Snowflakes on the Sea by Linda Lael Miller Page B

floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Seattle’s beleaguered downtown area and the waterfront.
    Her thoughts spanned the angry waters to the small island, invisible in the fury of the day. Surely Nathan was there, angry but safe—
    The shrill jingle of the telephone made Mallory start. She steeled herself. This time, she would have to answer it.
    The walk to the telephone table beside Nathan’s favorite chair seemed inordinately long.
    “Hello?” she ventured, turning the cord nervously in her fingers.
    “Hi, babe,” Brad Ranner greeted her, his voice full of pleased surprise. “How long have you been back in the big city?”
    Mallory swallowed, sank onto the sturdy suede-upholstered arm of Nathan’s chair. “Since last night. Why?”
    “Mallory, haven’t you heard? There isn’t any phone service to the island, and the ferries aren’t running, either. I called on the off chance that you might have come back to town earlier than you planned.”
    Mallory felt a swift stab of alarm. Except during labor strikes, the ferries always ran.
    Brad seemed to sense her agitation. “Relax,” he said. “You’re back in civilization yourself. That’s what counts.”
    His insensitive comments taxed Mallory’s strained patience. “Brad, I have a number of friends on that island, and I think Nathan is there, too. What if someone is sick or—or—”
    Brad’s tone was soothing. “Honey, take it easy. The Coast Guard will check things out. You know that.”
    Mallory did know, and she was comforted. Besides, the islanders were independent sorts, and they would look after one another. “How are things on the set?” she asked in order to change the subject.
    “Everybody is excited. Mall, I have great news. That’s one of the reasons I called. I’d like to tell you in person, though. Is it all right if I brave the treacherous roadways and drop in?”
    Mallory closed her eyes for a moment, summoning up her courage. “Brad, about the show—I—”
    “We’ll talk when I get there,” Brad broke in cheerfully. And then, before she could say a word in response, he hung up.
    Will we ever, Mallory thought, one hand still resting on the telephone receiver. And you’re not going to like my end of the conversation at all.
    Two minutes later, Mallory was in the bathroom, applying makeup. No sense in greeting Brad with her wan, tired face and having to endure the inevitable you-haven’t-been-taking-care-of-yourself lecture.
    The cosmetics transformed Mallory from a very pretty woman to a beauty, but they could do nothing to mask the weariness in the depths of her green eyes. In hopes of drawing attention away from them, she brushed her lustrous dark taffy hair and pinned it up into a loose Gibson girl.
    Once again, she felt pain and remorse; Nathan loved her hair in that particular style.
    Where was he now? Stranded on the island, with no idea where his wife had gone? Lying in some love-rumpled bed with Diane Vincent? Mallory brought herself up short. She had enough trouble without borrowing more.
    She went back into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the neatly made bed, hurriedly dialing the number of the house at Angel Cove. Maybe Brad had been wrong about the telephone service being out. But an operator broke in to say that emergency line repairs were being made.
    So Brad had been right, after all. Frustrated, Mallory wandered back to the living room and distractedly petted a whimpering Cinnamon. She had wanted so badly to reach Nathan, to hear his voice, to apologize. Now, it might be hours, or even days, before she reached him.
    Mallory went to the windows and, for the first time in her life, cursed the snow.
    Cinnamon made a low, whining sound in her throat, and then barked uncertainly. A moment later, Mallory heard the opening and closing of the front doors. She turned, frowning, from the windows, expecting to see the woman who came in to clean twice a week.
    Instead, she was confronted with a scowling, disheveled,