Whatever Comes

She thought Tris looked rather stern. He had a hard chin. She would hate to cross him. But there was that strange quivering deep inside her. And now even the surface of her skin seemed to feel him.

She blinked back into focus and replied readily enough. “According to the family Bible, they married soon after the seventh child was born. The family never mentioned the delay in Ezekiel’s marriage. I discovered the fact one rainy day, in browsing through the names and dates, and called my mother’s attention to it.

“She said preachers weren’t always available for the niceties and, on occasion, emotions could get entirely out of hand—and these weren’t those days and I should behave myself! To remember Ezekiel’s stolen wife.”

Amabel smiled a little before she continued, “I used to wonder about Ezekiel’s wife. She probably didn’t have any idea what in the world was going on when he snatched her and jumped ship. Then to be in a strange land, with a great bear of a bearded man whose voice rumbled sounds she couldn’t comprehend. Did she want to be with him? He was obviously friendly...fourteen children! But what about her?”

With no hesitation, Tris explained it all. “In olden days most captive women were chosen by the men, and women adjust well to captivity.” He slowly licked his lower lip as he glanced down her still-damp body.

“Spoken like a Viking.” She shook her head chidingly. “Why are you brown-eyed and dark-haired? And not even six feet tall? You must lack a whole portion of an inch!” She smiled sassily.

“We ranged far and wide, and differences have always intrigued men.” He reminded her, “Ezekiel chose a Chinese girl.”

“You think he gave her much thought?”

“A man that bold wouldn’t just take what was handy. It would be his choice. Any man who would—borrow—such reading material would be a sensitive, romantic, loving man.”

“How nice of you to soothe my worry about My Ling.”

“That was her name?”

“We aren’t sure. He always called her that and spelled it M Y. Her name could very well have just been Ling. And it was the possessiveness of a thief which made him call her his.”

“I like Ezekiel.”

“Men would. He forced his own life to be as he chose it. And dragged that little Chinese girl along. He was a formidable man from the stories handed down. But women shiver a little over being stolen. Women are very vulnerable. Men have directed our lives for all time. We are just getting to the place where we have a toehold in guiding our own fates.”

He dismissed her words. “It’s only natural for men to control women. My dad used to remember about the olden days when men had it all. I never thought things would get back to normal in my lifetime.”

She watched the wicked, golden glints of humor that betrayed him, and she smothered a smile in turn. “I’m going to run for an office in NOW.”

“Now? This year? Here in L.A.?”

“In the National Organization for Women.”

He gasped with some flair. “National? It’s spread that far? That sounds serious!”

She shook her head and sighed, gustily patient. “I believe we need to talk.”

He smiled. “Anytime. I’ll be glad to instruct you on the woman’s place in the overall scheme of world affairs. And yours in particular. I have a car, may I take you home?”

“Now what is the great-granddaughter of a captive Chinese girl supposed to reply to a descendant of a Viking under such circumstances?” She laughed as if it was cocktail chatter.

He replied easily, “Chance is a great determining factor in our lives. Each thing that happens nudges people into actions they wouldn’t have taken. Like my being here. It’s exactly the reason Simon Quint named his magazine Adam’s Roots.”

“You believe in fate?”

“You can call it fate, or kismet, or destiny or revenge.”

“I can’t believe you read horoscopes.”

“My life is self-determined. I do as I choose. I follow the paths I want to follow. May I take you home? I must leave now.”

“That’s a rash offer in this area. I could live fifty miles cross town. But you’re lucky—you don’t have to back down from your offer. I live just west of here in the Canyons.” She gave the address.

He said, “I’m staying at a house in that area. I believe you’re just on my way. Let’s go.” His smile was rather strange, and it did give her some pause, but she shrugged it off and they left.

As they walked from the room, he removed his tie and put it in his suit pocket. Then, using both hands, he ruffled his hair before he unbuttoned his shirt several buttons. He took off his suit jacket, unbuttoned and folded up his shirtsleeves, and slung the jacket over his shoulder very casually.

The photographer was there just outside the entrance to the hotel, and the pair looked up blankly as the pictures were snapped.

Amabel asked Tris, “Why us?”

“They may know who you are.”

“I’m not newsworthy,” she scoffed.

“Your article created quite a stir. You’re probably doomed to a life as a camera-dodging celebrity.”

“Don’t be silly,” she replied easily.

“It happens to the best of us.”

Three

With perfectly ordinary courtesy, Tris drove her home. Their conversation was pleasant. He drove well. Her body watched his. She had never been so intensely aware of a man as being male to her female.

Almost shyly she asked him in for coffee. He declined with a fairly standard semblance of regret. He saw her to her door, said goodbye and left her standing there, rather pensively, as he drove away.

She was disappointed. She went inside the little house, which perched recklessly overlooking the gully below, and she prowled through her few rooms wondering why she would be just a little irritated with Tris Roald for being smart enough not to prolong the day’s visit.

He was wiser than she. Anything can be overdone. Much longer and they might find themselves wearing on one another.

But she really hadn’t had enough of him, and she felt a puzzling lack or vacuum with him not there. She didn’t encourage her brain to examine any reason for that feeling.

It would have been nice if they’d sat on her small terrace, looking out over the gully as they watched the sun setting on beyond the hills.

The problem was, he hadn’t mentioned the possibility of seeing her again. What if he went back to Indiana and never gave her another thought? And she remembered the misguided photographer who had taken their picture. She wondered who it was. She would like to have had a copy of it.

* * *

It was Wally who brought the advance copy of US magazine into Amabel’s office within the week. On the cover was the picture of Sean Morant and Amabel Clayton exiting what was obviously a hotel.

Their pose was the requisite one. He was on the left, casually dressed, his hair designer mussed, his face to the camera and his eyes blank. Next to him, on the right, was Amabel, her damp dress soft on her nice bosom, her face equally blank as she looked at the camera.

The tag line read, “Who’s next? It’s Amabel Clayton!”

At first glance, she thought it was a trick perpetrated by the staff there in L.A. on the order of a Harvard Lampoon. So it took a little while for her to realize it was an actual cover and one that was going to be on the stands for everyone to see.