iranda O'Neill was laughing with such merriment tears sprang into her eyes.

Recovering herself after a few seconds, she flicked the tears away with her fingertips. "Honestly, Paula, I've never heard such a load of nonsense in my life."

Paula said, "You're confirming my suspicions... I thought Sarah was lying to me."

Searching her handbag for a tissue, Merry blew her nose, said, "Lying is rather a strong word. Let's just say that she fudged the facts. Or, to use one of Grandpop's favorite phrases, she bent the truth to suit her purpose."

"So what really happened in Barbados?" Paula probed. "She made it sound as if she worked like a galley slave."

"Oh, rubbish! She had lots of help from the two local girls I'd engaged and the young woman who's going to manage the boutique for us." Merry stood up, drifted over to the sofa positioned near the window in Paula's office at the Leeds store.

Watching her progress across the room, Paula decided she had not seen Miranda looking so well for a long time. She had caught the sun in the Caribbean and her freckled face, usually so pale, had a soft tan that was most flattering to her, gave her an' extra-special glow. She wore a full-skirted wool dress of an unusual ginger shade that enhanced the color of her burnished copper hair, and her tawny eyes seemed more golden than hazel today. Paula could not help thinking of the autumn foliage in her garden at Long Meadow. Merry's natural coloring and the clothes she had chosen echoed its russet hues perfectly.

Draping herself on the sofa, Miranda explained: 'The minute Sarah arrived she was obviously in that take-charge mood of hers, very superior, bossy, even demanding. I volunteered to help in any way I could, but she practically ordered me out of the shop, said she could manage, thank you very much. Frankly, I was taken aback, since she's not really involved with us in the boutiques. But I decided to let her have her way." The auburn brows met in a deep frown and her expressive face signaled her irritation. "She didn't want me around, Paula, that's the long and short of it. I was rather busy with other things in the hotel, but not too busy to check in several times a day by phone. And I went down every evening to see how the boutique was shaping up." Miranda's wide-set eyes rested on Paula, grew quizzical. "Surely you knew I'd be on top of things?"

"Naturally I did, silly. I'm only mentioning it because Sarah made such a fuss about the hard work she said she'd done. She also told me that she hadn't enjoyed herself, implied that the O'Neills ostracized her."

"Now that is a downright lie!" Miranda exclaimed, her annoyance more apparent than ever. "Both my father and Shane paid numerous visits to the shop, and she was invited to every single one of our special events." Miranda glanced at her hands thoughtfully, nodded to herself, and looked up at Paula. "Well, perhaps she didn't have any fun, actually. She was certainly bizarre in the way she behaved. She seemed to think it was Shane's duty to be her permanent escort, to drag her around with him wherever he went, and to pay constant court to her. Shane was awfully pleasant and patient under the circumstances—after all, he was preoccupied with the hotel. We were all working, for God's sake."

"I know you were," Paula answered. "And I didn't really pay attention to the things she said... but I must admit I was a bit thunderstruck at first. And why would she lie to me? Surely she knew I'd find out from you what actually transpired."

"Sarah's strange, lives in her own world." Miranda leaned forward, gave'Paula a knowing stare. "Consider some of the-rotten little things she did when we were children. And she's always been full of her own importance. Smug. Self-satisfied.

Look, I don't think she merits this long discussion, do you? Let's—"

"There's something I haven't told you. The real reason she came to see me two weeks ago was to make me an offer... She wanted to buy the boutiques." Paula sat back, waiting for Merry's reaction, aware that she would be angrier than ever, but she had to be told.

"What a bloody cheek! Our boutiques! I've never heard of anything so outrageous in my life... Where was her head?

I mean, you're a public company. I presume you sent her on her merry way and with a few choice words ringing in her ears.

I hope you did!"

"Yes, of course. But she wasn't taking my no for an answer. She threatened to telex Grandy in Australia."

"And did she?"

"No. She telephoned her at Dunoon. Can you imagine, bothering Gran like that! Anyway, Grandy made short shrift of her." Paula's mouth worked with sudden amusement as she thought of her recent conversation with her grandmother. "When Sarah told Gran that she thought she should be allowed to buy the boutiques for her division, because of all her hard work, effort, brilliance, et cetera, Gran told me she said, 'Oh, really, Sarah, so that's what you think, is it? Well, remember what thought did—followed a muck cart and thought it was a wedding.' Then Grandy told her that her suggestion was ill-conceived, ridiculous, and out of the question. She added that it would always be out of the question, advised Sarah never to dare

mention such a thing again."

"There's nobody quite as pithy and scathing as Aunt Emma when she wants to be," Miranda said, and leaned back. "I assume dear Sarah got the message?"

"I haven't beard a whisper from her since."

"Well, that doesn't mean anything. She's busy with the summer line right now." A look of comprehension flitted onto Miranda's face. "What you've just told me probably explains something—Sarah was awfully funny with me when I went up to Lady Hamilton Clothes the other day. I can't say she was rude, because she's always well mannered, but she was unusually standoffish, even for her. Not to digress, but it's a lovely line, by the way, and I hope you'll see it when you're in London next week. We ought to place our order soon, Paula."

"Yes, I know, and Gaye has made an appointment for me to go to the showroom. And whatever else she is, Sarah is a marvelous designer. The Lady Hamilton Collection has never been anything but stunning."

"Yes," Miranda said, thinking how generous and fair-minded Paula was, and she constantly strived to find something positive in everyone. "Incidentally, Allison Ridley was at the fashion show, and she was strange with me as well, treated me as if I had a social disease."

"Probably because of Winston and Emily."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"You're very close to Emily, and I hear that Allison's extremely cut up about Winston. Quite brokenhearted, according to Michael Kallinski, who came in to see me yesterday. He told me she and Sarah have become very thick lately, and no doubt Allison regards you as a member of the enemy camp. Anyway, Michael said Allison's thinking of moving to New York. Permanently."

Miranda was surprised. "Well, well, well... Maybe she's contemplating going into partnership with that friend of hers—

Skye Smith."

There was such a disparaging note in Merry's voice that Paula glanced at her quickly. "Don't you like Skye Smith?"

"Not particularly," Merry answered, as usual being completely open and honest with her dearest friend. "I have to admit that she has been very nice to Shane since he's been in New York. She's given a few dinner parties for him and has introduced him to some of her friends, and he seems to like her. But—" Merry's voice trailed off, and she made a face. "She's too good to be true, in my opinion, so sweet all the time, too sweet, if the truth be known. She acts as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, plays the innocent, but I can't help feeling she's quite experienced—where men are concerned. I said so to Shane, but he just laughed, thought it was very amusing. Winston tended to agree with me. I'm sure he's told you that Shane had a small dinner party for us both at 21 when we were in New York last week. Well, it was actually for Winston—to celebrate the deal he made with the Canadian paper mill."

"I thought he hadn't missed one detail," Paula said slowly, "but obviously he did, since he made no mention of Skye Smith."

"Oh," Merry said, thinking this omission was odd. She hurried on: "But Skye was there. With Shane. And I had a chance to

get to know her a bit better, observe her more closely. I came away from that dinner with the most peculiar feeling. I think

she has something to hide—you know, about her past."

"What a strange thing for you to think, Merry."

"Isn't it," Merry agreed. "And don't ask me why I think it, because I can't offer you a proper explanation. Instinct, perhaps, intuition on my part.' Merry gave a tiny shrug. "Still, on the plane coming back to London with Winston, he and I had a long discussion about her, and we both decided she has a devious nature. He's not very keen on her anymore, even though he

quite liked her when he and Shane first met her at Allison's in the spring."

"Is it serious? I mean between Shane and her." Paula was surprised how tight her voice sounded, and as her stomach lurched she realized that the idea of Skye and her old friend being involved troubled her. Her eyes did not leave Merry's face.

"I sincerely hope it isn't! I don't like the idea of her being around on a permanent basis. Winston thinks it's only platonic, and

he ought to know... Speaking of Winston, how's Sally?"

"Oh, she's much better. Anthony came over from Ireland about ten days ago and went immediately to Heron's Nest, where Sally's been staying. I spoke to them on the phone yesterday, and they're benefiting from the peace and quiet, are glad to be alone together. Actually, Anthony's coming to see me this afternoon."

"What an awful time you must have had because of his wife's death. I would have to be out of the country, wouldn't I? I wish I'd been here to give you moral support, Paula."

"Oh, Merry, that's sweet of you. But fortunately Emily was back from Paris, and she and I managed to keep each other going. We got through it, which is the main thing."

"Yes. But you do look tired," Merry ventured, using the mildest word she could find. From the moment she had arrived at the store she had been struck by Paula's white, drained face, the dark shadows. Her friend looked quite ill to her. "Can't you take

a few days off? Get away somewhere for a rest?"

"You've got to be joking! Look at this desk."

Merry made no further comment, deciding it would be wiser not to voice her worries about Paula's health. She averted her

face to conceal her anxiousness. Her eyes fell on the collection of family photographs on Emma's large mahogany side table. A number of familiar faces gazed back at her—her grandparents, Blackie and Laura, on their wedding day, her father as a baby lying on a fur rug, she and Shane when they were toddlers, her parents on the day of their marriage, and Emma's children in various stages of growing up.

Reaching for the largest photograph of the handsome man in an officer's uniform, she studied it for a moment, then remarked, "Your mother looks a lot like Paul McGill. Yes, Aunt Daisy has her father's eyes. But then, so do you." Glad she had found a way to change the subject, she added, 'The frame's dented, Paula. You ought to get it fixed for Aunt Emma. It's such a shame. Why this is a really lovely piece of silver. An antique." Merry held up the frame, pointed to the damage.

"Grandy doesn't want it repaired," Paula told her with a faint half smile. "When I said the same thing a couple of years ago,

she laughed and told me the dent was part of her memories."

"What did she mean?" Merry asked.

"My grandfather didn't return to England after the end of the First World War. He stayed in Australia. The story is a bit involved, but one day, in a moment of rage and frustration, Gran threw his picture across the room—that particular picture in that very frame. The glass shattered, the frame was dented, but she kept it nevertheless. She told me that ever since then, whenever she looked at his photograph, she reminded herself to trust love. She thinks that if she had trusted Paul when he disappeared—trusted his love for her— she would have had absolute faith in him, would have waited for him to come back. She believes she would have saved herself the terrible years of heartache she suffered during her dreadfully unhappy marriage to Arthur Ainsley."

"But Paul and she did get back together in the end, had years of happiness," Merry said softly, her expression suddenly disconsolate.

"You do sound unhappy, Merry. Love problems yourself? None of your old boyfriends around, is that it?" Paula looked sympathetic.

Merry nodded. "No new ones either. I seem to have nothing but bad luck in that department these days. Most of the men I've gone out with in the last few months can't seem to see beyond the O'Neill money, my looks, and my so-called sexuality. I'm getting more leery by the minute." Merry grimaced. "I'll probably end up being an old maid. Emily's lucky, snagging Winston the way she did. At least she knows he's in love with her and not her bank balance. Especially since he's got a pretty hefty one of his own."

"Oh, Merry, not every man is after money—" Paula began and stopped, recognizing there was a grain of truth in Merry's statement. Being an heiress did have its manifold disadvantages, although money was only one of them.

Miranda was silent. After a moment she said, "Perhaps. The trouble is that the men I meet are simply not able to see beyond their noses, past the externals, to the person I am, to the real me. I'm not a fairy-tale princess, for heaven's sake. I work jolly hard and carry quite a load of responsibility at O'Neill Hotels International. And I have very real values, as you're aware. Shane and I were brought up to understand the value of a pound note, just as you were. And my father and grandfather aside—all they instilled—Aunt Emma certainly drilled enough sense into me during those summers at Heron's Nest."

Paula said, "Yes, I understand what you're trying to say. People do have funny ideas about us, don't they? But nothing is ever the way it seems—to outsiders, anyway."

Walking over to Paula's desk, Merry sat down in the chair opposite, her sadness mirrored in her tawny eyes. Her face became more downcast. "I'll tell you something else, Paula. I'd much prefer to marry a man I've known all my life, who loves me for myself, for what I am as a person, and not for what he imagines me to be. The other day I came to the conclusion that I don't want to get seriously involved with a fascinating stranger. To hell with fascinating strangers. They spell trouble and are frequently full of nasty surprises. If it's not the money, then it's the power they crave. Then there are the sex maniacs, the chaps who're only interested in hopping into bed." She smiled wryly. "As Shane keeps saying, sex is easy to come by but love is hard to find. That brother of mine happens to be right in this instance."

Anthony said, "It's awfully good of you to spend all this time with me this afternoon, Paula. I really appreciate it, and I'd just

like to say again that you've been wonderful through this most difficult period. 1 can't tha—"

Paula held up her hand. "If you thank me once more I'll turf you out of my office." She lifted the teapot and poured him a second cup of tea. "I'm glad to be of help when I can, and let's not lose sight of the fact that you're a member of this family." She gave him a small, warm smile. "Besides," she added quickly, "I'm not all that busy this afternoon," resorting to a white lie in order to make him feel better. "Now, to answer your question, I think Grandy uxnild be upset—very upset, actually—if you and Sally got married before she returns from Australia."

"You do, really," he murmured, his face crestfallen. He lit a cigarette, sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. He stared past her into space, focusing on the painting above the antique chest on the far wall. He seemed momentarily distracted, as if trying to work something out in his head. "And when do you think she will be getting back, in fact?" he asked eventually, bringing his attention to Paula again.

"She promised me she'd be home in time to have our traditional family Christmas at Pennistone Roval—" Paula stopped, struck by a sudden and appealing idea. Leaning over the butler's tray table between them, she exclaimed, "That's when you should marry Sally. At Christmas. Gran will love it, and you can stay with her at Pennistone Royal through the holidays."

He made no response.

Paula said in a rush, "It's a marvelous idea, Anthony. Why are you hesitating?"

Still he was mute, and as she watched him closely Paula saw a pained look cross his sensitive face, which was gray and lined with fatigue. His eyes became anxious, even alarmed. He has eyes like Jim, like Aunt Edwina. Fairley eyes, Paula thought idly. She pushed aside this inconsequential observation and, wanting to pin him down, said, "Yes, Christmas would be perfect, ideal. Do say yes. We can try and reach Grandy in Sydney. No, it's too late now," she muttered, thinking aloud about the time difference, glancing at her watch. It was four o'clock. Two in the morning in Australia. "Well, we can send her a telex," she announced decisively.

"I suppose Christmas will be all right," Anthony said slowly, reluctantly. "It will have to be a quiet wedding, Paula. Very quiet. Because by then—" His voice wavered slightly, became a low mumble as he told her, "Sally's pregnant, and her condition will be noticeable."

Aware at once of his discomfort, Paula adopted a cheerful, matter-of-fact tone. "I imagine Sally will be about six months

along in December, so we II have to make her a really lovely wedding dress that conceals her awkward figure."

Startled, Anthony said, "You knew?"

"No, guessed. Both Emily and I thought she had put on weight when we saw her in September, and we came to the conclusion she might be expecting. Don't worry, no one else knows, except Winston."

"Her father and Vivienne are also aware—"

"I'm talking about the rest of the family, Anthony. And as you said, it should be quiet... only a handful of people. The Hartes, of course, Gran, Jim and myself, your mother, and Emily. She'd be hurt if she didn't come."

"Yes," he said. "I'm very fond of Emily, and she was such a help..." He stopped, swallowed. "Under the circumstances, do you think it's indecent—my getting married again? I mean, so soon after Min's death?"

"No, of course I don't."

Anthony looked at Paula uncertainly.

She looked back, her gaze direct and penetrating.

She saw a man under great strain, and this showed in his haggard face, was echoed by his bleak manner, and the apathy she had divined in him the moment he had arrived. That he had aged in the past few weeks was transparent. He was not the same person he had been at her grandmother's birthday celebration. His fair coloring and very blond, rather English good looks had been most pronounced, and he had appeared more striking than ever in the well-tailored tuxedo, which he had worn with the same kind of panache Jim possessed. That night he had laughed a lot, been so carefree and gay, unusually outgoing, charming them all. Now he was a wreck.

Paula made a snap decision. She leaned forward, pinning him with her eyes. "Listen to me, Anthony. You were unhappily married to Min, separated from her and about to divorce. You've been devastated by her death, the circumstances of it, and understandably so. However, it was not your fault. You must put it out of your mind, otherwise it's going to come between you and your happiness with Sally, affect your future, perhaps even ruin your life." Recognizing she had

spoken harshly, she softened her tone. "You must think about Sally and the baby from this moment on... they are your priorities."

"Oh yes, what you say is true," he acknowledged. "I'm not a hypocrite. Please don't think I'm mourning excessively for her." A quiver entered his voice when he said, "But I never wished her dead, Paula. That she had to die in such a terrible way is more than I—"

Paula stood up, joined him on the sofa. She took his hand, looked into his face, her own filled with immense compassion. "I know, I know, Anthony. And please believe me, I'm not being coldhearted, not in the least. And whatever you think, you weren't responsible. My grandmother, our grandmother, says we are each one of us responsible for our own lives, that we write our own scripts and then live them out to the bitter end. That is true, you know. Min was responsible for herself, her life, not you. Try to draw strength and courage from Grandy's philosophy."

"Yes," he said. "But it is hard, so very hard."

Paula was more convinced than ever that her cousin was in grave emotional trouble, and she racked her brain, wondering what to say, how to jostle him out of his present state. She was not insensitive to his feelings, but she also knew that if he allowed Min's death to dominate his life he was cutting off his chance of making that brand-new life with Sally.

Speaking so quietly, so gentlv that her voice was hardly audible, Paula said, "It may be difficult for you to believe me when I say that I can comprehend your feelings, but truly I can. You must put this tragedy behind you. If you don't, it will cripple you. You will also be committing a terrible sin— against your own child." Purposely she stopped with suddenness, abruptness, sat waiting, watching him.

He blinked, his eyes wide with shock. "What on earth do you mean by that?" he managed in a strangled voice. "I don't understand... committing a sin against my own child." He was horrified.

"Yes. If you permit Min's memory, her suicide, to haunt you, to fill you with guilt, you will not be able to love that child as you should—with all your heart and soul and mind. Because Min will be there, creating a wedge between you, and, let me add, between you and Sally. Also, remember that you and Sally created this baby out of your love for each other... It didn't ask to be born... It's an innocent little thing. Don't cheat it because of our problems. He or she is going to need the very best of you, Anthony. To give the child anything less... well, yes, that would be a sin.".

He stared at her for the longest moment, blinking, striving to curb his emotions so dangerously near the surface. He leapt up, strode to the window, stood peering absently into the street below. But he saw only the death mask of Min's face as it had looked when they had brought her back from the lake. He closed his eyes convulsively, needing to expunge the image. Anthony groped for his handkerchief, blew his nose, ruminated on Paula's words. And then Sally's voice echoed in his throbbing head. Life is for the living, she had said last night. We can't change what has happened. We can't spend the rest of our lives flagellating ourselves. If we do, then Min will have won. And won from the grave. The things Sally had said had been rooted in fundamental truths, he might as well admit it. Something else occurred to him, brought his head up with a swift jerk. The woman Min had become in the last few years bore no resemblance to the girl he had fallen in love.with. Min had turned sour, bitter and. vindictive, and her bitterness and resentment had only served to erode his love. Sally had not broken up his marriage, as Min had so violently asserted. Only bad marriages could be shattered by another person. Those unions that were strong remained inviolate against all outside forces. Now he thought: It was Min who broke up our marriage. For a split second he believed this was a sudden revelation, but then acknowledged that he had always been aware of this in the back of his mind. He had been so busy blaming himself he had not let this fact rise to the surface. The pain in his chest began to ease, and slowly he gathered his self-possession to him. Eventually he turned and went back to the sofa and Paula.

Anthony's 'pellucid eyes held hers, and it was his turn to reach out, to take her hand in his. He said, "You're a very special woman, Paula. Wise, and so very compassionate, such a good and loving person. Thank you for bringing me tO'iny senses. I shall give Sally and our child every ounce of love that I have. They will have the very best of me. I promise you that."

After Anthony had left, Paula plunged into her work with a vengeance. She was still hard at it when Agnes poked her head around the door at six-thirty.

"How late are we going to be here tonight, Mrs. Fairley?"

Paula raised her eyes, put down her pen, and sat back in, the chair. "Come in, Agnes." She rubbed her aching face, picked up the cup of tea, and, realizing it had gone cold hours before, immediately put it down with a grimace. "I'll be about another half hour, that's all, but you can leave if you want."

"Oh no, I wouldn't dream," Agnes said. Conscious of Paula's drawn white face, she eyed the cup, volunteered, "Let me make you a nice cup of hot tea, Mrs, Fairley. You look dead beat."

"Yes, thanks a lot, Agnes'. No, wait a minute, let's have a drink. I could use one tonight, and I'm sure you could too."

"That'll be very nice, Mrs. Fairley. But what have we got?"

Paula let out her first genuine laugh that day. "Sorry," she apologized, observing the hurt and baffled expression on her secretary's face. "You did sound droll just then. And you're right, what do we have... Very little that's palatable, I suspect. There was a bottle of sherry in the coat closet. Why don't you see if it's still there."

Agnes hurried to the walk-in closet and Paula started to shuffle her papers, slipping items into the different-colored folders spread before her, quickly bringing order to her desk.

A second later Agnes emerged from the closet, smiling triumphantly. - "Bristol Cream, Mrs. Fairley." She held up the bottle with a flourish.

"Oh good, let's have a glass, and we can kill two birds with one stone, go over a few final things since it's Saturday tomorrow. I've decided not to come in, Agnes. -I want to spend the day with my babies. And you don't have to be here either, you know."

"Thank you, Mrs. Fairley." Agnes beamed at her.

Ten minutes later, between sips of sherry, Paula had reduced the pile of folders on her desk. Most of them now sat on the floor at Agnes's feet.

"You can send these last three to Gaye Sloane in London. The blue folder contains all the final details for the career clothes shop. Incidentally, I've decided to use the name Emily came up with, after all. I think it's the best... The Total Woman says exactly what I want it to say. Do you like it?"

"I do, very much. I told Miss Emily so the other day. She was, well, sort of taking a poll around the executive offices, asking the other secretaries and typists what they thought."

"Was she now," Paula murmured, smiling to herself as she thought affectionately of Emily, her busy little bee forever trying to be of help. 'The red folder has all the information for the fashion exhibition in January, and this green one has my notes for Trade Winds, plus a list of merchants we'll be buying from in Hong Kong, India, and Japan. Do you have your pad?" Paul.i nodded as Agnes lifted it up. "Drop a line to Gaye and ask her to make duplicates of the lists. Also, send a memo to—"

The private phone on Paula's desk began to ring and Agnes, rising and reaching over, answered it. "Yes, just a minute, please," she said, depressing the hold button. She handed the receiver to Paula. "It's Mr. Stevens calling from Odessa, Texas."

"Hello, Dale," Paula said, "how are—"

He cut her off abruptly. "Paula, I'm sorry, but I have bad news."

"What's wrong, Dale?"

"The worst, I'm afraid. One of our oil tankers is in trouble. It was loading crude oil off the coast of Texas this morning at Galveston and there was an explosion in the engine room—a very bad explosion."

Gripping the phone tightly, striving to hear him through the abnormally bad static, Paula said, with rising apprehension,

"No casualties, I hope, Dale?"

There was a moment of silence. "Yes, I'm afraid we've lost six of the crew... four other crew members badly injured—"

"Oh, Dale, this is horrendous!" Paula exclaimed. "How did it happen, for God's sake?"

"We don't know. We're investigating. Blaze ripped through the vessel. It's under control now. She's not gone down. I stress not gone down..."

There was a bad echo on the line and Paula cried, "I'm having difficulty hearing you."

"I'm here," he shouted back. "Static sure is high today. I said we don't know what caused the explosion, but there'll be an inquiry. We've lost one and a quarter million gallons of crude, and we're facing a massive cleanup job. The crude's drifting into Galveston Bay already. Seabirds and wildlife are threatened by it, also the shrimp breeding grounds. God knows how much oil spill will wash ashore."

"This is a disaster," Paula said unsteadily.

"I can't hear you, Paula!" Dale Stevens bellowed.

"I said it's a catastrophe. We're going to have everybody on our backs from the ecology people to—I dread to think who else. The families of the crew members—those poor people must be taken care of, Dale, as I'm sure you know without my telling you. Financial compensation will be small comfort. Listen, do you want me to fly over? I don't know what I could do, though, except give you moral support."

"No, no, Paula, there's hardly any point in that. I'm handling everything. I've been in touch with the insurance company. It's going to cost us millions of dollars to do a concentrated cleanup."

"How much?"

"Don't know. Depends on the spill, the damage it does. It could be anywhere between five and ten million dollars to do a proper job."

Paula caught her breath, aghast at the figure, then said, "To hell with what it costs. We have to do it. Stay in touch, Dale. 1 want to know how such an explosion could possibly happen. We've had such a good safety record."

"Nobody's immune. That's the oil business. I'll call you tomorrow, perhaps even later tonight if I have any further news."

The line was clearer now, his voice coming over as if he was speaking from around the corner.

"I'll be home all evening," Paula said. "And, Dale, do everything you can for those bereaved families."

"It's already in the works."

"This is going to be a stain on our record."

"I know, honey. I'm going to have to hang up. Situation is pressing here."

"Dale, one more thing... you haven't told me which tanker it was."

"Sorry, Paula. It's the Emeremm III. I'm very sorry, honey."

Paula put down the phone and fell back against the chair, feeling sick inside. Her face was grim.

Agnes said worriedly, "I got the gist of your conversation, Mrs. Fairley. One of the Sitex oil tankers sank." This assertion came out sounding like a question.

Paula nodded, gave her secretary the details, then explained, 'The Emeremm 111 was named for my grandmother. She once owned a company called Emeremm and my grandfather loved the name-^it's a contraction of emeralds and Emma. His favorite stone and his favorite lady." She unsuccessfully attempted a smile. "It was he who launched the first

Emercmm, and then the Emeremm II. Ever since then it's been a tradition to have a vessel in the Sitex fleet bearing that name... that very special name."

"I am sorry, Mrs. Fairley," Agnes sympathized. "I know how proud you are of the company's safety record. This is just awful."

'Thank you, Agnes," Paula murmured. "It's a dreadful blow, especially since there has been a loss of lives." Pulling herself together, she exhaled, drew her pad toward her. "I'd better draft a telex to my grandmother." As she picked up her pen, Paula shivered, felt a quiver run up her spine. Although she was not superstitious by nature, she had a strange presentiment that disaster loomed. The explosion in the Emeremm III was a bad omen.