1

The evening breeze was gentle, softly whispering "Chl… ooo… eeeee…" as the long-legged vision in white whisked across the dusky lawn, her dark hair streaming behind her, and ran lithely up the broad stone steps.

"Chloe! There you are. I was beginning to worry." A man stepped from beneath the deep brick overhang and fell into easy step beside her as they passed through a large oak door into the high school and headed down a long corridor.

"I'm sorry, Howard," she said, meaning it. Howard Wolschinski was the state senator who had first sought her services. After three meetings, she had come to like him. "I'd hoped to be on the road by four, but, I swear, there was a conspiracy against me. First the phone, then my car."

"Anything major with either?" he asked.

"No on both counts. But I didn't clear Little Compton until five, and by that time the rush-hour traffic was horrid. I drove as fast as I could. I hope I haven't messed things up."

"You haven't. The meeting was called for seven thirty. You're only five minutes late. It's given the crowd a chance to settle down." He guided her around a corner with a light hand at her elbow and began the climb as soon as they reached a staircase.

At the first landing, Chloe asked, "How's the turnout?"

He grinned sheepishly. "I only wish we did half as well at political rallies. This is a welcome change from apathy. The auditorium is packed. There must be several hundred people in there."

Chloe was surprised and decidedly pleased. "Several hundred? Not bad for a county meeting in New Hampshire." She smiled, lowering her voice dramatically. "But which side are they on? Are they for us or agin' us?"

Her humor drifted unanswered into the stale schoolhouse air as Howard ushered her into the meeting hall, led her onto the stage, and gestured her into a seat. He took one by her side. As though on cue, the crowd silenced and the moderator began.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said in a voice made flat by its broad New England slant, "on behalf of my friends and, uh"—he cast an encompassing glance backward, then turned a cough into a snicker, bringing chuckles from the audience—"adversaries here on the stage with me, I would like to thank you for coming tonight. It's a rare pleasure to see so many of you gathered at once. We realized that the issue of the Rye Beach Resort and Condominium Complex would stir a few of you to action, but we had no idea how many. I don't believe we've had a response like this since that talk of a state prison here a while back."

Chloe was wondering who the man was when Howard whispered, "He's Felix Hart —town manager, commissioner of public safety, President of the United States in his dreams."

She smiled at the quip. Nodding her thanks for the information, she refocused on the speaker.

"… and they listened to us then, just as they listened to us when they mentioned a hazardous waste disposal center six miles from us. And before that, there was the matter of a state sales tax…"

The monologue went on, freeing Chloe for several seconds more. Bending forward, she drew a notebook from her bag and prepared to make notes on the opposition's points. That opposition sat to her left, occupying two chairs on the far side of the one vacated by the moderator. Her peripheral vision took in two men, one significantly taller and darker than the other. They would be the state representative in favor of the complex and the owner of the development company. Chloe knew neither of their names, a situation that was about to be remedied.

"As for the others here tonight," the moderator said, "let me begin with Howard Wolschinsky. You all know Howard, our distinguished state senator." He gestured from Howard to Chloe. "Chloe MacDaniel, geological consultant and one of the founding partners of Earth Science Education, Inc., out of Little Compton, Rhode Island." His hand went toward the other side of the stage. "Bradbury Huff, your state representative"—she jotted the name in her notebook—"and finally, the president of the Hansen Corporation, Ross Stephenson…" R-O-S-S S-T-E—

Chloe stopped writing mid-stroke. Ross Stephenson? Ross Stephenson? She would never forget that name. Heart pounding, she glanced at the fourth member of the panel. He was the taller, darker one. Was it the same Ross Stephenson? This man was nattily dressed and impeccably groomed. The Ross she had known had been bearded and wore faded jeans, high boots, and a peasant shirt of Indian cotton. Eleven years had passed. He might have changed. How could she know?

His eyes. They were the same memorable amber. Eleven years ago they had cut through all pretense and snagged her in the space of a breath. They were just as striking now —and they were looking at her. He knew.

As all else faded, she felt shock, remembrance, pain. Then she tore her eyes from his and lowered them to her paper. P-H-E-N-S-O-N. Ross Stephenson. Unbelievable.

"Are you all right?" Howard whispered, seeming to sense her distress.

Copyright © 1983 by Barbara Delinsky