Honeymoon For Three. Sandra Field

      “I wouldn’t expect otherwise.”

      Irritated out of all proportion, he swung the door open. Mrs. Minglewood looked up, her bright blue eyes openly curious in a way that did nothing to improve Slade’s mood. Without watching Cory Haines cross to the elevator, he shut his door smartly. He’d get Mrs. Minglewood to pull the files on the two properties and to check out Haines Landscaping later on. Right now he needed to put an interview that had been as frustrating as it had been interesting right out of his mind and concentrate on the plans for the waterfront.

      But the printouts failed to hold his interest. Restlessly he strode over to the window. The rain had changed back to snow, big wet flakes falling from a sodden sky. It was time he went back to Toronto, he thought moodily. Back to his head office and his apartment and his friends.

      Maybe he’d go and see his mother after work. She always cheered him up.

      Delicate and elusive, a woman’s scent hung in the air, mocking him with all that was missing in his life.

      

      Lavinia Hargreave had remarried after Slade’s father had died of a heart attack: an odd death, Slade had often thought, for a man who had given little evidence of having a heart. His memories of his father were of lacks and absences, of coldness and distance, of a quintessentially military man, phobic about emotion and intimacy.

      In consequence, Slade had been happy when his mother had married Wendell Hargreave, a retired and rather famous antiquarian bookseller who loved poetry and gardening. Lavinia had blossomed in the eleven years they had been together, and Slade had genuinely mourned Wendell’s death, ironically also from a heart attack. Wendell and Lavinia had owned fifty acres on St. Margaret’s Bay; only two weeks ago Lavinia had rented it to a university professor and his family and had bought herself a small bungalow in the city. Because she was only gradually getting settled, he’d decided to stay in a hotel this trip.

      She opened the door to her son and ushered him in. “You look tired,” she said.

      He flicked a glance at himself in the ornate antique mirror that overpowered the narrow hallway. Dark brown hair with a tendency to curl, gray eyes, cleft chin—he’d seen it all a thousand times and had never understood why women—secretaries, sophisticates, and sweet young things—all seemed to find him irresistible. “I need a shave,” he said.

      “You need a holiday,” she said tartly. “You work too hard.”

      They had had this discussion before. “Yes, Mum,” he said, kissing her cheek. “You should sell that mirror; it doesn’t suit the house.”

      “The house suits me and the mirror stays. Wendell was very fond of that mirror.”

      Without asking, she poured him a Scotch and water. Taking a hefty gulp, Slade broached something that had bothered him ever since he’d arrived in Halifax last week. “You could have bought a much bigger house than this, Mum—you didn’t even touch that account I set up for you.”

      Lavinia added a generous dose of Coke to some dark rum; the rum, she always said, was the excuse to drink the Coke. Smoothing down her flyaway white hair, she said, “You know me—I’m much too strong-minded to be dependent. And far too old to change.”

      “I hope you didn’t rush your decision to move.”

      “I wanted to do it before I was forced to, Slade. Retain an element of choice. There are no stairs in this house, and I’m near a library, a bookstore and a delicatessen. Plus I can take a cab to the theatre and the symphony.” She raised her glass in a toast. “I’m really very happy here. Have some chips.”

      Lavinia didn’t believe in cholesterol. He took a handful, smiling at her affectionately, recognizing as always how grateful he was to her for giving him unstintingly the love his father had withheld. “You’ll have to do something with the garden.”

      “Sod it.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “Grass, Slade. Grass. No fuss, no muss.”

      “But you had such a lovely garden in Seaview.”

      “Change is the essence of life,” she said grandly. “Growing old, so someone told me recently, is not for sissies.”

      “No one would call you a sissy,” he said, and suddenly remembered Cory Haines’s defiant brown eyes. She wasn’t one either. Lavinia, he was almost sure, would like Cory Haines.

      Not that they’d ever meet.

      “All this nonsense about golden years—I don’t see what’s so golden about arthritis and all your friends starting to die off. Poppycock.” Then she eyed him over the rim of her glass, hesitating uncharacteristically. When she spoke, her voice, for the first time, showed her age. “I probably shouldn’t say this ... but before too long I’d love to be a grandmother again.”

      “Don’t, Mum!”

      “It’s been two years now.”

      “Yeah...” Slade shook his head from side to side, like an animal that had been hit hard and unexpectedly by someone it trusted. “It still seems like yesterday.”

      “You can’t hide in your job for ever.”

      “I suppose not.” He managed a smile. “If I meet someone, you’ll be the first person to know.”

      “You won’t meet anyone until you let your guard down; that’s as obvious as—as that mirror in the hallway. And now I really will be quiet; I can’t stand interfering mothers. Please will you help me move the mahogany bureau in my room?”

      The mahogany bureau weighed at least two hundred pounds. “Sure, I’ll help you,” said Slade, and drained his drink.

      An hour later, having moved the bureau, put up curtain rails and unpacked some books, he was on his way, driving carefully down the slick, wet streets. His mother had never mentioned the lack of a grandchild before today. He wished she’d kept quiet about it. Pressure in that department he didn’t need.

      Feeling unsettled and out of sorts, he decided to drop into the squash club, where he’d purchased a guest pass the day after he’d arrived. It was round robin night; he’d be bound to find a partner.

      Before he changed, he checked the schedule by the desk. Tom MacLeod and Bruce Waring were here tonight; he’d played with both of them before. Then another name leaped out at him from the pencilled list. Cory Haines. She’d signed up for a court at seven tomorrow morning with someone called Joe Purchell.

      He stood still, his memory calling up her face, so changeable and so vividly alive. Somehow he wasn’t surprised that she played squash, a game that demanded lightning-swift reactions, total concentration and a high level of fitness. Besides, she lived not far from here; he’d discovered that when he’d checked out her company before he’d left the office. Not to his surprise, her business was healthily in the black.

      Frowning, he headed for the locker rooms.

      

      At seven-thirty the next morning, on his way to the office, Slade pulled into the parking lot at the squash club. He’d slept badly again. His dreams had been blatantly sexual and when he’d woken at about six he’d remembered all too clearly the woman who had cavorted with him on peach-colored satin sheets with such enthusiasm and expertise. Cory Haines. Naked, beautiful and incredibly inventive.

      He could control most aspects of his life. But he couldn’t control his dreams.

      He slammed the car door and took the steps two at a time. Then he strode along the upper gallery that offered a view into the courts below. When he came to the end court he stood back, so that he could see without being seen.

      They were rallying, both players covering the hardwood floor with speed and precision, the ball thwacking against the walls like miniature gunshots. Then Cory maneuvered her partner into the back of the court, raced for the front