marry,
and ... oh, hell, it was all so complicated.

"Goodbye, sweet Eruie."  She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed
him one, twice, thrice, on the cheeks.

"Bye."  Ernie watched her go in a kind of swoon, i "Ernie."

Oh, no.  He'd never heard quite that mixture of anger and anguish from
Rita.  Slowly he turned to face her.

THURSDAY AFTERNOON, tWO days since Veronique's defection.  Burton had a
lot on his mind--all of it bad.  The potatoes were still unplanted and
his admittedly sketchy efforts to locate a pick-planter and someone to
operate it had so far met With failure.  The two young brothers Don
Chetwynd kept pestering him about had seen the property and made an
offer.  Burton was sorely tempted to hand over the farm and be done
with it, but the chess set still hadn't turned up.

At work, things weren't much better.  He'd gotten a tentative agreement
from Emily Harper-Smythe to take over on Flavors.  All he had to do was
pick up the phone and confirm.  But if he went that route, it would
mean starting over practically from scratch.  He'd never complete Lost
Harvest.  At least not this year.

Plaguing his mind through it all was the image of Veronique alone and
sick.  He told himself he was being ridiculous; she was made of some
steely Gallic wonder stuff that was as robust as French roast.  But
he'd been too harsh.  Too caught up in his own problems.  She'd been
right about that.

And she was his wife.  He had an obligation to look after her.  After
all, who else did she have?  Veronique's only friend and relation
required full-time care herself.

A knock at the door brought his weary head up.

"Oh, hi, Ernie.  No, I don't know when we're going to start taping
again."

"It's not that.  Some of the gang are going to the pub for a drink.  I
just wondered if you wanted to come."

"Thanks, but no.  I've got to haul my sorry ass out of this pit I dug
for myself."  He leaned back in his chair and with a vague gesture
indicated the paperwork on Flavors.  He could take legal action against
Veronique, and she'd have to come back to work, but she'd hate him for
it, and what was the point of that?  Then there was their interview
with Immigration tomorrow, and he couldn't imagine what he was going to
say to Officers Jackson and Connery.  I they even went through with the
charade.  Maybe even now I she was packing her bags to return to
Tahiti.  The thought made him groan.  I

"Why don't you go see her?"  Ernie suggested, looking

I sympathetic.

"Ask her to come back?"

"I don't beg."

"Nobody's asking you to beg.  Just talk to her."  Burton hated having
anyone suggest what he'd already decided to do on his own.

"Is talk working with Rita?"  I

Ernie looked away.  She gave me back my engagement I ring."  1

Burton sighed.

"Sorry, Em.  I didn't mean to rub it in.  Go drown your sorrows.
I'll..."  He didn't want to say what he was planning to do incase he
failed.

"I'll figure out something.  See you tomorrow."

"Why don't you come?  Just for a while."

Burton looked at Ernie more closely.  His round face seemed gaunt and
haunted, Sort of the way he himself had felt these past few days.

"What the helL" he said, pushing back his chair.

"I

guess one won't hurt."

"Another ROtn'D, Emi-m?"  Burton raised his hand and caught the eye of
the waiter circling the crowd with his elbows ii drinks tray.  They sat
on high wooden stools, their resting on a narrow shelf overlooking the
sunken central floor of the bar.  Great view, if there'd been anyone
he wanted to see.

"My mm, Butt," Ernie said, digging his hand in his il pocket.

"Whoops, sorry, Bur-ton."  

Under the influence of two and a half beers, Burton waved a benevolent
hand.

"Just call me Burt.  It must some natural phenomenon too powerful to
fight."  one caught his eye in the far corner.

"Is that Rim?  looks different.  She looks great!"

Ernie glanced over to where Rita was laughing with the guys from
research.

"You mean this is the first time you've seen her today?"

"Yes.  What happened?"

Ernie frowned into his beer.

"Apparently the hairstyle wasn't enough.

Veronique gave her some fashion tips, and she's gone hog-wild buying
new clothes.  Rita's changed, Burt.  Says she doesn't need me."

Burton used the bottom of his beer glass to make soggy circles on his
paper coaster.

"Veronique said she didn't need me, either.  Love is a mug's game,
Ernie.  You have to be crazy to get involved, and insane not to be
grateful when it's over."

"So it's really over between you and Veronique?"

"Veronique is not only finished with the show, she's finished with our
marriage."  He pulled on his beer.

"It may have been a phony arrangement, but I can't get her out of my
skull.  Do you know what I do at night?  I watch tapes of the show.  I
pause the tape in the middle of one of her fabulous smiles and just
stare at her.  Or I replay over and over that cute way she has of
tossing her head from side to side."

"She's so great," Ernie mumbled morosely into his beer.

Burton put down his glass and turned to look at his companion in
misery.  He could almost forgive the guy for his crush on Veronique.

"Listen, I..."  Damn, this was hard to say.

"I realize you're missing Veronique, too."

Ernie glanced up at him.

"Oh, hey, no.  I've gotten over missing Veronique.  It was Rim I was
missing just then."  His head dropped again.

"It's Rita I'm always missing."

A sweet-looking girl with long, blond hair walked slowly past their
table cradling a half-pint mug to her pink angora sweater.  As she
glanced around for a place to sit, she cast them a shy smile and
continued on.

Sensing a diversion, Burton nudged Ernie in the ribs.

"Ernie, you devil.  That little fox had her eye on you."

Ernie's gaze strayed, wavered, then snapped back to the far corner.

"Forget it.  I love Rita."

"Listen, pal, if you want Rita, you've got to go out there and win her
back."

"Yeah, how?"

Burton scratched his jaw, thinking.

"You say she's changed?  Show her that you can change, too.  You have
been a tad neglectful lately, right?"

Ernie squirmed uncomfortably on his bar stool.

"Maybe a little."

"Okay then, listen up.  I'm going to let you in on the Secret."

"The Secret?"

"Yes.  Not many men know about it, but the ones who do have no trouble
at all in the love department."

Emie's face scrunched in confusion.

"But you say you know it... ?"

"Yeah, well, maybe I've been a little slow in applying it," Burton
said, testily.

"You want to hear this or not?"

"Go on," Ernie said, looking attentive.

"Okay.  The Secret is really very simple.  You've got to give your
woman, not a little, but a lot of tender loving care.  Show her she
means something to you.  Show her she's the one in a million made just
for you."

Ernie's shoulders slumped.

"Rita would walk all over me."  Burton jabbed a finger at him.

"Now that's just what you can't let her do.  You've got to go in
strong, like you deserve to be with her.

Self-confidence is a major turn-on with women.  Not arrogance, they
don't like that.  Just know your own worth."

Ernie lifted his head and eyed him skeptically.

"That's it?  That's the Secret?"

"Its beauty lies in its simplicity.  Treat her like a million bucks.

Then act like she's lucky to have you.  Which she is, goddamn it."

Ernie took a sip of beer, looking thoughtful as he licked away a trace
of foam mustache.

"You might have something there."

"Now, here's the most important part," Burton said, and leaned in
closer.

"The secret to the Secret is not to use it as a pickup scam to get
women into bed.  You've got to live it, for that one special woman in
your life."

"Live it," Ernie repeated.

"That's right.  Actions speak louder than words."

"You really think it'll work?"

"I know it'll work," Burton said, crossing his fingers under the
table.

Ernie straightened his spine to Sit taller.

"I could request her favorite song."

"That's the idea."

"I could buy her a rose from that flower gift who's making the rounds "
"Yeah, go on."  Burton was busy thinking about what he could do to win
Veronique back.

"Then I'll go over there and ask her to dance as if we'd never met."

Ernie's cheeks grew flushed with excitement.

"I could join her table-No, wait.  I'll ask her to come to me."

"Now you're talking."  Burton clapped a hand on his shoulder.

Ernie stiffened.  He drew back and looked Burton straight in the eye.

"You know, Burton, I really hate it when you do that."

Three things flashed through Button's mind simultaneously.  One, Ernie
had called him Burton for the first time without being prompted.  Two,
his assistant was displaying uncharacteristic, but not unwelcome,
assertiveness.  Three, it was far too easy to slap a short man on the
back.

"Sure, pal," he said, a little dazed by all the revelations.  He held
out his hand.

"I gotta go.  See you Monday."

Ernie blinked, smiled and shook hands, man-to-man.

On the way over to Veronique's, Burton stopped off his apartment to
change his shirt and pick up a package from the freezer.  Then, because
it wasn't raining and he wanted time to think, he set off on foot over
the Burrard Street bridge.  At a brisk pace it would take him no than
forty minutes to reach her apartment on the other side of English
Bay.

Fluttering red-and-black banners announcing the annual Salmon Festival
lined both sides of the bridge.  High in the night sky, stars peeked
out between towering clouds of luminous gray-white.  On the far shore
of Burrard Inlet, the Planetarium squatted like a UFO about to take
off.

At the crest of the bridge, Burton leaned on the rail and gazed beyond
the bay into the blackness of Georgia Strait.  What the hell was he
going to say to Veronique?  Stay month and finish the series?  Stay a
year and give our relationship a real shot?  Stay a lifetime because I
already know I want you forever?

He sucked in a lungful of the moist night air on.  What had happened to
old "love 'em and leave 'em" O'Rourke?  when had his emotions gotten
involved and made it all so tangled and complicated?

Twenty minutes later he leaned his forehead against Veronique's door
and imagined he could feel the warmth her home right through the
wood.

He could hear the indistinct murmur of her voice, made lower and her
cold, speaking to someone in French.  A visitor?

of possessiveness made him feel like a real husband.

He knocked.

A moment later she stood before him, wearing a cashmere shawl over her
pink T-shirt and colorful "Come in," she said, her gaze wary, Entering
the relaxing warmth and humidity of her ment, Burton had to force
himself to remember that again he was a man on a mission.  Bring
Veronique to the studio.  To the farmhouse.  He knew better than

 Jo KB 239

think she'd come to his bed, but he couldn't help thinking about that,
too.  In fact, he thought about it almost all the time.

He laid the back of his hand on her forehead.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"I am much better.  This cold was a mild one.  You have been out
drinking?"

"I had a couple of beers at the pub with Ernie."

"How is Ernie?"

"The worm has turned."

She raised her eyebrows, said "Ahh" and smiled mysteriously, as though
she knew all about it.  Damn.  Just when he thought he had women
figured out.

She turned and walked back to the living area.

"Have you eaten?"

"I brought you some soup.  My mother made it, but it's good."  He
handed her the paper bag with total confidence in Catherine's chicken
soup--both for its restorative powers and its acceptability.  There
were no shortcuts here, no canned cream soup or crushed potato chips.

She pulled the frozen Tupperware container out of the bag.

"I'll heat it up."

He followed her into the kitchen, pausing to take off his jacket and
drape it over the back of the sofa.

The microwave hummed.  Veronique stretched to reach into a top cupboard
for bowls.  Turned to say something and broke off in surprised laughter
at the sight of his colorful Hawaiian shirt.

"Oh la la!"  she exclaimed.

"You want a pareau?"

"I don't think I'm quite ready for that, but thanks, anyway."  If he
could still make her smile, hope was not lost.  He came a little
closer.

"I'm sorry about the other day."

Her shoulders went up in a full body shrug.

"You had some right to be angry.  But it does not change anything.  We
make a big mistake--" Burton touched her arm and felt the warmth, the
softness of her skin.

"Let's not talk about it just yet.  Re.  doesn't sit well on an empty
stomach."  He sat on one of the mismatched kitchen chairs, and that
reminded him of Granddad's rocker.  Would she come back and finish
what' she'd started to refinish?

"I had an offer on the farm."

She went still, her hand in the cutlery drawer.

"Oh?"

"Those brothers from Chilliwack.  Chetwynd called again, so I let them
have a look."

She pulled out a couple of spoons.

"What did say?"

"I told him I needed more time."  Her face went suddenly pale under the
fluorescent light.

"Maybe you shouldn't be doing this.  Sit down.  I'll get it."

"I'm fine, really."  She set the spoons on the table and went back for
water glasses.

Burton shook his head and got up to guide her to a chair.

"Sit.  How is Marion?"

"Not so good.  I told her the truth about Graham.  About why I was
going to leave him."

Burton felt an irrational tug of sympathy for the luckless Graham.

"Why exactly did you hate him so much?"

Veronique's shawl slipped over one shoulder as sheli reached up to tug
on a curl, and her mouth pursed in remembered pain.

"You don't want to know."

"Yes, I do," Burton said, taking her hand in his.  "[ want to know all
about you.  What makes you laugh.  And what makes you cry.  And then,
if I can, I want to stop tears."

At that, moisture welled in her eyes and a smile sprea across her
face.

Laughing, she brushed the tears away "There, now you have both.  You
make me feel so..."

Burton brought her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against her
knuckles.

"What?  How do I make feel?"

She glanced shyly up at him.

"Opposite to what I felt for Graham."

Warmth rose like a flame in Burton, sending heat pulsing between
them.

Then he said, "Exactly why did you hate Graham?"  and it was as though
he'd dashed cold water over her.

Veronique's smile faded.  Frown lines appeared between her brows and
she pulled her hand away to tuck it in her lap.

"A few months after Graham and I were married I discovered he went back
to an old girlfriend."

"The man must have been insane."

Veronique threw Burton a grateful smile.

"I told Graham he must give her up.  He just laughed and said the
French have an easy attitude to that.  It may be true for some, but not
or me.  I said I would leave him.

He couldn't stand that--not to have control over me.  He said my family
wouldn't want me back after I ran away from them.  I didn't care what
he said anymore.  I went to pack my bags ... he followed me into the
bedroom..."  Her eyes became bright with tears, and she blinked
angrily.

"And then.."  and then..."

"What?"  Burton was full of foreboding.

"He told me to put my things back in the closet, and when I wouldn't--"
she took a deep breath "--he hit me."  Burton felt the impact of her
statement like a hard right to his gut.

Adrenaline poured through his veins.  He clenched his hands into fists
and got to his feet, wanting to smash a dead man into pulp.  Instead,
he pulled Veronique, his beautiful, precious Veronique, into a
protective embrace.

"Oh, God, Veronique.  That bastard."

He held her tightly, and gradually her arms slipped around his waist
and she was holding him tightly, too.  She was very still.  Then he
felt her breathe a deep sigh, and when she drew back there was moisture
in her eyes--and a greater closeness between them.

"Were you badly hurt?"  He hated even talking it, but he needed to
know.

"No.  A bruise here," she said, touching her left bone.

"It healed faster than my heart or my pride."  looked down.

"I've never told anybody all of it.  It hard to tell you."

"I know."

"He tried to make me feel like I deserved it--"

"No!"  He pulled her close again.

"Maybe I was weak to allow it to happen and--" He put his fingers
against her lips.

"The man was Neanderthal.  Evolution should have weeded him out
birth."

She giggled.

"Don't tell Marion that."  Then her faded and her chin came up.

"I am not a victim."

He pulled her into another hug.

"I wouldn't think in a million years."

She laid her head on his chest and sighed again.

you for understanding."  Her arms tightened around "You are a good
man.

I ... I like you very much."

Then she eased away.  Burton watched her move the kitchen to get a jug
of water from the fridge.  No der she'd hated Graham.  But wasn't love
the opposite hate?

"It must have been hard for Marion to hear that her son."

"I should never have told her," Veronique said.  refused to believe me,
and so she pushed me away, closest friend.  But I think deep down she
must She never say a word against her husband, but once I into their
house--the door was open and they me knock--and I saw Start holding her
arm so tight had tears in her eyes.  I was shocked.  I didn't know to
do.  I tiptoed out and knocked loudly before coming again."

"Did you ever ask her about it?"

"Yes, hut she made some excuse to cover up for Stan.  Now she covers
up for her son.  She doesn't want to admit the truth because if she
does, it will destroy one of her few comforts, her fond memories of
Graham."

Burton took the jug from her and set it on the table.

"She's deluding herself.  The troth will make her stronger."

"I thought it would break the barrier between us, but it seems to have
created a bigger one.  And I have lost a good friend.  I should go see
her again, but I dread it."

The microwave beeped.  She took the container out and stirred it. 
While she ladled soup into two bowls, Burton thought about Veronique
and himself, and how this Graham character had more than one barrier to
answer for.

"I don't want to talk about Graham anymore," she said.

"Did you get another chef?."  A tiny crease formed between her eyes.

"Nothing has been finalized," he said cautiously.

"Do you--' She placed a bowl of fragrant, steaming soup before him.

"Eat first.

Then we talk turnip."

He laughed.

"Turkey.  We talk turkey."

"Whatever."  She tasted a spoonful of soup.

"This is good.  Was it still raining when you came?"

"No, it stopped.  You know, Veronique, I hate to think you're getting
such a bad impression of Vancouver.  This is an unusually wet year."

She laughed.

"Everyone I meet tell me the same thing.  Then I ask Torn--" "The
station's weatherman?"

"Yes.  He show me graphs of rainfall.  This year is not so very
different from last year.  Or the year before.  Which reminds me."  She
jumped up, went into the other room and returned brandishing her
umbrella.

"Look," she said, pushing it open.

"It was in the Lost and Found at the bus station."

She did care, Burton thought as a smile started in heart and worked
its way to his lips.  The Lost and was in the main bus terminal over on
Cambie, miles and at least two bus changes away.  A trip she have made
in the pouring rain and sick with a cold.  ought to scold her for going
out in the weather, but he said warmly, "I'm glad you got it back.  Now
furl thing or you'll bring us bad luck."

"Can it get any worse?"  she said with a grin.

"What else has happened while I am away?"

He pushed his empty bowl to one side.

"Well--" "Wait."  She rose and took his hand.

"Come and where it's more comfortable."

Burton leaned against the cushions in one corner sofa.  Veronique put
on some quiet piano music, tucked her legs beneath her pareau and
rested against other arm, facing him.

He told her all the gossip at the station, Sylvia had new boyfriend,
Murphy had turned into a rabid and Lillian's granduiece, Sandy, was
coming in at time to do female staff members' hair in the They chatted
and laughed, and Burton silently admired gleam of lamplight in
Veronique's hair and on the of her collarbone, and wished he could
trace his ton down that smooth path to dip into the shadowed hollow...
"Come back, Veronique," he said, leaning forward clasp her hands and
pull her closer.  Breathing in he pressed his mouth to her inner wrist,
to the hollow her elbow.  This time she didn't pull away.

Her eyes closed.

"To the studio ... or the farm?"

"Both."  He felt her quickened pulse beneath his "I need you."

Her eyes, still half closed, lifted to meet his.

"You, producer, or--" her voice dropped to a purr"--you, man?"

"Again, both.  But the man takes precedence."

He bent his head, and she lifted her mouth to meet his.  Sensation
focused, then diffused, till he was enveloped by warmth.  Desire grew
and expanded, like a living thing.

"Who do you... ?"  His voice cracked.

She knew what he meant.

"I see you, Burton.  Only you."

They moved closer on the sofa.  The scent of tiard was gradually
replaced by the musky aroma of two bodies entwined, the quiet strains
of Debussy overcome by breathless sighs and gentle moans.  Her pareau
parted just where he knew it would, a tantalizing revelation of slim
brown thighs.  His hand slid up that satiny skin to the source of her
warmth, and wonder of heavenly wonders, encountered soft, moist curls,
instead of panties.  Here at least, there were no barriers.

His fingers found her breasts beneath her shirt, and they, too, were
bare.  And full and firm and... He drew back, breathing deep.

"Is this what you want, too?"

Wordlessly she nodded.  With one hand, she pressed his fingers against
her hardened nipple; with the other she palmed his aching groin.  She
pressed and half rose to her knees, swaying toward him.  Her pounds
reau fell further open.  Then, her open mouth hot and wet on his, she
slowly slid his zipper down.

VERONIQUE AWOKE AS DAWN filtered through the chinks in the curtains.
The previous night came back to her in a rash of aching limbs and
remembered pleasure.  She turned over to gaze across her pillow at
Burton.  His dark copper hair clashed with her hot pink comforter, and
stuck up in spikes and cowlicks, but this was the most peaceful she'd
ever seen him.  Having him in her bed flooded her with warmth and made
her smile.  Such a sweet, silly grin he wore.  Must be a nice dream.

Mon Dieu, but he was adorable.  He might do everything else in a speedy
fashion, but when it came to making love he took his time--and was
very thorough.  Thinking about it made her wriggle closer.  She
contemplated waking him up, but the poor man needed his rest.

Close up, he looked nothing like Graham.  He had a different
body--strong, but sleek rather than thickset What a pity that hatred of
Graham had kept her from really seeing Burton for so long.  Now, when
they had just a short time left, she wanted to look her fill.

She thought of the chess set suddenly.  She should him.  She must tell
him.  But she hated the thought of anything disturbing this newfound
closeness between them, even though their relationship would only last
until the cooking series was over.  Then she would go back He would
keep the farm or he would sell it.  Either way, he would finish his
documentary and move on to something else.  They would sign divorce
papers sent through the mall.  Someday he would meet someone else, fall
in love and start a family .... No, she couldn't bear to envisage such
a future Burton.  All she wanted to see was the present, with her in
it.  The immediate present, to be exact.  His nose twitched, and he
scratched it in his sleep.  There was that grin again.  It made her
want to touch his lips.  Perhaps she allow herself just a little stroke
across his full lower lip .... Burton's eyes opened.  Their direct
blueness stopped breath.

"Bonjour," she whispered.

"Bonjour," Burton replied, and laughed.

"My terrible."

"No, that was pretty good.  Now say, Toes une formidable, Veronique."

She couldn't resist teasing him.

"You axe a formidable woman, Veronique," he in English.  He shifted
closer and nuzzled behind her while his fingers slid up her rib cage to
cup her breast.

"I thought you wanted to learn French," she him.

"Let' sstart with the language of lovemaking," he murmured, his warm
breath bathing her ear.

Suddenly she was afraid of how badly she wanted him, and how soon she
would lose him.  She rolled onto her back and stared up at the
ceiling.

"Our marriage is only temporary.  I don't want either of us to get
hurt."

"We won't, as long as we keep doing these wonderful things to each
other."  he stroked a hand up the inside of her thigh to illustrate.

"You're not taking this seriously," she said, even as her eyes closed
and warm tendrils of desire curled through her.

"Last night was fantastique, but--" He kissed her nose.

"No 'buts."" She grasped his hand to still it and opened her eyes so he
could see she was serious.

"Before you arrived last night, I had a call from Ghislaine."

"What did she have to say?"  he asked, paying more attention to the
movement of her lips than her words.

"Do you remember I told you about the floating restaurant in Papeete?

Jean-Pam has offered me the position of head chef."

His smile faded.

"Are you going to take it?"

"Such opportunities do not come often in Tahiti.  I always said I would
leave at the end of the summer."  She bit her lip, glancing away.  The
pain was already starting.

"So you did."  His voice sounded strained.

"What about Flavors?"

"I will finish the series," she whispered, on the verge of tears.

"I

cannot promise more."

He ran the back of his finger down her cheek, his eyes sad.

"In that case, we'd better make the most of the time we've got."

With a sigh, she shifted closer to rest her head on his chest.  She
breathed in his scent and smoothed her palm across the ridges of muscle
and bone beneath his skin.

Already she missed what she was losing.

"Let's just each other."

He slid an arm around her back and rolled to face her.

"I'd like that."

Their bodies touched all down the front.  Some places touched more than
others.

"Can't help it," he murmured as he grew hard against her.

Neither could she help the meting heat softening her womb, spreading
through all her secret places.  With a moan, she wriggled closer,
pressing her breasts and hips against him.

"One of us has got to have some willpower," he complained even as he
spread his hands over her hips to pull her in more snugly.

"Our appointment with Immigration is in an hour."

"You're the man.  You're supposed to be strong."  She stroked a hand
down his buttock to the back of his thigh.

"Not when it comes to you."  His kisses began with her lips and drifted
downward, fingering in the hollow of her hip before searing a path to
the moist cleft between legs.

"How do you say in French "I want to make love you' ?"

She whispered the words and more besides, the soft, musical syllables
of her passion while his lips tongue spoke directly to her heated
flesh.

"Don't stop," he murmured when his intimate had reduced her to
speechless desire.

"Don't stop," she begged in turn, and urged him on with a throaty
description of the way he was making feel, and the pleasure she would
give in return.  For moment, at least, there was no more talk of the
future their diverging paths.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

WENDY COnnERY SLapped the pair of glasses that dangled from a black
plastic chain around her neck onto her rather pointed nose.  With
silent deliberation, she read through the contents of the manila folder
she'd brought with her to this small bare box of an interview room.
Veronique sat opposite her in one of the two hard plastic chairs and
studied her bent head from across the table, noting where the thick
streak of white hair fanned out and blended by degrees with the dark.

Somewhere down the corridor, in another room such as this, Burton was
undergoing a similar ordeal at the hands of James Jackson.  Her heart
and mind called out to him, recalling the encouraging lift of his mouth
and warm wink before he was led away.  Just before they'd left her
apartment Burton had taken the photos of her and Graham from his pocket
and laid them facedown on the mantelpiece, saying, "I don't want to
ever pretend to be him."

Wendy Connery cleared her throat and raised two sharp gray eyes to peer
at Veronique over the top of her reading glasses.

"You married Burton William O'Rourke on June 4. Is that correct?"

"Oui.  That is correct."  Veronique tugged on a curl of hair.

"Where and when did you and Mr.  O'Rourke first meet?"  Mrs.  Connery
went on in her spare, clipped voice.

Veronique and Burton had decided in the end to stick to the truth and
not to worry if they didn't know every detail about each other.  Their
lovemaking seemed to legitimacy to their relationship---regardless of
how long it was destined to last.

"May 3, Veronique replied.

"Burton was dining in restaurant where I worked and asked to compliment
the chef.  That was me."  It was, strictly speaking, the truth, not
quite the whole truth.

Connery checked her file again.

"You remarried six months after losing your first husband and only four
weeks after meeting Mr.  O'Rourke."

Short black lashes narrowed over slashes of eyes.

"Would you say you are impulsive by nature, Ms.  Dutot?"

"It's Mrs.  O'Rourke."  Wendy Connery was nice woman, just doing her
job, but Veronique didn't care for her attitude.

"I knew my first husband only two weeks before I agreed to marry him."
She smiled.

"When it comes to love, it would seem that, yes, I am impulsive."

"Or very determined to stay in Canada."

Veronique shivered.

"Non, absolutely not.  I Wanted to go back to my home in Tahiti, but.."
love happens."

Wendy Connery had undoubtedly had a lot of practice perfecting that
skeptical noise she made in the back of her throat.

"Do you and Mr, O'Rourke reside at the same ad' dreSS.

"Yes.  Burton's grandfather died just over a month and left him a farm
in Langley.  We've moved until it can be sold."

"Yet I understand you've kept your apartment on wall Avenue."  Her
severe, dark eyebrows slanted suspicion.

Veronique shrugged.

"I have many tropical would not take well to a move.  I wait until
Burton sell farm and we decide which of our apartments to live before I
give up mine."

"I see."  Connery made a note on the form.

"Do share a bedroom?"

Since last night.

"Yes."

"And the marriage has been consummated?"  The question was clipped and
impersonal, as though she was inquiring into Veronique's choice of
laundry detergent.

Veronique felt her cheeks grow warm, not with embarrassment, but
remembered desire.

"Oui."

Something in her voice must have penetrated Mrs.  Connery bureaucratic
consciousness.  She glanced up and took stock of Veronique.

"Are you in love with him?"

Asked point-blank, Veronique was astonished to find she could lie with
ease.  In fact, she liked Burton so much it didn't even feel like
lying.

"Yes," she replied warmly, "I love him very much."

"And is your marriage based on this love?"

Down the hall, Burton was presumably undergoing a similar
interrogation.

"Not entirely."

"Oh?"  Wendy Connery's features sharpened.

"I also respect and admire him.  He is a good friend, not just to me,
but to the people he works with.  He is funny and kind.  He has his
faults--like being too much in a hurry sometimes, and he is also a
little stubborn.  But I would trust him with anything.  He is an
honorable man and an honest one."

"I see."  The Immigration officer's face softened thoughtfully.

"And Mr.

O'Rourke shares these feelings?"

"Yes, he does," Veronique replied without hesitation.  Burton might
pretend the marriage was only one of expediency, and there might have
been a time when it was true.  But she knew another side of him now. 
No man could be such a tender and passionate lover and be
indifferent.

Besides, he'd said... She pushed the thought away, annoyed with herself
for yearning after what she couldn't have.  He'd had plenty of
opportunity to say he loved her again last night, or even this morning,
yet he hadn't.

Wendy Connery scribbled something at the bottom of the page.

"Thank you, Mrs.  O'Rourke.  That's all for now.  We'll be in touch if
we need further information."

Burton was waiting for her outside.  He opened his arms and she
practically leaped into them.  He kissed her on the mouth, on her
cheeks and on the tip of her nose till she was laughing and giddy.

"How did it go?"  he demanded

Gleefully, she danced him around in a circle.

"I think we're going to make it."

"I do, too.  It was easier than I thought.  They didn't even me what
color of lipstick you wear."

as'I don't wear lipstick, silly, except on the show."  She stopped
laughing and stood still.

"I guess we'd better go to the studio.  We've missed two days of
taping."  He shook his head.

"You're sick."

"I am not.  I feel fantastic."

"Your voice is still husky.  You should rest it over the weekend.  I'll
call Ernie from the farm and get him to organize the crew to resume
taping on Monday.  Come on," he said, tucking her hand in the crook of
his arm.

"Let's go home."

HOME.  IT WAS NATURAL for Burton to call it that, but We!i ronique
hadn't expected the strong sense of homecoming] she felt as they bumped
up the long gravel driveway to] the farmhouse.  She wanted to run to
the orchard and si1 if the blush was on the plums, to stroll by the
henhouse'll and see if the chicks had hatched.  To dig in the rich
earth of the garden, to feel the soft grass between her bare toes?  iI
TO come out on the porch at dawn and see Mount Bak ii drift like a
mystical white sail on a rose sunrise.  week and already she'd ceased
to view it as grandfather's home.  It was Burton's home ... and hers.

Ridiculous, she tried to tell herself.  Her home thousands of miles
away, and the sooner she got there better.  Once she'd honored her
commitments and tied

the loose threads of her life in Canada, she would be on the plane to
Tahiti.  For now, she followed Burton up the steps to the porch.

He opened the squeaky screen door and put the key in the lock.

"First thing I'm going to do is put some oil on that hinge."

"No, it isn't," she said, tugging on his wrist to pull him back
outside.

"First thing you're going to do is..."

His arms swept around her.

"Make love in the long grass?"

The murmured suggestion made her heart beat faster.  The threads that
bound her to him were not so loose as she might have liked.

"No, silly.

Go for a walk and show me around the farm."

"You've already seen most of it."  His eyes narrowed as though he
suspected a plot.

She smiled innocently back at him.  Of course it is a plot, you big,
foolish, beautiful man.  A plot to remind him how much he loved this
place.  So that when he got his chess set back he would take down the
For Sale sign from the fence by the road, and keep the farm--for
himself, for his children and his children's children.

"I want to see it all.  Every acre, every tree, every special spot you
knew as a child.  I want to see it through your eyes."

Burton gazed at her and realized suddenly that he wanted her to see his
farm.  Relating to James Jackson the story of how she'd worked by his
side in the mud and the rain had made him understand for the first time
how marriage could be a partnership.  But that hadn't expressed
everything he felt, so he'd tried to put into words the sunshine she'd
brought into his life, the warmth and companionship, the excitement and
anticipation of each new day together.  He'd been surprised by his
eagerness to talk about her, just saying her name gave him pleasure.

He wanted to know all about her, not just for Immigration, Wll but for
himself.  And he wanted to share with her the things that were special
to him.

"Why not?"  he said with a smile.

"Hang on--I'll get my camera."  Burton was in his grandfather's room,
slinging the camera strap around his neck, when he heard the sound of a
diesel engine coming up the driveway.  He walked quickly back down the
hall and pushed through the screen door.  Veronique was on her knees in
the flower bed, inspecting her marigold seedlings.  She got to her feet
as he came down the steps, and together they watched a big green
tractor come over the rise.  In the driver's seat was a burly man in
his fifties, wearing a jeans jacket and a red Mack hat.  Behind the
tractor, he was towing another piece of farm machinery.

"Hank!"  Burton called, recognizing his neighbor.  Hank Vandermere
brought the tractor to a halt outside the barn.  Switching off the
ignition, he climbed down and came forward to clasp Burton's hand in an
iron grip.

"Sorry to hear about your granddad.  He was a real fine man.

We'll miss him around here."

Burton nodded.

"Thanks.  I miss him, too.  So how've you been?  How's Mary?  This is
Veronique.  Veronique, Hank Vandermere."

"Bonjour," Veronique said.

"I met your daughter-in-law, Jill."

"She mentioned that," Hank replied with a friendly grin as he shook her
hand.

"Said she was glad to see another young woman close by.  Kinda misses
her city friends.  Mary's fine," he added, getting around to Burton's
question.

"She said to say hello and ask if there's anything she could do to
help."  i!

"Tell her thanks, we appreciate the help with the chickens, but
everything else is pretty much under control.  Everything except the
potato crop, that is.  You don't know )

where I could beg, borrow or steal a pick-planter, do you?"  He
glanced hopefully at the one Hank was towing.

Hank scratched his head under his cap.

"Well, now, I feel real bad for keeping your granddad's machine this
long.  Been meaning to get over here for some time, but this damn
rain's slowed everything down.  I did come by once or twice just to say
hello, but you weren't around."

Burton's head jerked in surprise.

"Wait a minute.  Did you say "Granddad's machine' ?"

"Yeah, didn't he tell you he rented it to me?  Sure was a help.  Rick
and I were able to get the job done a lot faster .... Say, are you all
right, son?"

Burton was walking openmouthed toward the machine attached to Hank's
tractor.

"This is Granddad's pick-planter?"

"Yep.  My south-facing slope is drier'n his field here, so I rented it
off him to use first.  Didn't figure on keeping it this long.  Hope I
haven't held you up."

Burton dragged a hand through his hair.  He glanced at Veronique and
they burst out laughing.

Hank rubbed his weathered jaw.

"Is there some joke I'm missing?"

"It's a long story," Burton replied, still chuckling.  I'll tell you
sometime, but I've got to Warn you, it's not really funny.  Rented, you
said."

"Yeah.  I paid him up front.  Said he needed the money for
something."

Insurance premiums, Burton thought as another piece of the mystery fell
into place.

Hank went around to the back of the trailer and started to unhitch the
pick-planter.

"We're all done over there.  You want some help getting your spuds in
the ground?"

"You bet I would," Burton said.

"Just let me know what it's worth to you."  Together they pushed the
pick-planter toward the barn while Veruonique ran ahead to open the big
double doors.

 l

As they came back out into the sunlight, Burton "Say, Hank, you've been
farming a long time .... " smd, Hank rubbed a hand over a neck reddened
and roughened by years of exposure to all kinds of weather.

"All my life.  Just like my father before me.  In a few years, Rick' Il
take over."

Burton grinned.

"How'd you like to be on TV?"

Hank let out a snort of disbelieving laughter, but when Burton
explained about his documentary, he readily agreed to participate if it
would mean raising the profile of farming in the valley.

"That's great," Burton said, shaking his hand to seal the deal.

"Thanks again."

Hank climbed back on the tractor and turned the key in the ignition.

"No problem," he said over the noise of the engine.

"Rick'n I'll be over first thing Monday to start on your fields."

Burton and Veronique waved him out of sight, then, hand in hand, they
walked along the fence line bordering the potato field.  Veronique
gazed over the endless rows of plowed land and gave a half laugh, haft
shudder.

"I can't believe we thought we could plant the whole thing by hand."

"I knew better," Burton said.

"I was just ... possessed, or something.

I'm sorry I dragged you into it.  It was a stupid idea--" "No, don't
say that.  It was important at the time.  "another" She paused.

"You know, Burton, you are looking for a farmer to replace your
granddad in the documentary, and ii I guess that's a good idea, but--"
she squinted up at "--it makes sense to interview yourself, no?  You
are of the new generation that is moving off the land for reason or
another."

The sting of truth made him mm from her gentle questioning gaze.  How
could he presume to lecture others?  What would Granddad think of him
right now?

"You're right.  I keep telling myself I'm helping work toward a
solution when really I'm part of the problem."

She squeezed his hand.

"Nothing's black and white, and I do not judge you.  I just think you
would regret letting the farm go."

"I already regret it," he said quietly, and walked on.  In silence they
continued their climb to the top of the ridge, their footsteps falling
in the uneven ruts left by the tractor.

"At least this year's crop is taken care of," Burton said.

"Now if only I could find out where Granddad hid the chess set.  I've
searched practically everywhere.  Where is it?"

It was a rhetorical question, and he'd been speaking half to himself,
but Veronique made no response at all, quite unlike her.  He tugged on
her hand, needing to feel her presence.

"Hey, you with me?"

She gave him a weak smile and changed the subject.

"If Hank and his son plant the potatoes, will they also harvest?"

Burton shrugged.

"I guess so, if I ask them to.  Or maybe I'll sell the crop in the
field to those guys from Chilliwack along with the farm.

When I was a boy, Granddad always said, A man with land is a rich
man."

He chuckled.

"I thought he meant rich as in money and imagined granaries heaped with
coins, like Scrooge McDuck's money vault."  His laughter faded.  What
Granddad had left him was more valuable than mere money.  Did he have
the courage and the vision to take it on?

Walking the land on this balmy summer day brought back memories of
childhood, of days when he'd been intimately aware of his natural
surroundings the heavy drone of bees among the clover, the slither of a
garter snake in the thick grass beside the ditch, the earthy scent of
sun-warmed dirt in the plowed field, and the sight of sun-haloed
dandelion seeds drifting on the light breeze.  Burton walked his land
with a slow pace, breathing deeply, taking in every nuance of light and
color, every sight smell.

Veronique's delighted reaction to his special put a gloss on the day.

He showed her the creek that dwindled to a trickle August, and the
banks of clay that could be molded by small hands.  The stand of
quick-growing alder that hadn't existed when he was a boy, and the
giant maple that had split in two when the tail end of Hurricane Frieda
lashed Vancouver the year he was born.  They stopped at the fallen
trunk for a rest, and Veronique sat cross-legged on the log, braiding a
daisy chain.  He told her stories of making forts among the fallen
branches, of hurling chestnuts and brandishing fern swords at imaginary
invaders.  Later, as a teenager, he'd sat up here out of sight of the
farmhouse coughed over his first, and last, cigarette.

Now, as a man, he raised his camera and looked through the lens at the
woman who for some unfathomable seemed to belong to this place almost
as much as he.

Engrossed in weaving starry white flowers into a Veronique wasn't aware
he'd taken her photo until the shutter clicked.  Then she glanced up,
startled, and the second shot he got was of a comical face with a
tongue sticking out.  He clicked again, and she became demure, hiding
behind a strand of curling hair that glinted like gold in sun.  He
moved to a different angle and she posed outrageously, one elbow
crooked behind her head like an fashioned movie star, with a smirk that
said she wasn't taking any of this seriously.

Then her arms dropped, and she looked straight into camera, her mobile
face composed in an expression winsome and grave, and so light it might
change with breeze.  Yet laughter lurked in eyes the color of the at
her feet.  And--dare he believe it was tenderness that made him feel
ten feet tall, ready to slay the advancing hordes with his fern swords
and horse nuts.

He slowly lowered the camera, still gazing at her.  His mental VCR
fast-forwarded, and with a catch of his heart, he saw their child,
tousled blond head and grubby, tanned limbs, playing at her feet.  For
an instant, time compressed and light expanded; the past, present and
future composed a picture of love so tangible he wanted to reach out
and touch it.  Family.  His family.  His future.

"Burton?  Are you okay?"

He lowered the camera to the ground.

"Yeah, I'm fine.  Just fine."

Still in a dream, he walked over to the log.  He took the completed
circle of daisies and placed it on her head.  Then he pulled her down
to the grass to lie by his side, and memorized the shape and color of
her face the way he'd memorized the topography of the land that had
been passed to him for safekeeping.  He loved them both.  Unbelievably,
he was going to let them go.

"Make love to me," she murmured, touching his cheek with the tip of one
finger.

Slowly, tenderly, with smiles and whispers, they joined together there
in the grass, warmed by the summer sun, buoyed by the solid, patient
land.  It was a marriage of body and soul, more real than any piece of
paper, more binding than any legal document.  He touched her with the
exquisite care he'd use if she were made of fine china.  When she came,
he came, too, trembling and in awe.

"Heaven on earth," he murmured, gazing into her eyes.  Afterward Burton
slept, his head resting on her breast, while she lightly stroked his
temple.  The soft, throaty sound of a French lullaby mingled in his
consciousness with the whisper of the wind in the trees and the distant
thrum of a tractor turning over sun-warmed earth.  When he awoke to
long shadows and the imprint of grass stems on his skin, he was rested
soul-deep.

"I had the most fantastic dream," he told her excitedly as they walked
back to the house.

"I was a young teenager again, living here at the farm.  One night a
spaceship landed il in the potato field.  Don't laugh, I'm serious.  It
was like amovie, and even in my dream, I remember thinking, this would
make a great teen drama series " COCOONED IN THEm farmhouse, tending to
garden and ll chickens, Burton and Veronique spent an idyllic weekend,
I choosing by mutual consent not to speak of the future.  By Monday
morning, Veronique had an abundance of ripe pomegranates, and taping of
week five proceeded without a hitch.  The rest of the week passe ding a
blissful haze, as the series progressed through to week eleven.
Veronique knew she ought to go see Marion, but the pain of their last
meeting was still too raw, and she kept putting it off.  She was hurt,
too, that Marion had made no attempt to call her.  Finally, around
midweek, she rang the nursing home only to be told Marion was napping.
Marion never returned her call.  I She tried not to mind, to
concentrate, instead, on life at the studio and at the farm.  In the
long golden evenings 1 after work, Burton would film Hank and Rick
planting'll potatoes, afterward capturing their thoughts and fears and
I dreams for the future of farming on video and audiotape.  Murphy hadn
t officially given him the okay, but he was i doing it, anyway, getting
in the footage while the sun I shone and the tractors were running.
Whenever he had al spare minute, he searched the house and even the
barn for I the chess set.  I During those times, Veronique always found
something else important to do.  Every day that passed without her il
returning the chess set made the act harder and harder to fi initiate.
Their happiness was So short-lived, and's fragile' ii She knew the
moment she gave it back would mark the beginning of the end.  So she
puttered around the farm, house, fix g up a holder for her many spice
jars, finishing i Granddad's chair.."  and thinking about her own hopes
and fears for the future.  Nights were sweet.  Burton never again said
he was falling in love with her, but his gentle touch and passionate
response conveyed the message that he was already there.  She cherished
the time with him, knowing it would be all too short.

As the days passed and they approached the end of their third week of
married life, Veronique knew if anyone was living in a dream world, it
was her.  The series was almost over.  Marion didn't seem to need her
anymore.  She and Burton couldn't ignore the realities of their lives
for much longer.  Soon it would be time for her to go home.

That Sunday night, she prepared one of Button's favorite dinners.  All
through the rainy summer afternoon he'd been plotting a pilot episode
for his sci-fi series.  Now he rocked back in Granddad's chair, sipping
cold beer and munching prawn crackers while she ground aromatic spices
together with fresh garlic and chili in a mortar and pestle.

"Your idea sounds good," she said when she had a chance to get a word
in.

"You have the perfect place to film, right here."

His smile faded.

"The farm won't belong to me by the time this series is produced."

He hadn't mentioned selling for so long she'd begun to think he'd given
up the idea.

"Even now you want to sell?  After this wonderful time we've spent
here?"  She tossed the spice paste into a heated wok and stirred
rapidly, speaking above the hiss of oil and pungent steam.

"How can you sell your past, Burton?  How can you sell your children's
future?"

His beer glass came down hard on the table.

"How can I make the farm a viable part of my present?  Tell me that."

She tossed fresh prawns into the wok, flicking him a disappointed
glance.  The prawns turned pink as she stirred them into the spice
mixture, and she dumped in cold, cooked basmati rice and a generous
slurp of ketjap--Indonesian soy sauce.

"I don't understand you," she exclaimed, giving the mixture a vigorous
stir.

"You said you wouldn't sell until you found the chess set."

His shoulders hunched over the table.

"I didn't know it would take so long.  Maybe the set isn't even here.
I've decided to give myself till the end of July to find it.  That way
I'll have a month or two to put the farm on the market before the
autumn rains come."

Veronique lifted fragrant, steaming spoonfuls of Indonesian fried rice
into wide, shallow bowls and topped them with fried eggs and chopped
cilantro.  Burton pulled in his legs as she placed the bowls on the
table and sat down cater corner from him.

"It's like I always say, you are in too much of a hurry."  She picked
up a fork and poked at her rice.

"I thought about you living here and I thought, just thought, that if I
stayed in Canada, this is the sort of place I could live--with land,
and animals, and real neighbors.  A place with.."  community."

Burton sat up straighter.

"Do you mean... ?"

Her sharp glance was curiously painful.

"I said, if I stayed."

He stabbed a forkful of rice and vegetables and poked it into his
mouth.  When the autumn rains came, Veronique would be gone.  The
thought hung in the air between them like low-lying cloud.  He would
move back to his lonely apartment and concentrate on his career.  His
mother would go back to matchmaking.  Veronique would prepare delicious
meals for strangers.

Burton toyed with the idea of himself in Tahiti, lazing in the tropical
sun by day, making love to Veronique by.; night.  It sounded like the
perfect vacation.  But that was all it could be.  She wouldn't stay
here, and for him to gO!  live on a tiny island in the middle of
nowhere would be professional suicide.

He took another bite of the rice, but the taste had gone out of it. 
If he told her again he loved her, would she stay?  Or would she run
that much faster?

"Tomorrow we tape the last two segments."  He spoke impersonally, as he
would to a mere colleague, not the woman he'd made love to dozens of
times.

"You'll need to stick around for another week until editing is complete
in case something has to be redone.  After that you'll be ... free to
go.  Have you made plans yet?"

"It will depend on Marion."  Veronique, too, sounded stiff.

"I will see her tomorrow, make a decision."

For a mo menthe thought of playing on her sympathy, trying to convince
her that Marion shouldn't be left, but it wouldn't be fair and would
only delay the inevitable.

"You've done all you could.  Far more than you had any obligation to
do."

She stared at her untouched plate, making no pretense at eating.

"I

have done wrong things.  I have tried to play God, thinking I know best
for people.  Instead, I have messed everything up."

"You did what you thought best at the time.  That's all anyone can
do.

But I agree you should talk to her again.  Don't let her drive you
away.

That will only make her feel worse in the long run."

"I am so ashamed."  Without warning she burst into tears.

"You didn't do anything wrong," Burton said, at a loss to understand
the outburst.

"Marion will be all right."

"You don't know."  She snatched up the gingham napkin from beside her
plate and wiped her eyes, struggling to regain control.

Pushing his plate away, he held out a hand, thinking to comfort her the
best way he knew how.

"Come to bed?"

She let him pull her to her feet, then let go his hand without meeting
his eyes.

"Tomorrow is the last day, and we must be up early for work.

I'll stay in the other bedroom tonight."

 il "Stay with me," he urged softly.

"I'll let you sleep."

II "You know it's not a good idea."  Her wet-lashed II glance conveyed
love and desire, sorrow and regret, all at the same time.

His heart thudded dully, heavy as stone in his chest.  Was it over so
suddenly?  The sense of loss was achingly powerful

"This time together has been ... wonderful and--" II He stopped.  Words
were so damned inadequate.

"Shh, Burton."  Her fingers, light and cool, touched his lips.

"You are wonderful.  It is I who... Tomorrow I will go to my apartment.
It is time I made arrangements for my plants.  Thank you, and.."
forgive me."

She turned and dis~ appeared down the darkened hallway.

Forgive her?  he thought, gazing after her.  For what?  For making him
love her?  For leaving him?  For showing him he would be nothing
without the farm, and her, to fill his life with meaning?  The
honeymoon was over.  She was easing herself out of his life, and there
was not a damn thing he could do about it.

Early the next morning, before Burton was awake, Veronique took the
chess set out of the bottom of her cupboard where she'd hidden it and
put it on the kitchen table.  Then she called Ernie, who answered the
phone sleepily and thought at first he was still dreaming when he
realized who it was.  She asked him for a ride to work, as soon as he
could possibly get there.

Veronique hoisted her suitcase and walked down the long, gravel
driveway, away from the farmhouse and everything that mattered.  The
fresh summer morning breathtakingly beautiful, but she barely noticed
the pink blush of dawn or the riotous chorus of birdsong from the
broadleaf maples lining the road.

She could delude herself no longer.  For Burton, his inner visions on
film was top priority.  If he wouldn't compromise his career for the
sake of the farm, there was no way he would give it up to come to
Tahiti with her.

Nor would she ask him to.  He was not her husband, not really.  His
home was not her home, after all.  Hollow and dejected, she sat down on
her bag to wait.

Before too long, she saw Ernie's rusty beige Volkswagen put-putting
down the narrow country road, watching for the driveway.  He had been
courting Rim all week, but as far as Veronique knew, Rita, although
encouraging, had yet to commit herself.  Veronique suspected she was
enjoying the attention and didn't blame her a bit.

Veronique stood up and stepped onto the road to wave at him.  He slowed
to a stop and got out, leaving the engine popping and spitting in the
still morning air, to help her with her bag.

"Salut, Ernie," she said, kissing him on both cheeks.

"I am sorry to get you up so early.  You look tired."

"I don't mind, honestly."  He yawned and tried to cover it.

"You should," she said severely, then smiled.

He opened the door for her, then went around to the driver's seat.

"Are you okay, Veronique?"

She knew her eyes were red, but she just shrugged and made a production
of rolling the window up and down to clear it of condensation.

"I am okay."

Ernie put the car into gear, checked the rearview mirror and putted
back onto the road.

"Did you and Burton have a fight?"

"No.  Yes.  I don't know.  We haven't had the fight yet, but it's
coming."

She glanced at him.

"How are you and Rita doing?"

"Good."  In spite of the circles under his eyes, he looked very
happy.

"We were up till two last night, hashing things out."

"And... ?"

A smile split his round face.

"She took my ring back.  We've set a date for next April.  Rita wants
to be married in spring."

 "Oh, Ernie, I am so happy for you!"

He heaved a sigh.

"Oh, boy, me, too.  You wouldn't believe what a rough couple of weeks
it's been."  I "True love is not easy, Ernie."

"You're telling me."  He stared straight ahead.

You know there was a time when--" ?

"Non."  She cut him off firmly.

"Some things it is better I not to say.  Part of growing older is
learning the difference between the puppy-dog love and the real
thing."

He sighed.

"Maybe you're right.  Anyway, I've gotI Burton to thank for setting me
on the right path."  Hel glanced over at her.

"Do you think you two will, youl know, stay together?"

1 She sighed.

"Who knows, Ernie.  Who knows."

BURTON OPENED HIS bedroom door and a note fluttered tol

I the hardwood floor.  He picked it up.  on

"Dear Burton, I've gone in early with Ernie "Burt almost crumpled the
paper then and there, but there was?  il more.

"You are right, I cannot wait any longer to talk to Marion, but I will
be on time today, I promise!  Look oniI the kitchen table.  Sorry,
sorry, sorry.  Love, Veronique.  Sorry for what?

he wondered, but he appreciated that she'd made him breakfast.  He was
probably being incredlibly chauvinistic to want a woman who was a
fabulousi cook, but as long as he didn't say it aloud, maybe he'd get
away with it.  Humming, he strolled down the hall to the kitchen.

"SHE CAN'T BE C, ONE," Veronique insisted.

"She go anywhere by herself."

The nurse on duty at the home just shook her repeated what she'd
already said three times.

"She out with Mrs.  Webster after an early breakfast."

Janice Webster.  Marion had said that her old roommate came by to
visit, but if she, Veronique, couldn't entice

Marion out on an outing, how could anyone else?  There had to be
something wrong.  She glanced at the clock on the wall behind the
reception desk.  Taping of Flavors would start in just thirty minutes,
and first there was makeup "When are they coming back?"

"She didn't say.  Our residents are free to come and go---in fact, we
encourage independence.  They need to learn to cope on their own before
they leave here.  Why don't you check back, say, at lunchtime?"

"I'll do that."  Veronique started toward the front door, then
stopped.

"But could you ask her to call me at Channel Seven if she comes in
before then?"

"I wouldn't worry so much, Mrs.  O'Rourke.  A sixty one-year-old woman
on crutches can't get far."

"She could fall again and hurt herself."

The nurse's face was patient.

"There comes a time when you've got to let go.  Let her stand on her
own two feet."

Veronique blinked.  Wasn't that just what she'd been trying to do all
this time?  She was glad Marion had taken her first steps toward
self-sufficiency.

She hurried down to the station and through the revolving door.

Lillian's latest hairdo was a soft, white-blond version of the latest
fashion.  It made her look ten years younger.

"Oh la la.t" Veronique exclaimed.

"Your niece is a genius.  Perhaps I get her to do my hair before I go
ba--" She broke off, unwilling to destroy the fiction of her marriage
and her life in Canada quite yet.

Lillian's eyebrows rose slightly, but she merely opened her drawer and
handed Veronique one of her grand niece business cards.

"Burton is in his office.  He'd like to see you before the taping."

Veronique walked slowly down the corridor.  She was not looking forward
to this encounter.  When he found out

,.,u o how long she'd had the chess set he was going to be very
angry.

She knocked lightly at his door and poked her head around the corner.

"Come in."

His voice sounded distracted, but when he saw her, he leaped up and
came around his desk to spin her around in his arms.

"You wonderful, wonderful woman," he said, interspersing his words with
kisses.

"Where on earth did you find Granddad's chess set?"

Veronique couldn't reply, partly because he was still kissing her and
partly because she was trying to think of a reasonable excuse for not
telling him about the chess set sooner.  But after a bit she needed to
take a breath, and so ;1 did he.  He drew back, still holding her
hands, and gazed I at her expectantly.

"It was in your grandfather's chair.  When I took out the bottom to
change the fabric on the seat cover, there it was."

"In the chair!  I would never have thought of looking there."

"It was a good hiding place."  She waited for him to realize the
significance of the timing of her discovery.

Too excited for that, Burton snapped his fingers and paced across his
office.

"So I was fight.  He must have been afraid Mother would sell it to
raise money for his insurance premiums, so he hid it in the bottom of
the chair."

"Your mother wouldn't have taken it, would she?  without telling
him."

"No, of course not.  But aside from Mother and me, farm and the chess
set were the only things that to him.  He wouldn't have taken chances
on losing I guess we'll never know exactly what went through his mind.
But it doesn't matter now that we've got it back."  He strode quickly
back to where she stood, kissed her hard

again, then pushed her toward the door.

"Quick now, you've got to get down to Makeup."  "But--" "Go on.  We'll
talk some more after the show."

Oh la la.  His pleasure and excitement would make her betrayal seem so
much worse when he finally realized the truth.

As she entered the makeup room, she put aside her worries.

"Congratulations, Rita, on your're engagement You've made Ernie a very
happy man."

"I'm just so excited," Rim said, bubbling over with happiness and a new
self-assurance.

"Ernie's changed.  I'd just about given up on him until that night he
went to the pub with Burton.  Ever since then he's been so romantic.
Thoughtful and considerate, too, and ... oh, I don't know, strong,
without being domineering."

"That's wonderful, Rita.  I'm thrilled for you."

"You've got to come to the wedding," Rita said, getting out the
Pan-Cake makeup.

"I told Ernie I wanted to be a spring bride.  It's my favorite season,
but also it gives us a little more time.  I mean, I'm sure about him,
but I don't think it hurts to be absolutely sure."

"I think you're very wise, Rita."  Veronique played with the hem of the
plastic cape and decided this wasn't the time to mention she wouldn't
be around in the spring.  If she thought about leaving Burton, she'd
burst into tears, and Rita would have to do her face all over again.

Rita babbled on about her and Ernie's plans, fortunately not noticing
that Veronique hardly said a word.  When she finally stepped down from
the chair, Veronique gave Rim a hug.

"You will make a beautiful bride."

"Thanks, Veronique.  It might not have happened if not for you and
Burton.  Apparently Burton told Ernie the "Secret," or something
mysterious like that.  He wouldn't tell me what it was.  Do you know
what he's talking about?"

Veronique shook her head, mystified.

"Never heard of it."

Rim shrugged.

"Must be a guy thing.  See you later."  When Veronique opened the door
to the studio, the crew was already hyped at wrapping up the series.
The buzz of conversation was louder than usual, and the atmosphere was
charged with excitement.  Burton had his headset slung around his neck,
and his long legs carded him from group to group with purpose and
energy.  He was scanning his clipboard and was laughing at something
Vince said when Veronique stepped inside, but with his uncanny
instinct, he turned to her at that exact moment.

Button's smile died on his face, and his eyes turned cold.  She knew
then he'd figured it out.  The light seemed to go out of the room.  Her
heart seemed to shrivel, like an apple left out to dry.  Deliberately
Burton turned his back on her and began issuing directions to the
Crew.

People began to move into place.

Mon Dieu.  She hadn't realized till now how much she'd come to depend
on his good nature and caring.  How much she'd taken his affection for
her for granted.  How much she ... loved him.  The shattering
realization flooded her with the bittersweet agony that came from
knowing she herself had destroyed her chance at happiness.

She loved Burton.  And now he hated her.

Ernie waved her over to the set.  Chin up, smiling chaffing on her way
to the kitchen, she didn't dare glance at Burton again.  These past two
weeks, all the joy laughter they'd shared, the tender moments, the
confidences in the dark of night, the plans hatched dawn--all that was
over.  Finis..

Burton stood to one side as Bill moved around here checking the
settings On his light meter.  The sound man' handed her the tiny
microphone to clip to the front of her blouse.

Then Burton came up to her, his impersonal gaze sweep ding over her
for stray hairs or a shiny nose.

"You started working on that chair almost three weeks ago," he said in
an undertone, his voice colder than winter rain.

"I remember because that was the day Don Chetwynd called to say he had
a potential buyer.  Why didn't you tell me you'd found the chess set?
You knew how much it meant to me.  All this time you knew where it
was."

She wanted to reach out and touch him, to feel his warmth, to stroke
his cowlick back from his forehead.  All she could do was listen to a
litany of her sins and try not to cry.  She'd been so naive, thinking
he would forgive her anything.

"And that night I came to your apartment--" he continued, still in that
cold, horrible voice.

The night they'd first made love.

"I told you I had a definite offer.  Yet still you didn't tell me. 
Why, Veronique?  I could have sold the farm if it hadn't been for
you."

Enough.  She slammed a pot onto the stove, grateful for the anger that
superseded pain.  It was anger directed at herself, but that didn't
matter.

"That's exactly why I didn't tell you.  Okay, I was wrong.  I'm sorry.
But I couldn't let you sell your farm when it means so much to you."
And to her, she thought, but she couldn't say it.  She had no right.

"How dare you make that decision for me?"  As well as anger in his
voice, there was now hurt.

"You knew I didn't want to sell.  You knew why I thought I had to.  Why
did you keep that chess set from me?  Why?"

She put her hand on his where it rested on the granite countertop,
conscious of the crew standing by, conscious of the urgency and
inappropriateness of this time and place for the end of a love
affair.

Conscious of her desperation.

"Because I love you."

Pain flashed through his eyes and tightened the muscles along his
jaw.

"Lousy timing, Veronique."

 This isn't a TV show!"  she cried, furious with herself and with him.
And petrified because with every word she spoke, his expression just
got harder and colder.

Deliberately he removed his hand from beneath hers.

"If you loved me, you would have given me the chess set."

"I should have.  I see that now.  Please, Burton..."  Too choked up to
continue speaking, she gazed at him, silently pleading for the light of
love to come back to his eyes.  Her heart beat hard and fast in a chest
tight with pain.  She longed for a wink or a smile, something to let
her know she still had a place in his heart.  Nothing.

"Can we talk about it later?"  she begged.

"There's nothing left to say."  He gave a sharp nod to Vince, and the
floor manager motioned the camera operators back into place.  Without a
backward glance, Burton strode across to the spiral staircase and went
up to the control booth.

Taping went smoothly, considering.  Gradually Veronique relaxed enough
to smile and joke with the audience while she cooked.  She'd done this
enough times to be to call upon a certain detachment between her inner
self and the woman being filmed.  Her glance went repeatedly to the
control booth, hoping for a sign of forgiveness receiving none.  On the
back burner of her consciousness thoughts of Marion simmered.

She wrapped up the last dish for that segment, the audience applauded,
and the banks of floodlights went out with a series of heavy thuds.
Lunch break.  Veronique hurried to the dressing room to call the
nursing home.

After a few words with the nurse receptionist, Veronique had put the
phone down and tugged on a curl.  Marion had come in twenty minutes
earlier, gotten her message and gone straight out again.  What could
she be doing?  All the walking would tire her out, and make her hip
sore.  Why hadn't she called her?  Veronique couldn't take back what
she'd said about Graham, nor, now that she'd said it, did she want to.
But she wanted Marion safe and sound.  And she wanted her friend
back.

Lunch hadn't improved Burton's disposition, and she suspected he hadn't
even eaten.  He used to be first in line to sample her food with the
rest of the crew.  Now he didn't even show up.

She stopped at Makeup for a touch-up, then went back to the studio.

Ernie was talking to the audience, making jokes and telling stories
till the crew was ready to shoot again.  Veronique took her place
behind the counter and checked that the ingredients were arranged the
way she wanted them.  Burton seemed to be everywhere but where she was,
and she half feared, half hoped he'd forget to do his usual check of
her before they started taping.

And then, still talking to Kate, the audio technician, via his headset,
Burton came onto the set.  His mind clearly elsewhere, he straightened
Veronique's collar, then paused, his fingers lightly resting on her
shoulder while he listened intently to whatever it was Kate was
saying.

Barely breathing, Veronique trembled on the verge of tears.  He had no
idea what he was doing to her.  Indeed, he seemed hardly aware of her,
so intense was his concentration.

He nodded to his unseen discussion partner, then his full attention
focused on her.

"Murphy's on his way down.  There's someone in the audience cheering
for you.  This is our last show.  Let's make it good."

She nodded and smiled tightly, fighting the urge to reach for him.  He
smiled back, but it was the smile of someone who had lost faith, who'd
found to his cost that there was no such thing as eternity when it came
to heaven on earth.

She watched him run up the stairs to the control booth and turned away
to dab at her eyes with a tea towel.  Then she took three deep breaths
to calm herself and smiled out at the rows of seats.  What had he
meant;

"Someone in the audience" ?

She scanned the rows, and just before the banks of lights snapped on,
she saw Marion in the front row, beaming at her.

Astonished, Veronique smiled and blew her a But how?  She glanced up at
the control booth and a questioning lift of her eyebrows at Burton.  He
gave two-fingered salute, then stepped out of sight before could blow
him a kiss, too.

His generosity gave her strength.  Knowing Marion was in the audience
gave her hope.  She put all her energy into her performance, cutting
off worries about the future to make the most of the present.  This was
the last show; would go out with a bang, not a whimper.

Afterward, amid the applause, Murphy stepped for wan from the sidelines
to congratulate her.  Burton came dow to the set, and everybody crowded
around, shaking hands and hugging and clapping one another on the
back.

Murphy predicted the ratings would top the charts.  He declar to all
present that Veronique would be the next Julia Chil and that anything
Burton set his heart on was his for thil asking.

The audience was filing out of the studio.  Veronique saw Marion making
her way slowly through the seats to!  the central aisle.  Veronique
glanced at Burton.  He jerke his head, indicating she should go after
Marion.  But she wanted to talk to him, too.  She tugged on her hair.

Which way?  Marion paused at the end of the row of seats ant looked
expectantly at her.

Veronique waved to her, then ran back to Burton.  S iI lently, her
heart breaking at his stony expression, kissed him farewell, once,
twice, thrice, on the cheeks.  eyes pressed shut, and she thought she
saw a line of ture beneath his lashes.  But he didn't reach for her,
Marion was waiting.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MARION LEANED ON HER crutches with a welcoming smile.

"The show was wonderful, Ronnie, dear.  I'm so glad Mr.  O'Rourke
invited me to come and see it."

"I'm glad, too," Veronique said, kissing her on both cheeks.

"You remember Janice, my roommate at the rehab center?"  Marion nodded
to a thin, dark-haired woman standing to one side.

"How do you do?"  Veronique said.  Janice Webster didn't look nearly so
grouchy without those tubes stuck in her.  In fact, she had quite a
nice smile.

"I'm fine, thank you," Janice said.

"And please thank your husband for our tickets.  It was a wonderful
treat."

She glanced at Marion.

"I'll wait outside."

"Okay.  I won't be long."

"I'm so glad you're all right," Veronique said when Janice had left.

"I

was worded when I didn't know where you were."  "I'm so sorry you were
worded.  I called the studio this morning.  You weren't here yet, but
Burton suggested I come down for your last show."

Marion glanced around.

"Could we sit down?  My hip is a little sore."

"Of course."  She helped Marion into a seat on the aisle, then slid
into the one directly in front and twisted to face her.  Lines of
fatigue were etched around Marion's eyes and mouth, but Veronique
noticed the new lipstick, gold earrings and matching necklace.

"You look well."

 "Thank you, my dear.  I'm feeling much better."  Marion ill put a
hand over Veronique's where it lay on the seat back.  1 "I want to
apologize for the way I treated you last time.  I You took me by
surprise.  I'm so sorry, Ronnie."

Veronique looked down.

"I should be the one to apologize.

I should never have burdened you with Graham's wrongdoings."

"I thought so, too, at first.  I was so angry at you for I saying those
things about my son.  But gradually I cooled I down, and then I just
felt badly that he hurt you.  You i see--" Marion's voice wavered
"--your accusations shocked me, but they didn't really surprise me.  I
know you must think Stan and I had the perfect marriage, but it1
wasn't.  He could get very impatient with me "Heri words trailed off as
tears filled her eyes.

"Marion," Veronique said urgently, "Stan's temper, his need to always
be the big boss, was not your fault."  ronique had to make her believe
this, if nothing else.  Marion stared at her, astonishment overtaking
her guish.

"How did you know what he was like?"  She shrugged.

"Graham must have gotten it from some-iI where, and it certainly wasn't
from you.  I'm truly sorry ill that hurts you."

Marion sighed heavily.

"It's all right, Ronnie.  In spitei of everything, I did love Stan. 
But I'm grateful you brought things out in the open.  It's made me
think. In a way, it's freed me to be me.  If Stan wasn't always right
then it means I wasn't always wrong--if you know what I mean."  

"I know exactly what you mean, I am so glad friends again," Veronique
said, clasping Marion's

"You're more like a daughter to me," Marion smiling through her tears.
She took a tissue from her and dabbed at her eyes.

"There's something else I've been meaning to tell you.  Janice is going
to move in with me when I get out of the nursing home."

"Oh, Marion, are you sure?"

"Yes.  She lost her husband last year, too.  She'll help me out in the
house in exchange for reduced rent.  We've become good friends.  We're
even going to join a bridge club together."

"I ... I'm pleased for you."  Veronique smiled hard to hide her hurt.
What she'd been trying to get Marion to do for months, Janice had
accomplished in a few weeks.

"You have become independent."

"If it hadn't been for you, I probably would have curled up and stayed
in a corner when Start died," Marion replied.

"I was too reliant on him.  Your patience and good humor taught me it's
easier to get through the hard times when you've got someone to talk
to.  That's why I was able to help Janice.  I recognized loneliness and
fear underneath her bad temper, so whenever she started acting
unpleasant, I'd say, "Tell me what's really bothering you."  And we
just went on from there.  You know that saying, "What goes around,
comes around'?  If I've learned to cope, it's only because you made me
believe I could.  Ja-nice and I went shopping this morning for
something special to wear here today.  Do you like my new earrings?  I
wanted you to be proud of me."

"I am," Veronique said, tears filling her eyes.

"I am so very proud of you."

Marion patted her hand.

"And now that you're married again, and to such a nice man, I can stop
worrying about you."  Veronique started to laugh.

"You were worried about me?"

Marion's gaze was tender.

"You seemed so lost and alone."

Veronique glanced back at the set.  The crowd was breaking up.  Burton
and Murphy were going off together, arms around each other's
shoulders.

Burton didn't look back.  He had performed his final act of kindness.
He was

free.  Free to finish his documentary.  Free to begin work on another
of the ideas spinning in his fertile brain.  Free to find himself a
real bride.

"Our marriage is over," Veronique said, turning back to Marion.

"I'm going home."

She tried to smile, but her heart was breaking, and Marion seemed to
know it at a glance.  Her hand, so cool to the touch, pressed against
Veronique's hot cheek.

"Oh, my dear, I'm going to miss you.  I think you're making a big
mistake."

Veronique blinked back her tears.  The only mistake she'd made was in
coming to this country in the first place.  The sooner she was out of
it, the sooner she could forget.

"So now will you take back Graham's money?"  she said, changing the
subject.

"Now that you know why I don't want it?"

Marion's mouth set in a firm line.

"No.  As I've said many times, Start left me well-provided for.
Whatever Graham's faults, he married you and that's a commit menthe
never made before.  The money he left rightfully belongs to you."  Her
voice softened.

"He loved you, in his own way."

It was pointless arguing that if Graham had really loved her he
wouldn't have hurt her.  Marion had achieved a shaky trace between
reality and happiness, having arranged her memories and beliefs in such
a way that she could acknowledge the truth and still live with it.

"Well, if you won't take it back, what do you think of this idea?"  she
said, and explained an alternative use for Graham's money.

Marion smiled.

"I think it's wonderful!  Be sure and let me know how it turns out."
She reached for her crutches.

Veronique rose to help her up.  She hugged Marion goodbye.

"Come and visit me in Tahiti."

Marion kissed her on both cheeks.

"Next year, if you're in Tahiti, I just might take a cruise down that
way."

Veronique got her things from the dressing room and left the
building.

The sky had been overcast when she'd entered the studio that morning;

it was still overcast when she came out.  The streak of aqua and gold
along the west-em horizon might presage a coming high pressure system,
or it might be the last glimpse of fine weather before another storm.

Whatever.  It didn't matter.  Nothing mattered anymore.

Back at her apartment, she tried to take comfort in her plants and her
familiar surroundings, but it didn't feel like home any longer.  When
she watered her gardenia, teardrops mingled with the shower from the
big copper can.  And when she called her travel agent to book her
flight to Tahiti, she felt no joy, only pain.  She wasn't going home,
she was going into exile.

Veronique hung up the phone.  She leaned back on the sofa where she and
Burton had first made love and brought her knees up, wrapping her arms
tightly around them.  She ached with missing him.

She missed his crooked smile, his bright blue eyes, even his cowlick.

She missed his energy and intensity, the way he leaped to his feet in
his eagerness to start something new.  She missed his long, lean body
and his gentle, exciting touch.  She missed his generosity and his
kindness, the way he could make her smile with a flicker of his
eyebrows and laugh with just a word or two.  She missed seeing his face
grow animated as an inner vision took hold of his imagination.  She
missed seeing the fondness in his eyes when he looked at his mother,
and the passion in his gaze when he looked at her.  She missed the
tender way he held her close after making love.  She missed talking,
laughing, walking, making plans and seeing them through with him.

In short, she missed everything about him.  From her living-room window
she saw the lights of Vancouver wink on as dusk fell and knew she would
not stop missing him even in Tahiti.  Surrounded by her family and
friends, speaking her own language, basking in the heat of the southern
sun and swimming in the warmth of the South Pacific--she could have all
this and still miss him.  She would miss him for as long as she lived.
So it was really, really stupid to even think of leaving him.  I THAT
NIGHT, BURTON wandered through the farmhouse, trying to pinpoint
exactly why the place he'd known for thirty-odd years without Veronique
should feel so emptY such just because she'd gone.  How could she have
made an impact on his life in such a short time?

Everything had turned out great in the end, he told himself.  He had
Granddad's chess set.  He had his documentary in the bag.  And on his
way home from work, he'd stopped by Chetwynd's office in Langley to say
he was ready to accept the offer on the farm.  Within two hours Don had
delivered the deposit to his door.

Lonely footsteps took him to the kitchen.  Granddad's chair gleamed
softly with wood oil and a dark blue brocade cover he recognized as the
old living-room curtains.  Taking refuge in the chair's familiar
embrace, he rocked back and forth, seeing all around him the ways in
which Veronique had made her mark.  The kitchen was as clean as it had
been in Gram's time.  On the counter was the old wooden bread box
Veronique had rescued from the basement and turned into a spice rack.
Through the open front door he could hear the tinkle of the tropical
shell mobile she'd hung on the porch.  From the kitchen window he could
see a corner of the garden in which she'd vegetables and herbs she
would never see to fruition.

Suddenly he couldn't bear to stay a minute longer.  Not if he had to
stay there without her.  He called Mary Van-demere and asked if they'd
mind looking after the chick ens again.  Then he packed his bags and
headed back to town.  To his real life.

But if the farmhouse was lonely, then his apartment was as bleak as a
monk's cell.  Not another living thing inhabited these three small
rooms, he noticed--no plants, no pets--and you could hardly call what
he was doing "living."  He could see now how little effort he'd put
into creating a home for himself.  Maybe it was from living on the road
for so long.  Maybe it was because he had too much on his mind and not
enough in his heart.

A vague rumbling in his stomach suggested hunger, so he scavenged the
nearly bare cupboards.  The can opener scraping around the tin of beans
was surely the loneliest sound in the universe.  There was a time when
he'd considered baked beans adequate sustenance.  Now he pushed away
the unappetizing plate of food.  This was not what he hungered for.

He lay on his bed and leafed through the photos of Veronique he'd
developed and printed in the studio dark room the previous week.  The
sunlight reflected in her expressive eyes made him yearn to live that
day on the hill over again.  The mobile mouth he loved to watch while
she talked was still, but the impression of laughter had been captured.
They'd had nearly three perfect weeks together.  He'd rediscovered his
childhood and begun to think about the future---with her.

It didn't matter a damn about the chess set.  In fact, he realized now
that he'd used it as an excuse to distance himself before she left
him.

The real problem was that they belonged to two different worlds.  A
fact not even love could change.

He fell asleep still clutching her photo.

The next morning, Burton did something he'd never done before--he
called in sick when he wasn't ill.  He knew he was just lovesick, but
he seemed to have developed a physical pain in his chest that he
suspected might lead to serious illness if left untreated.
Unfortunately he was constitutionally incapable of lying about.  He
tried rolling the TV into the bedroom but was bored within minutes.  By
midmorning, he got out of bed, disgusted at wallowing in his own
misery.  He had to get out and move--walk, run, anywhere, it didn't
matter.  He had to burn off this ii energy before it burned him up.

Snatching up his camera, he headed out the door.  He walked down to
Denman Street with its traffic and cafes, then turned north, his
restless footsteps pulling him toward the water and the seawall that
circumnavigated Stanley Park.

He felt a little better just being out in the fresh air.  Summer in
Vancouver could be unpredictable, but nothing beat the days like today
when the air was clear and warm, the sky an infinite blue, and the
mountains seemed to rise straight from the chuckling blue-green sea.

Near the yacht harbor he came upon a bent old man tossing French fries
to a trio of honking Canada geese.  He raised his camera and snapped a
few rapid frames, then caught the old man's eye and exchanged a smile
over the beautiful day.

Moving on, he lengthened his stride.  Tourists dawdled and pointed to
the sights; they didn't bother him.  He made a game of weaving between
them, outrunning his thoughts.  Under the Lion's Gate Bridge, he paused
to watch an Alaskan cruise liner move majestically past on its way to
dock.  Burton raised his camera and caught the gleaming white prow just
as the ship turned toward the soaring white sails of Canada Place.

Above the liner a snowy jet stream of a 747 bound across the Pacific
streaked across the brilliant blue sky.

Burton lowered the camera as an image of Veronique boarding a plane to
Tahiti darkened his mood.  Scenery was all very beautiful, but it
didn't warm your bed at night.

What the hell was he going to do without her?

Driven by the ferocity of his thoughts, he rounded Prospect Point to
face the open water of Georgia Strait.  There, he put the telephoto
lens on his camera and shot off half a roll of film on the California
sea lions basking on the rocks offshore.

Out of nowhere a bald eagle swooped for a fish in the surge at the edge
of the rocky intertidal.  He crouched low to get the underside of the
wings as the magnificent bird lifted off into the sun.  Click, click,
click.  He'd almost forgotten what it was like taking pictures, the
intense concentration and the burst of exhilaration when he got a
really great shot.  He Could easily do this for a living again.

Burton's finger froze on the button.  He could easily do this for a
living.  Straightening, he put the lens cap back on.  It wasn't like he
was married to Channel Seven.  However, he was married to Veronique.

More important, he wanted to stay married to her.  He wanted to marry
her all over again, for that matter.

Burton pictured himself leaving the studio and striking out on his
own.

The thought put his feet in gear, and he headed off again along the
seawall.  He didn't have to wait till he was fifty to pick and choose
what he wanted to do.  He could do that right now.  He could choose to
leave.  And later he could choose to come back.  And if there wasn't a
spot for him right away, he'd make do.

The wind gusted around his face, and he sucked back strong salt air and
the invigorating tang of ozone.  Excitement lengthened his stride.  An
image came of himself under a beach umbrella in Tahiti, clacking away
on a laptop, writing the script for his teenage sci-fi drama series.

Next spring he'd slap it on Murphy's desk and say, "How about it,
chief?."

Next spring.  Would Veronique return with him?  He could only ask.
Well, he could beg, too, and though he hoped it wouldn't come to that,
he knew he would do it if he had to.

He suspected getting Veronique to agree to marriage a second time would
not be an easy task, hut it was a goal worth striving for.  He glanced
at his watch.  If he hurried, he could catch Murphy and square things
away before the old man went to lunch.  With a clear head, and a heart
full of life and energy and the will to be happy, Burton headed for the
studio.

"MERCI, Lillian.  Merci, Sandy.  I love my hair," Veronique called to
Lillian and her grand niece as she went out the door of Channel
Seven.

Catherine's Volvo waited at the curb, its motor idling.

"Bonjour, Catherine," she said, ducking into the car.  "Ca va?"

"Bien, merci.  Your hair looks wonderful," Catherine said, pulling into
traffic.

"I might get your friend to do mine next time I need a cut."

"She's getting a lot of experience."  Veronique pulled down the visor
and peered into the mirror.  She ran her fingers through her newly
trimmed locks, and watched the thick, honey-dark curls bounce back
around her nape and ears.  The blond bits were gone, but they seemed
unimportant now.  Why tie herself to the past when the future had so
much to offer?

"Thank you for giving me a ride out to Langley," she said, glancing at
Mother-in-law Number Two a little shyly.

"I hope I'm not keeping you from anything important."  ;

"Not at all.  I'm glad you Called me, and that Lillian had my home
phone number.  If you can stop the farm from I going out of the family
like you say you can, why, I'd drive to Hope and back if I thought it
would help.  But now that Burton has the chess set back, I'm afraid he
won't waste any time putting the farm on the market."

"I know."  Veronique reached up to twine her fingers into the hair at
the back of her head and found there was not enough to catch hold of.

She felt more nervous than ever.  Was she doing the right thing?

!i

"I'm not even sure Burton will be at the farm," Catherine continued.

"He moved back to his apartment on the weekend."

Veronique frowned.

"Lillian said he phoned in sick this morning, but when I called his
apart menthe wasn't there.  The only other place I can think he would
be is the farm.  Anyway, it's not necessary for him to be there for my
plan to work."

"And you're not going to tell me what that is, are you."  She glanced
apologetically at Catherine.

"I'd like Burton to be the first to know.

Everything depends on whether we stay married."

Catherine slowed for a stoplight and turned to look at her.

"Do you want to stay married to him?"

"Yes.  More than anything.  I love Burton very much."  Catherine
smiled, and her eyes became bright.  Then the light changed and she hit
the gas.

"Burtie told me your home was very important to you.  Are you still
going back to Tahiti?"

Veronique shrugged.

"That's one of the things we need to work out between us."

Traffic was light and they swept through the city and onto the freeway
in record time.  Gradually Veronique began to relax a little.  Her gaze
swept from the mountains, across the spreading farmland, to Mount Baker
in the south.  What a magnificent day!  There was not a cloud in sight
to dim the sun.  The ice-capped peaks were sharply etched against a
deep blue sky.  Every leaf, every blade of lush, green grass seemed to
sparkle.  She had never seen the Fraser Valley quite like this.  She
rolled down the passenger-side window and inhaled the freshest,
sweetest air she'd ever smelled.  She could see why Burton loved this
place.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"  Catherine said.

"When the sun comes out, you forget all about the rainy days."

"Like love," Veronique said, throwing her head and smiling.  The
weather had changed, and so had And if, at the end of it all, Burton
didn't want her, would still have the farm.  She would like to do that
him, and it would wash clean Graham's money.  she didn't want it for
herself.  Marion knew of her and approved.  Chdre Marion.  At last they
were friends.

She folded the leather strap on her backpack into a concertina. 
Inside, next to her checkbook, was her to Papeete.  If only Burton
would wait for her, just a while, till she had some time with Ghislaine
and the she would come back.  It would be easier if she had farm to
come back to, but if she didn't?

She would still come back.

She would take that leap of faith because things different this time.

She was in love with Burton, she'd only been infatuated with Graham.

How love someone with whom you couldn't she and Graham had been able to
talk to each other, probably wouldn't have married so impulsively.

Button's resemblance to Graham had blinded her to I fact that, fight
from the start, it was his character attracted her, not his looks.  In
so many ways, small, Burton had shown her that he cared about the she
was, not the person he wanted her to be.  He'd out of his way to make
her feel special.  Like giving hankie after she'd pushed him away.
Marrying could stay in the country.  Bringing her chicken souI she was
sick.  Even that silly wig--she laughed think of it.

And the fact that he wanted to learn French!

ther evidence of a noble soul did anyone need?  He could never be
French, of course; one had to be born to such an honor.  But he could
belong.  Just as she'd found she could belong out there on the farm.
And best of all, they belonged to each other.

ERNm WAS WALKING SLOWLY toward Button's office, his nose buffed in the
want ads, when Burton came striding around a corner and barreled into
him.

"Hey, Ernie.  Watch where you're going, o1' buddy."

"I was just on my way to see you," Ernie said.  Burton helped smoothed
the crumpled newspaper.

"You're not looking for another job, I hope.  Murphy's going to need a
man of your experience around here."

Ernie glanced up to see if he was joking, but Button's smile was
genuine and encouraging.  His boss's attitude toward him had changed.

Nowadays he treated him, well, not exactly like an equal, but at least
as though he was playing in the same league.

"I was looking for a place to live," Ernie said.

"Now that Rita and I are so solid, it's time I moved out of my parents'
home."

Burton gave him a little punch in the shoulder.

"Way to go, Em.  You want to walk as far as the lobby with me?

I was just on my way up to see Murphy."

"Sure."

"So what area are you looking in?"  Burton asked, striding along.

"The West End is handy to just about everything."

Ernie still had to hurry to keep up, but he didn't mind so much now.

"I

can't move to the city.  I've got a dog, remember?"  Burton shrugged.

"Stanley Park is just a hop, skip and a jump away."

"Oh, no.  Edward needs room to run all day, not just when I can take
him for a walk."

"Your dog is named Edward?  Ernie and Edward?"  At his amused tone,
Ernie started to frown, and Burton brought his grin to heel.

"So," Burton went on, "Edward likes to live in the country .... "

Ernie had been around Burton long enough to know when his mental camera
had switched on, but what the boss could possibly be picturing with
regard to Edward boggled the mind.

"Yeah, but places with acreage are usually too expensive for one
person."

"Not necessarily.  Sometimes people just want a reliable house-sitter
for a certain time period.  Would you be inter- ii ested if something
like that came up?  Say, on a farm?"

t "Of course, if it was for at least six months.

Do you know of someplace near your grandfather's farm?"

"Could be, Eruie."  They reached the elevators, and Burton pushed the
button.

"What was it you wanted to see me about?"

"A reference, in case I need one for a prospective landlord."

Burton chuckled.

"No problem."  The elevator arrived and the doors opened.  Instead of
getting in, Burton leaned a hand against the wall and asked, "Did I
ever tell you the joke about the penguin and the pogo stick?"

The elevator doors closed again, and with a quiet hum, the empty cage
responded to a summons from above.  Ernie l glanced at his watch.

"Is Mr.  Murphy expecting you?"

With a careless shrug, Burton jabbed the button again.

"No rush, Em.  Plenty of time."  He laughed.

"Not for you, of course.  Once the new season starts there'll beno rest
for the wicked.  Or the gainfully employed."  He was still laughing
when the elevator returned, and he stepped inside.

Ernie stared at the closing doors.  The boss had finally cracked.  He
was out of his ever-lovin' tree.

Poor Em, Burton thought as he rode up to the fifth floor, He'd clarify
the situation as soon as he could, but first he had to sort out a few
things with Murphy.  And with Verouique.

The elevator made its way slowly upward, past Research, past the
cafeteria, past whole floors of offices.  Burton stuck his hands in his
pockets and idly studied the notices taped to the wall.  They were of
little interest; he wasn't going to be around here much longer.

The doors opened and Burton stepped onto the fifth floor.  He hardly
recognized Sylvia with her new hairstyle.  She waggled dark blue nails
at him as he strolled past.  He smiled and nodded.

"Nice 'do, Sylvia."

Lillian's grand niece was getting good.

The door was ajar and Murphy was expecting him, so he knocked once and
pushed it open.  The big man was standing at the window, flipping worry
beads and stating out.  There was not a whiff of smoke in the air.

Burton cleared his throat.

"Hiya, boss."

Murphy turned.

"Burton, m'boy.  How's it going?"  He walked back to his desk and
motioned Burton to have a seat.

"Not bad.  So was the board happy with Flavors when you showed them the
tapes?"

"Ecstatic.  I'm giving you the official green light."  Burton's smile
lingered.

"For what?"

Murphy spread his arms wide.

"Anything you want.  Hell, the station bosses are so pleased you could
write your own ticket for the next twelve months."

Burton leaned forward in his chair, elbows on knees.

"Funny you should say that, Murph.  I do have a certain ticket in
mind."

The creases around Murphy's mouth deepened in a frown.

"What do you mean?"

"My wife is going back to Tahiti soon, and once I finish my current
projects, I intend to join her.  I expect we'll be there for the winter
at least."

Murphy snorted.

"And you'll do what for a living?  Nice place, don't get me wrong, but
you can't even speak the lingo."

"I'm learning.  As far as making a living goes, I'll freelance for a
while.  I've had seven fat years--and they've been great years, Murph,
don't get me wrong--but I'm ready for some lean times.  Chance to take
stock, explore new directions."

Murphy rolled his eyes.

"Here I thought you were turning into a beach bum when all you're
looking for is another challenge.  Goddamn it, O'Rourke, you're
approaching the peak of your career.  Don't you get enough of a
challenge around here?"

"It's not like that."  Burton frowned.  Was it?  Was he going to have
to consciously not look for something to do in order to slow down?

"I'll have to talk to Veronique about this," he muttered.

"Now, there's your problem right there," Murphy said with a jab of his
stubby forefinger.

"You've gone and let marriage change you.  You used to be my best
producer--hell, you're still the best producer, you're just not mine
anymore."

"If you mean, I'm not married to my job anymore, you're right.  But
don't worry, I'll be back.  I'll be back with a pilot script for a
series that'll knock your socks off--90210 meets X-Files.  What do you
think?  Interested?"

"Hmm."  Murphy rocked back in his swivel chair.

"You say you've got a script?"

"Not yet.  I'll probably be the only beach bum in Tahiti with a
laptop."

"You are going to write it?  A documentary is one thing, but..."

Murphy's eyebrows lifted in unflattering surprise.

"I'm going to take a stab at it."  Just thinking about it made Burton
get to his feet and pace across the room.

"You can't sit still long enough to write a treatment, lei alone a
whole script," Murphy rumbled.

Burton ignored the sarcasm.

"I'm thinking a rural munity ... a farm lad, fourteen or fifteen ...
bored with school ... too old for 4-H, too young to drive.  A alien
spacecraft lands in his field.  Toss in an teen romance and a ticking
clock, and you've got one helluva story."

"Sounds promising, O'Rourke.  You come up with a script and I'll
fast-track the proposal--if you'll stay put."

Burton stopped short and planted his hands on the back of the chair.

"Sorry, Murph.  I'm changing my lifestyle for a while.  It might not
happen overnight, but I'm going to try."

"Nothing happens overnight, O'Rourke.  It's taken me two months to go a
whole week without cigars."

"Doesn't matter, as long as you get there in the end.  I'm only just
starting to feel married.  It's opened up a whole new world for me.

Liberating, I guess, is the word to describe it."

"That,"s not' the word most men use."

"They don't have wives like Veronique."

"When you have kids, you'll feel differently," Murphy said.

"You won't be swarming off to the South Pacific whenever the urge hits.
You'll be stuck in one place, ferrying the ankle-biters around to
soccer games and pep rallys."

Burton shrugged.

"I never said I wouldn't have to make sacrifices."

"You're going into this very blithely for a condemned man."

"Everything will be okay when it happens," Burton said serenely.  He
noticed the empty humidor.

"Have you given up jelly beans, as well, Murph?"

"Unfortunately, no.  I've got a hundred-a-day habit."  He took a big
bag out of the drawer and emptied them in a steady tinkle into the
jar.

"When are you leaving?"

Burton got up and peered into the jar, searching for the licorice
ones.

He popped a couple in his mouth.

"Now that Flavors is over, I should be able to wrap up Lost Harvest in
three or four weeks.  Tmdy has been itching to get her hands on Lovers
and Strangers for ages.  My cur rent contract is almost up, so as long
as I'm not leaving you in the lurch, I'll be cleaning out my office
before September."

"Goddamn short-term contracts," Murphy muttered.

"I knew I should have talked the board into putting you on permanent
staff."

"It would have only delayed the inevitable."

Murphy pushed back his chair and got to his feet, his hand reaching for
Burton's.  Burton gripped his friend's hand, realizing for the first
time how much he was going to miss Murphy, and Ernie and Lillian and,
oh, hell, everyone in the whole damn place.

"Thanks for everything, Murph," he said.

"See you around O'Rourke," Murphy said gruffly.

"Give my love to Veronique."

"Will do."  He started to back out of the room.

"Ernie's a good kid.

He's ready to take on more."

"I'll look after him.  He's a baseball fan, you know."

"Thanks.  Give my regards to Mrs.  Murph."

"No, NOT TO THE FARM YET, Catherine," Veronique said as they approached
the turnoff to the secondary road.

"Do you know the way to Don Chetwynd's real-estate office?"

Catherine laughed and obediently continued along the main road into
Langley.

"Of course I know the way.  I used to go to high school with Don.  What
are you up to?"

VERONIQUE WASN'T AT HER apartment when Burton called.

Nor was she at Marion's nursing home.  On his way out of town, he
stopped by her apartment just in case, and when he didn't find her,
carded on out of the city on a stream of commuter traffic.  While he
had a spare moment, he'd return the deposit those young Chilliwack
farmers had made on Granddad's property before the cooling-off period
was over.  It wasn't just that he thought he'd have a better chance of
convincing Veronique to stay if he kept the farm.

He wanted it for himself, as well.  And for his and Veronique's
children.  Surely one of their future progeny would take after their
grandfather and want to till the soil.

He took the turnoff to the town of Langley, and instead of making a
right onto the secondary road, he continued on into town and parked
outside Chetwynd Real Estate.

"I'm SORRY, MRS.  O'RouRKE," Don Chetwynd said.

"It's been sold.  The buyers put a deposit on the farm yesterday."

"I will offer more," she said desperately.

The bell over the doorway tinkled as someone entered the office, but no
one turned to look.

"This is highly unusual," Chetwynd continued.

"I think you'd better discuss the matter with Mr.  O'Rourke--"

"Is someone taking my name in vain?"  They all turned.

"Burton!"  Veronique cried with joy.

"Burton!"  his mother exclaimed in surprise.

"O'Rourke!"  Chetwynd said with relief.

"Don, here's the check back from the deposit on the farm," Burton said,
his gaze fixed on Veronique.

Don wagged his head back and forth.

"Those Chilli-wack boys are going to be awfully disappointed.  Hadn't
you better think on it awhile?"

"I'm not selling."

The agent reluctantly accepted the check dangling from Button's
outstretched fingers.

"Come on, Don," Catherine said, taking her old friend by the arm.

"Let's go get a coffee and let these two work things out by
themselves.

Call me when the dust settles," she whispered in Veronique's ear.  As
they went out, Don flipped over the sign on the door reading Back in
Fifteen Minutes.

Veronique and Burton just stood there, gazing at each

other.  There was so much to be said, so many to be answered, neither
knew where to begin.

"You're not selling?"  Veronique said at last.

"You're trying to buy my farm?"  Burton asked at same time.

"I thought you wanted me to hang on to heritage."

"I wanted to make sure the farm stays in the am not going to divorce
you.  Sorry."

"I guess I'll get over it," he said, smiling a little.  question is,
will you?"

Her eyes were huge, and dark with uncertainty.  just it" she said.

"I'm not going to get over you."

He shut his eyes and breathed in deeply, afraid of t a false step.

Afraid that what he thought she was might be just a miscommunication
resulting from their fe rent languages.  Then he opened his eyes and
took leap.

"I love you."

Her eyes became bright.

"I love you, also."

He exhaled a relieved burst of laughter.

"What are, going to do about it?"

Smiling, she said, "I don't know, but I think we do something."

"Well, for a start..."  He opened his arms.  Veronique stepped forward,
and Burton ward, and the distance between them was closed.  He his eyes
again, and he held her as tightly as if he'd her back from a
precipice.

God, she felt good.

He drew back a little.

"You can't buy the farm already own it.  What's mine is yours."

She smiled.

"I didn't want you to do our of their inheritance."

And then he knew he hadn't misunderstood.  lowered his mouth to hers.

Thought became feeling blazed into sensation, and within seconds, only
couldn't think straight, he couldn't think at all.

"Whoa," Veronique said, pulling back, "We cannot start with the
hormones yet.  We have much to discuss.  I have some ideas."

"Start talking," he murmured, nuzzling her ear.

"I have it all figured out.  Stop it-Oh, mmm... Are you listening?"

"Yes."  Sort of.

"We will live in the farmhouse and build a French cOUntry restaurant on
the property.  I will be haute chef, naturally."  She spoke quickly so
he couldn't interrupt.

"There is a helipad at the top of the Channel Seven building.  To save
time, you can go to and from work by helicopter' "Hold on a minute!"
Burton said, finally waking up to what she was saying.

"What's all this about restaurants and helipads, and general
nesting-syndrome behavior?  I've quit my job, I've psyched myself up to
go freelance, and I'm frothing at the mouth to get on a plane and go to
Tahiti.  I haven't felt so' free in years."

She drew back, her gaze uncertain.

"You maybe want to be totally free?"

"Not free of you.  Never that."  He brushed his fingers through her
short hair.

"What about you?  Are you pulling a Rita on me?"

She feigned indignation.

"You wanted me to cut my hair."

"Yeah, and as usual, you're late."  He stopped her protests with
another kiss.

"Okay, what do you think we should do?"  she asked a few minutes
later.

"' 'v agree," he warned.  xou e got to of course--if I can change the
parts I don't like."

plan is this--we go to Tahiti, give it and then what we feel like
doing."

at is a Plan?  She gazed at him dubiously.

'"You want something more definite?  Okay, I think your idea of a
restaurant at the farm is great.  We could also do

a second series of Flavors.  Everything will fall into place, you'll
see."

She smiled a little.

"You're not the man I married."

"Lucky you," he said, and grinned back.

"Murphy says he'll listen if I want to pitch my teen sci-fi series next
year."

"Do you really want to stop your career for a whole year?  Right now
you have so much that is certain" "I'd like to take credit for being
noble, but the more I think about it, the more I feel like I'm gaining
something rather than giving something up.  I'll work on a script. 
I'll recharge my batteries.  It's exciting not knowing what I'm going
to be doing."

"I think it's better we stay here.  What about your mother?"

"It's only for a year.  And if I know her, she'll be on the next plane
to Papeete, nagging us about grandchildren.  If not, Ernie will love
her chicken soup."

"And what about the farm while we are away?"

"Ernie's more or less already said he'll house-sit.  The land, we'll
lease to the boys from Chilliwack.  Or the Vandermeres.  How were you
planning on purchasing the farm, by the way?"

"I have an inheritance, too.  From Graham.  But I want; to give it
away."

Burton laid one hand across her mouth and the other across his chest.

"Never talk about giving away large sums of money so casually.  You
could always finance the restaurant with it.  Graham owes you.  But if
you really don't want it, you could make a donation to the women's
shelter."

"I like that idea.  And maybe just a little in a trust fund for the
children."

He gazed at her with admiration.

"That's what I like about you.  You're so practical.  Veronique, will
you marry me?  Again?"

She tilted her head to one side and pretended to think about it.

"Only if we do it in Tahiti so my sister can be matron of honor."

"I knew you'd come around to my way of thinking."  His smile returned,
irrepressible.

"We'll be all right wherever we live," she said complacently.

"But when we're here, we must have a big, big heater."

"And plenty of umbrellas.  What do I need for Tahiti?"  She whispered
in his ear.

"Veronique, you're making me crazy.  I want you--right here, right
now."

"You are crazy.  Those vinyl seats look very uncomfortable."

"Then let's go back to the farm."  He nuzzled behind her ear.

"We have no time for this," she murmured.

But he could tell by the way she slipped her hands under his shirt that
she was weakening.

"We have all the time in the world," he said, and hand in hand they
went out of the office and into the sunlight.

Veronique's Mango Salsa 1 large ripe mango, diced 1 large ripe tomato,
seeded and diced 1/2 small English cucumber, diced 1/4 cup chopped
green onion 2-1 chili pepper, minced; or 1/2 tsp Tabasco sauce juice
of one lime h tsp cumin 2 tbsp chopped fresh cilantro Mix together in
bowl, let flavors marinate for 30 minutes.  Serve with grilled chicken
or pork.

Optional, but highly recommended one appreciative male to share a
romantic dinner for two.  Oh la la.

Bon appetit!