aula woke on Friday morning to the sound of raised masculine voices and raucous laughter echoing outside.

She sat up in bed with a start and rubbed her eyes, blinking in the faint light, for a moment disoriented and wondering where she was. Then she remembered. Of course, she was at Shane's barn near New Milford. Glancing at her small traveling clock on the white wicker bedside table, she saw to her surprise that it was almost ten. She found it hard to believe she had overslept, and by four hours. Normally she was up and dressed by six o'clock every day.

Bounding out of bed, feeling rested and filled with energy, she padded over to the window, parted the red cotton twill curtains, looked down into the yard. Just below her, two men stood talking near a pile of lumber.

Shane was out of her line of vision, but she knew he was there when she heard him say, "Listen, you guys, keep the noise clown, will you please? My lady friend is still asleep. And when I say lady, I do mean lady—so watch your language."

Half-smiling, she turned away and looked around the bedroom with interest. She had been too tired last night to pay much attention. Now she realized how charming it was, small and quaint, with white walls that stopped at a floor painted bright red, and a few pieces of white-wicker furniture. But it xvas the brass bed covered with a patchwork quilt that dominated the space.

Gliding into the adjoining minuscule bathroom, Paula took a quick shower, brushed her hair, put on lipstick and mascara, went back into the bedroom. She dressed in a pair of blue jeans, a pink cotton shirt, and a heavy purple sweater, then pulled a pair of knee-high red-leather boots on over the jeans. After strapping on her watch, she ran downstairs to the kitchen.

This was large, country in feeling, with rustic beams and wall-hung copper utensils, but there was every modern appliance, and it was spotless. It looked to her as if it had just been freshly cleaned. The white cabinets and countertops, along the white walls, gleamed brightly in the sunshine that filtered in through two small windows where blue-and-white checked curtains hung in crisp, starched folds. She peered out. Shane and the men were nowhere in sight.

Paula sniffed. There was a lovely aroma of coffee in the air and, spotting the bubbling percolator, she began opening cupboards, looking for a mug. She found one, filled it, then strolled through into the main living area of the barn.

She came to a halt halfway down the long expanse of space, her eyes sweeping around, trying to take in everything at once, knowing this was virtually impossible. She needed days to absorb everything Shane had accomplished here. It had looked lovely last night; this morning, filled with sunlight, it was breathtaking.

Only one room, he had said, as they were driving up from Manhattan. But what a room it was—huge, spectacular in its dimensions, with a high ceiling of exposed rafters intersected by crossbeams, a picture window on a long wall, and a gargantuan stone fireplace. A fire already blazed up the chimney, the big logs hissing and spitting.

She stepped over to the baby grand and sat down on the stool, sipping the coffee, continuing to glance up and down. He had positioned the piano in the exact center of the room, and she understood why. It created a natural demarcation between the seating arrangement next to the fireplace and the dining area near the kitchen. The color scheme was primarily white, the coolness warmed by dark wood tones. The walls had been whitewashed; two huge Chesterfield sofas and the big armchairs were upholstered in heavy white twill; the draperies matched there were white area rugs on the polished wood floor. But pictures, prints, books, and plants added splashes of livelier color against the white background.

Shane had told her he had gone antiquing in the area, had stumbled on some genuinely good pieces. Now her eyes rested on two handsome chests she had not really noticed last night, moved on to regard a Coromandel screen that was obviously very old and rare. Its decorative panels made a striking backdrop for the mahogany dining table. I bet that screen cost a fortune, she. thought.

A feeling of dismay trickled through her.

It was quite apparent that he had spent a great deal of money on the barn, not to mention time and effort. Shane had explained that most of the basic remodeling had been done by Sonny and Elaine Vickers, from whom he had bought the barn. "All I did was put in the cantilevered staircase and the plate-glass window, and add a few other finishing touches to the basic shell before I furnished," he had said.

Nevertheless, in the last few minutes something had registered, and it troubled her. The place had the look of permanence, had been made into a real home for someone who intended to live in it for a long time. Not only that, he was somewhere outside right now with the carpenters, sawing wood for shelves and cupboards. They were intended for the tiny spare room he had shown her and which he had said he was turning into a den for himself.

Did he plan to stay in America forever? Was he never coming back to England? And why did that matter to her?

Paula jumped up abruptly and hurried to the fire. She seated herself in an overstuffed armchair and placed the mug on the hearth. Her eyes fell on his cigarettes and lighter and, although she rarely smoked, she took one, lit it, sat smoking, thinking hard about the previous evening. They had arrived at nine o'clock, just as the thunderstorm had hit the area. They had been drenched after making several trips to the car to collect the bag of groceries and their suitcases, and he had insisted she change into dry clothes, immediately shooing her upstairs.

Twenty minutes later she had come back down and had stood hovering on the threshold of this room, admiring it. In her absence he had turned on all the lamps, lit the fire. The baronial expanse seemed more intimate, suffused in a warm and welcoming glow and reverberating with the strains of Bob Dylan's "Blowin" in the Wind." After wandering over to the fireplace, she had swung around to stand with her back to it, an old habit. At that very moment she had been surprised to see him emerge from the kitchen, carrying two drinks, looking spruced up and fresh in a pristine white shirt and blue jeans.

"You've been quick, doing all this and changing as well," she had exclaimed. He had given her a cheeky grin. 'Training will out, as they say, and I was trained by a hard-assed general in a tough army camp, remember." She had retorted in mock reproof, "Emma Harte hard-assed! That's not a very nice thing to say about my distinguished grandmother." Handing her the vodka and tonic, Shane had clinked his glass against hers, then asserted, "Emma would appreciate my description of her, even if you don't."

They had begun to reminisce about Heron's Nest then, laughing a lot and teasing each other, and later he had brought out a huge platter of smoked salmon and a tray of cheeses. They had sat on the floor, eating off the coffee table in front of the fire, washing down their light supper with ice-cold Pouilly Fumd. And they had talked endlessly, late into the night, and about so many varied things, content to be together, at ease and comfortable in their companionship.

Toward the end of the evening Shane had noticed that she kept rubbing her neck, and in answer to his concerned glance, she had volunteered, "It's stiff—from sitting long hours at my desk, I've no doubt. It's nothing. Really." Without saying a word, he had knelt behind her, massaged her shoulders, her nape, and the base of her skull.

Recalling the scene, Paula remembered the "pleasure she had felt as Shane's strong, hard fingers had kneaded her aching muscles, drawn the tension out of her. She had not wanted him to stop. And later, when he had given her a chaste good night peck on the cheek outside her bedroom door, she had felt a compulsion to put her arms around his neck. She had gone in swiftly, closed the door, her cheeks flaming.

Paula sat up in the chair with a jerk. Last night she had been baffled at herself. Now she understood. She had wanted Shane to touch her, to kiss her. Face it. Your so-called sisterly feelings toward him aren't very fraternal. Not anymore. They're sexual. You're sexually attracted to him.

This last thought so startled and shocked Paula, she leapt to her feet, threw the cigarette into the fire, and almost ran across to the picture window.

She stood staring out at the landscape, hardly aware of its beauty as she tried to calm herself. She must put aside these new and extraordinary feelings he had aroused in her. They shook her up, distressed her. And she had no right to be interested in Shane O'Neill—she was married. Besides, she was only his childhood friend, nothing more in his eyes.

Endeavoring to nudge thoughts of him out of her mind, she discovered that they refused to budge. They nagged at her, and then the image of Shane as he had looked last night danced before her eyes. He had seemed different, and yet his appearance and manner were exactly the same as they always were. Then it dawned on her. It was she who was different— and she had been looking at him through newly objective, newly perceptive eyes.

Why am 1 suddenly so aware of Shane? Because he is handsome, virile, amusing, and charming? Or because he exudes such sex appeal? But he always has, he hasn't changed. Besides, blatant sex appeal makes no impression on me. His sexuality isn't blatant, though. It simply exists as an integral part of him. My God, I must be insane, thinking in this way about Shane. Anyway, I'm not interested in sex. It turns me off. Jim has seen to that.

A little shiver ran through Paula. Jim loomed up in front of her. Merry had an expression she used to describe certain men. She called them 'the wham bam thank-you-ma'am chaps.' How apt. Paula sighed heavily, blinked in the sunshine as it pierced through the window, a blinding cataract of brilliant light. Her thoughts remained on Jim. Shane's image was demolished.

Yesterday afternoon, around two o'clock, she had telephoned Long Meadow. It had been seven in the evening in England. She had spoken to Jim, but only briefly. He had been pleasant, bland as always, but hurried, on his way out to dinner, he had informed her. He had quickly passed her over to Nora, so that she could chat to the nurse about her babies, get all the news. She missed Lome and Tessa terribly. When she had asked Nora to put her husband back on the line, Nora had said that he had already left the house. Paula could hardly believe that he had not waited to say good-bye to her. Furious with him, she had hung up. Then the depression had set in. Seemingly Jim had forgotten their confrontation last Sunday—and what it had been about.

My God, that's less than a week ago, she thought, as the picture of them standing in the garden flashed through her head with startling clarity. Something had died in her that day. It would never be reborn. Jim had been dense, dismissive, cavalier in his attitude. And, yes, irresponsible and indifferent to her, almost callous, now that she thought about it again. He simply didn't care about her emotions, her thoughts, her needs. Once more she acknowledged that he and she were incompatible. And on every possible level, not only sexually. If sex were their only problem she would be able to cope. His attitude on the phone had only reinforced her sense of despair about him. The last vestiges of her commitment to her marriage had been swept away, and she had turned to the papers on her desk, thankful that she had so much business to occupy her.

My work and the children... that's where I shall direct all of my energies from now on, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time. Hurrying back to the hearth, she picked up the mug, headed for the kitchen. It was high time she went outside to find.Shane, to wish him good morning and ask about their plans for the rest of the day. But he was already in the kitchen, pouring himself a mug of coffee. "So there you are!" he exclaimed. "I bet my chaps woke you up, rowdy devils!"

Paula gaped at him, instantly conscious of his rough clothing. He was wearing shapeless, baggy corduroys, heavy work boots, a bulky fisherman's sweater, and a cloth cap set at a rakish angle on his black curls. She began to laugh, shaking her head.

"What's the matter?" he demanded, frowning, his eyes clouding.

"Your clothes!" she spluttered. "You look like an Irish navvy!"

"My dear girl, hasn't anybody told you that that's exactly what I am? Just like my grandfather."

Later in the morning they drove into New Milford.

On their way down the hill, Shane pointed out the farm where his friends Sonny and Elaine Vickers lived, told her in passing that he had invited them over for dinner that night. "He's a musician, she's a writer. They're lots of fun, you'll like them," he said, and then went on to discuss the menu with her.

By the time they were parking the car they had agreed on what she would cook—an old-fashioned North Country dinner with all the trimmings. They would start with Yorkshire pudding, have leg of lamb, roast potatoes, and Brussels sprouts for the main course, finish with an English trifle.

They went to the farm stands and various markets, bought fresh vegetables, fruit, the lamb and various other meats for the weekend, and spices, fancy candles, and armfuls of bronze and gold chrysanthemums. They staggered down Main Street,, their arms laden, laughing and joking, their hilarity high.

On the return journey, Paula realized that she was being her normal self with Shane, as he was with her. But then why wouldn't he he? He couldn't read her mind, and even if he could, there was now nothing unusual to read—only friendly, affectionate thoughts, happy remembrances of their youthful past. Fortunately those strange and disturbing feelings he had evoked in her last night had entirely disappeared in the last few hours. Shane was just her old chum, her good friend, and part of the family., Everything was normal again. She felt weak with the relief.

Once they were back at the barn, Shane unpacked their purchases and put them away, while she arranged the flowers in two large stone pots. As they worked, he said, "I'm afraid it's another picnic for lunch. Is that okay with you, Beanstalk?"

"Of course. But what about your carpenters? Don't you have to feed them?"

"No. They brought their own sandwiches and they told me they were going to eat at noon, while we were out shopping. But I wonder where they are? They were supposed to start putting up some of the shelves—it's awfully silent." He began to laugh as the sound of hammering floated down from the upper floor. "I spoke too soon, it seems. They're obviously hard at it."

Lunch, eaten in front of the fire in the main room, consisted of ripe Brie cheese, thick chunks of French bread, fruit, and a bottle of red wine. At one moment Paula looked across at Shane and said, "Are you planning to live in the States for the rest of your life?"

"Why do you ask that?" He wondered why it mattered to her.

Glancing around, she said, "This place has the look of a permanent residence, and you've obviously put a lot of care and money into it."

"Yes, and it's been very therapeutic for me, coming up here whenever I could, working on the place. It's given me something to do at weekends, in my spare time. I don't have many friends, no real social life to speak of. Besides, you know I've always enjoyed rebuilding old places." He lolled back in the chair, his eyes resting on her thoughtfully. "Winston and I turned a tidy profit when we sold those old cottages we renovated in Yorkshire, and I know I'll do the same here, when the time comes for me to sell the barn." He continued to observe her. Was that relief in her eyes, or was he imagining things?

"What's going to happen to Beck House? I mean, now that Winston and Emily are getting married?" Paula asked curiously.. "When Winston was in New York he said he and Emily wanted to live there for a while, to see if Emily liked it. If she does,

he'll buy me out. If she doesn't—" Shane shrugged. "There's no problem, we'll probably continue to share it as a weekend place. Or we'll put it up for sale."

"Winston told me he's asked you to be his best man."

Shane nodded.

"And I'm going to be Emily's matron of honor."

"Yes, I know."

"Won't you be in England before then, Shane?"

There it was again, that peculiar concerned expression in her eyes. He said, "I've no idea, Paula. As I explained the other day, Dad wants me to spend the Christmas season in Jamaica and Barbados, and I might just have to go to Australia next February or March."

"Australia!" She sat up straighteron the sofa, looking puzzled.

"Yes. Blackie's taken a shine to Sydney, and several times, when he's spoken to Dad lately, he has urged him to build a hotel there. I spoke to the old man yesterday morning, and he's actually received a letter from Grandpops about that very thing. So—I may have to go over there, scout the place."

"Blackie's as bad as Grandy. Don't those two ever stop thinking about business?"

"Do you? Or do I, for that matter?" He chuckled. "We're a couple of chips off a couple of old blocks, wouldn't you say?"

"I suppose so." She leaned forward, her face suddenly intent. "Do you think I work too hard?"

"Of course I don't. Anyway, it's your nature to be a worker, Paula. It's also the way you were reared—as I was reared. I don't have much time for parasites. Frankly, I'd go crazy if I had lots of free time on my hands. I love being out in the marketplace, love the rough-and-tumble, the wheeling and dealing, and so do you. There's another thing—I get a lot of gratification knowing I'm continuing the family business started by Grandpops, and you have to feel exactly the same way."

"I do."

"It's expected of us both... Duty has been beaten into us since our births; we wouldn't know any other way to live. Look, our respective grandparents devoted their lives to build-

ing two great business empires, strived to give us better lives than they had in the beginning, and financial security, and independence and power. How—"

"Jim says the pursuit of power leads to isolation, the death of human values and the death of the soul," Paula interjected.

This was the first time she had mentioned Jim since she had arrived in New York and Shane was momentarily thrown. He cleared his throat. He had no desire to discuss her husband but knew he had to make some sort of response. "And you? Do you agree?"

"No, actually, I don't. Wasn't it Lord Acton who said power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely? That's what Jim was getting at, I think. But to hell with Lord Acton, whoever he was. 1 prefer Emma Harte's philosophy. She says power only corrupts when those who have it will do anything to hang on to it..Grandy says that power can be ennobling, if one understands that power is a tremendous responsibility. And especially to others. I happen to agree with her, not Jim. I do feel responsible, Shane. To Gran, to our employees and shareholders. And to myself."

Shane nodded. "You're right, and so is Emma. I was going to say, a moment ago, how ungrateful and even unconscionable we would be if we were indifferent to our inheritances, turned away from them. It would be negating Blackie and Emma, and all their superhuman efforts." He stood up, glanced at the clock. "It's almost four, and since we're on the subject of responsibility, I'd better go and find my chaps, pay them, tell them to knock off."

Paula also rose, picked up the luncheon tray. "The day's disappeared! I should start preparing the food for dinner."

As they went out, Shane looked down at her, flashed his cheeky grin. "And for your information, Beanstalk, Lord Acton was an English historian, a devout Catholic, a Liberal member of Parliament and close friend of Gladstone's."

"That's nice to know," she said, laughing, and walked into the kitchen.

After stacking the dishwasher, Paula peeled the potatoes, cleaned the sprouts, prepared the lamb, smearing it with butter, adding pepper and dried rosemary leaves. Once the trifle was made and had been placed in the refrigerator, she beat flour, eggs, and milk into a batter for the Yorkshire pudding, humming happily to herself. Shane poked his bead around the door several times during the hour she was working, volunteering to help, but she declined his offer, told him to scoot. She was enjoying herself in much the same way she took pleasure in gardening, using her hands instead of her brain for a change. Therapeutic, she thought, recalling his words about working on the barn.

When she eventually went back into the main room she noticed that he had laid the table for dinner, stacked piles of logs on one end of the hearth, put Beethoven's Ninth on the stereo. But he was nowhere in sight. Paula curled up on the sofa comfortably, listening to the symphony, feeling relaxed and even a little drowsy. She yawned. It's the wine. I'm not used to it at lunchtime, she thought, closing her eyes. It had been a lovely day, the nicest she had spent in a long time, and free of tension, verbal fencing. It was a relief to be herself, not to be constantly on the defensive, as she so often was with Jim.

Shane made her jump when he said, "Now, how about that walk?"

Sitting up, she covered her mouth with her hand, yawning repeatedly. "Sorry. I feel so sleepy. Do you mind if we scrap the walk for today?"

He stood near the sofa, hovering over her. "No. I'm wacked myself. I was up at the crack of dawn." He did not add that he'd hardly slept, knowing she was in the room opposite his, so near and yet so far removed from him. He had wanted her very much last night, had longed to hold her in his arms. He said, "Why don't you have a nap?"

"I think I will. But what are you going to do?"

"I've a few more chores, a couple of phone calls to make, and then I'll probably do the same."

She settled back against the cushions, smiling to herself as he went out, whistling under his breath. As she half-dozed she remembered she had not yet tackled him about his behavior over the last eighteen months. Oh, there's plenty of time, all weekend, she thought. I'll do it another day. Something stirred at the back of her mind. It was an incomplete thought and it slid away before she could fully grasp it. She sighed contentedly, felt herself being enveloped by the music and the warmth. Within seconds she was fast asleep.