Her Favorite Husband. Caron Todd

her physical needs dominate? I don’t think you did—and our walk took us past a coffee shop. Once we had a latte and a double chocolate glaze, there was no going back—”

      He broke off, then, with a change in tone, got to the point of his call. “Hate to bother you, Sarah, first day of holidays. There’s a complication and I think you’ll want to know about it.”

      She wriggled higher in the bed so she could sit straighter. “What kind of complication?”

      “An Elizabeth Robb kind.”

      There were never any complications from Liz.

      “She sent an e-mail this morning at 4:00 a.m. her time,” Oliver added, “a panic hour if there ever was one. She claimed she hasn’t started the book.”

      “I know. That’s what we’re going to talk about when I go to Manitoba. She was bound to get blocked eventu—”

      “This year’s book,” he interrupted.

      “What?”

      “She hasn’t started this year’s book.”

      Sarah got out of bed and paced as far as the phone cord allowed. “The one in the spring catalog?”

      “That’s the one.”

      “What does she mean, not started?”

      “She means no paintings and no text.”

      “You’re kidding.” Liz hadn’t said a word about having trouble with this year’s book. Although now that Sarah thought about it, she hadn’t said the project was going well, either. “Slowly,” she’d said, in a don’t-bug-me tone. “Does she mean she’s not happy with the paintings and text?”

      “I’m afraid not. I called her as soon as I read the e-mail and asked her to send an attachment of whatever she’s done. It isn’t even an outline, Sarah. It’s doodles.”

      The news was starting to sink in, but it was still hard to believe. “Any clue from her about what’s wrong?”

      “She said there was no book, and went to change a diaper.”

      “Send me the outline, would you? I’ll look at it over breakfast. And Oliver? Give Jenny a hug and a biscuit for me?”

      “Already done.”

      “Thanks. Thanks for taking care of things.”

      “You’d do the same. You will do the same, I promise. Have fun.”

      “Sure. Always.”

      Sarah hung up and sat staring at the telephone. Maybe the outline was more complete than it looked at first glance. Maybe an old book could be reissued with added story and illustrations. How about an alphabet book? Liz must have tons of drawings on hand, enough to take a child from A to Z….

      The phrase dropped everything kept trying to muscle into her thoughts.

      IAN PACED FROM THE telephone to the window.

      He didn’t like feeling in the wrong. She was a grown-up. She made the choices she wanted to make.

      He paced some more.

      Okay, right. What happened was his choice, too. Every minute from the time she’d walked into the lounge had been an invitation, but every minute he’d stayed was like saying yes. He couldn’t argue his participation had been halfhearted.

      It was his hotel. That was the thing to keep in mind. She’d encroached on his territory. Saw the article one day, arrived in town the next…how sensible was that? And for what? To play? He was here to work. Six columns, six weeks. It was a tight schedule and he needed to focus. No distractions, not even Sarah.

      Especially not Sarah. They’d written “The End” on their story, not “To Be Continued,” not “Tune In Next Decade” for more of the frigging same.

      He downed some coffee and a cereal bar, then went through to the shower. If he didn’t get a move on he’d be late for his first meeting of the day. He’d booked half an hour with the Mountie who headed the Diamond Protection Service. Cops might be our friends, but annoying them seemed like a bad idea.

      When his sluggish brain didn’t switch from Sarah’s soft, pale skin to interview questions, he turned the tap cooler, then all the way to cold. It woke him up and got him out the door in no time flat.

      A COFFEEMAKER SAT ON the desk near the window. Sarah fit a pouch of an unknown roast into the filter basket and filled the reservoir with water. While it dripped, she scanned the file Oliver had sent.

      An outline, no. Doodles, yes.

      A spot above her eyebrow began to throb. She rubbed it and tried to feel only concern for Liz’s welfare. After a book a year for fifteen years—all of which seemed to end up in every library, school and child’s bookshelf in the land—what could have happened to sink this one? Painting and writing were Liz’s life. They were all she wanted to do.

      Or had been, once upon a time long ago and far away. Before she moved back home to Manitoba from Vancouver, before she married her pumpkin farmer, before they started their family. Liz wouldn’t be the first woman to sink under the weight of domestic bliss. Clearly, she needed a hand.

      When Sarah tried to call she got a busy signal, so she went back to her e-mail program, hoping to catch Liz online. After a couple of false starts in which she either sounded accusing or unreasonably cheerful she typed:

      In a bit of a predicament, are you? Don’t panic! We’re here to help. We’ll talk about it more when I see you, but why not give me a head start understanding the problem? Oliver said there aren’t any paintings yet. You told me once the images help you see the story. Don’t they usually come first?

      Sympathetic, she hoped, the question about images a sprinkling of breadcrumbs, the beginning of a path out of the forest. But firm.

      By the time she had dressed and put on eyeliner and mascara, there was still no answer from Liz. Sarah took an apple from the side pocket of her suitcase and went out to the balcony, crunching.

      She could see the city center, busy with cars and pedestrians. Closer to her, a rocky outcropping extended into a chilly-looking lake. Clusters of small buildings climbed up and down the rock, some apparently teetering on the edge. That must be the Old Town. Ian had written about it, rough shanties built by prospectors during the 1930s gold rush.

      To the east, the water went on forever. To the north, beyond the city, green and rust-colored growing things stretched into the distance. In an austere way, it was beautiful.

      She couldn’t put her finger on what it was about the north that got to her. Not as a direction, not as a place. Maybe, like New York in the song, as a state of mind? It pulled at her. Could it be actual magnetism, the North Pole using its power?

      Her worries took a couple of steps back. She wanted to get out there, see the town and the lake close up. Explore, for real.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      IAN WAS MORE THAN LATE for his appointment. He missed it entirely. He rebooked the interview, for the following day, and went to spend the remainder of the morning at a restaurant that promised authentic northern fare, everything from caribou steak to musk ox burgers to freshly caught Great Slave Lake fish. He ordered bannock and coffee, opened his laptop and tried to work.

      Tried but failed.

      Sarah had been in his bed. Sarah Bretton Kingsley Bennett Carr. How long would her name be by the time she was fifty? There weren’t many decisions he regretted—even the bad ones usually had value—but that “I’ll call you a taxi” moment was one. Her face when he’d told her to go…he wouldn’t forget that expression in a hurry. And then the way she’d rearranged herself, that sinuous movement that turned her breasts and legs into the only things in the room…

      “I’m