A Little Corner Of Paradise. Catherine Spencer

in the beginning, a semblance of passion and desire, but there had never been much meeting of the minds. Nor, as she had ultimately learned to her cost, a mutual under-standing of values or ethics.

      On Sunday, however, as Nick’s visit had stretched from one hour to two, and eventually to three, she’d had a little taste of what she’d missed in matrimony. Over and above the erotic pull, she’d experienced a sense of sympathetic communion with Nick; a sense of sharing such as she’d never known with Martin.

      So much insight, she thought, pulling into the driveway leading to the farmhouse, and all because a man she’d known only a few days had wonderful blue eyes and the voice of a fallen angel! A man of whom Andy passionately disapproved—but whom Peg Leg found completely and unconditionally acceptable.

      Peg Leg, thank the lord, had impeccable instincts.

      

      At six o’clock on Friday evening Nick collected the papers littering the small table in the main cabin of the RV and shoved them haphazardly into his briefcase. Scraping a hand over the day-old growth of beard on his jaw, he headed for the cramped bathroom to shower and shave.

      He had a headache, the sort that aspirins couldn’t cure. The sort inflicted on a man by his conscience—something Nick Hamilton didn’t usually allow to trouble him. But the fact was that the success of Phase Two of Operation Tyler, last weekend, bothered him more than he cared to admit. And Phase Three would shortly get under way.

      Within the hour Madeleine would show up on his doorstep, never suspecting that the real reason he was pursuing her so assiduously was to bring a speedy and satisfactory end to his stay in the area. Satisfactory to him, that was. Because enforced visits to small towns half buried in sand and crab-traps, and peopled with dogooders concerned with the faded grandeur of crumbling old houses, weren’t his bailiwick. There was a world of political intrigue and modern warfare being played out on the international stage, and his usual ringside seat was growing cold without him.

      But he couldn’t turn his back on family. Edmund couldn’t be blamed for the fact that, at ninety-one, his health was failing and his faculties weren’t as sharp as they’d been when he was seventy. The truth was that he’d declined drastically since his first stroke five years ago and, in all honesty, had been losing his grip for nearly ten years, leaving Flora to manage his affairs by herself.

      Flora. Lathering his face, Nick tried to subdue the irritation his step-grandmother always provoked in him. It wasn’t her fault she was ditsy; she’d been born that way and was pretty enough, in a fluff-headed sort of way, for people to let her get away with it. Still and all, if he now found himself in a predicament that was leaving a surprisingly bad taste in his mouth, it was Flora he had to thank for it. Allowing her to handle money without adequate supervision was the same as letting a baby loose to play with fire.

      Who knew what straits the old couple would have been reduced to if Nick hadn’t found himself between assignments and decided to make one of his infrequent flying visits home? Perhaps if he’d visited more often he wouldn’t now be up to the neck in complications he’d never expected.

      The solution to their difficulties had seemed simple enough at the time. Within hours of learning of their financial predicament, he’d flown from San Francisco to Vancouver and rented the Jeep, and the RV that was to be his home for the few days it would take him to straighten out the mess with the back taxes and generally check out the property that was the cause of so much distress and anxiety.

      A day’s drive later, he’d seen for himself that years of neglect had reduced the place to a travesty of what it must once have been. It was glaringly obvious even to the most inexperienced eye. Everywhere he turned the evidence confronted him-—mildew, rot, decay—and with each new discovery his dismay increased, fueled by the information that the garage attendant had been so willing and eager to impart.

      ‘Them Heritage Society folks wield a big stick in these parts,’ the man had confided over his third beer. ‘Right powerful, they are. You need permission from them to paint your own front door once they decide that what you got is so damned old and ugly you can’t wait to set a match to it.’

      ‘Is that a fact?’ Nick had replied, deciding on the spot that, Heritage Society or no Heritage Society, he wasn’t about to be told what he could and couldn’t do with property that had been in his family for decades. ‘Well, if I decide to take a bulldozer to the place, it’ll be a fait accompli before anyone from the society has time to stop me.’

      ‘There’s some folks around town that might agree with you,’ the old coot had cackled, ‘but hell, sonny, the president of yon society ain’t one of ‘em, and she’s your next-door neighbor. The minute as she hears that bull-dozer engine start up, she’ll chain herself to the front wheel sooner than let you touch a single brick on the place.’

      ‘She’ll be escorted off the property with a flea in her ear if she tries.’

      ‘Not this here president, she won’t. Miz Slater’s plagued with the idea that if something’s old, it’s valuable. She’s been after the society for months now to turn the Tyler place into some sort of historical shrine. You check at the Town Hall if you don’t believe me. They got it in writing down there.’ He’d chewed on his tattered moustache for a while, before dunking it in his beer again, then added gloomily, “They got every sin a man ever committed written down at the Town Hall, and I oughta know. Darn near shut me down last year, they did, all because that old biddy Roberta Parrish complained I didn’t keep a clean enough washroom. As if that’s where I make my money! Might as well face it, sonny. In this town, you can’t fight the Town Hall, and it’s darn certain that you can’t fight yon Heritage Society—leastways, not while Miz Slater’s president you can’t.’

      Disquieting news that, unfortunately, had proven all too accurate. When Nick had gone to pay the back taxes he’d checked, and found that designation of the lodge as a historic site was indeed pending. Any structural changes would require a specific permit approved by the Heritage Society. He would have to appear at their monthly meeting and make his application in person before he would be allowed to remove so much as a broken pane of glass. And his biggest obstacle, the busty blonde behind the desk at the Town Hall had informed him, would be convincing the president of the society.

      He’d realized then that, unless he came up with drastic action, he could be delayed here indefinitely while his rights were argued back and forth. Stymied, Nick had thanked the blonde then marched out, determined to overcome every obstacle thrown in his path by whatever means presented itself. Which brought him to where he was now: slapping aftershave on his jaw and preparing to play Romeo to an unsuspecting Juliet.

      Snorting with disgust, he left the steamy bathroom and resigned himself to carrying on with what he’d started the day he’d met his lovely next-door neighbor. It was a question of priorities—and the fact that his hormones were out of sync with his brain couldn’t be allowed to influence that. He wasn’t about to be sidelined in this godforsaken provincial backwater, reduced to learning second-hand what major developments were taking place overseas. That wasn’t what being an ace foreign correspondent was all about.

      Checking the time, he folded a plaid blanket on top of the picnic hamper, weighted it down with a portable radio, and made sure the ice in the cooler hadn’t melted too fast. Earlier he’d selected a picnic site and prepared a fire pit All he needed now was for the moon to rise and the lady to show.

      She arrived just as dusk faded into dark, slender and graceful and more than a little flushed, as if she’d raced to get there on time.

      ‘You look ready for a little R and R,’ he said, jumping right into Phase Three of Operation Tyler. ‘Tough week?’

      ‘A normal work week,’ she said, pushing her fingers through that long, dark hair and retying the scarf that bound it loosely at her nape. ‘The pace didn’t let up once and I’m glad it’s finally over.’

      ‘So am I,’ he said, dismissing the twinge of guilt that persisted in plaguing him. ‘And if you’re anything like me, the last thing you want to do on a night like this is talk about