It was winter, and the lakefront was deserted. The marina stood silent, housing only a few boats crusted with snow and ice; and the wooden docks that in summer would be crowded with fishermen and tourists now looked like two forgotten stacks of storm battered logs.

As she stood on the beach in the January dusk and stared out at Lake Huron, Caren Bryant Ashley only briefly noted the bleakness and desolation of her surroundings. Then, suddenly, her imagination transformed the scene before her and she saw it the way her husband would paint it--an abstract symphony of pearly gray and midnight blue, of ebony and silver and pure white, these stark colors contrasting with the warm rose and flaming orange of the sunset beyond. Tate would capture the fragile beauty of the scene, Caren thought ... the lacy foam of the whitecaps hurling and splashing against the ridge of ice and black rocks at the shore, the delicate patterns of the large, fluffy snowflakes that danced over the waves.

Tate's powerful, callused hands with their blunt, square-tipped fingers were surprisingly skilled in depicting intricate detail. Those same hands were equally skilled in making love, Caren mused. Even after more than three years of marriage, Tate's lightest caress could ignite a white-hot flame of desire inside her innermost being.

As she continued to gaze at the landscape, imbuing it with the haunting lyricism that characterized all of her husband's canvases, Caren marveled at how interconnected she and Tate had become. She could share his vision, if not his talent. Not that she wanted to be a painter herself; she was proud of Caren' s Crafts, the shop where she and her partner, David Halstead, sold their own and other local potters' creations to the townspeople of Russelton, Ontario, and to the tourists who flocked to the beautiful countryside. Yet Tate had influenced her work, too, Caren reflected. The wall hanging she had completed today and was bringing home to show him was her first real work of art, more decorative than functional.

Perhaps when Tate saw the wall hanging and realized the extent of his influence on her, he would start painting again. He hadn't completed a canvas since September, since she'd lost the baby he had wanted so much.

Caren shivered and tugged at the drawstrings of the hood to her caramel-colored wool jacket. Yet she knew it wasn't the cold air or falling snow that made her cheeks sting as if all the blood had drained from them. The fleece-lined hood and her thick red hair provided ample insulation against the Canadian winter; it was the painful memory of her miscarriage in the fourth month of pregnancy and the ensuing estrangement between herself and Tate that made her feel like a frozen statue.

No! Caren blinked back the tears that filmed her wide emerald eyes and tossed her head defiantly. She hadn't come here to wallow in self-pity and guilt, or to mourn the lost child she had pictured so many times. She felt sure it would have had Tate's laughing blue eyes and jet-black hair. Caren sighed and, hands deep in her pockets, moved on.

She hadn't come to mourn the disintegration of her marriage either, she reminded herself. Rather, she was here to take courage from the elements, the courage she would need to make a new beginning with Tate, to recapture the intimacy, love, and passion they'd once shared.

"I love you, Tate Ashley, and I'm going to fight to get you back," she said into the frosty air. Then, resolutely, she turned and marched back toward the parking lot where she had left her blue Mazda. She was going home to the husband she loved, wanted, and needed. She was determined to bring back the laughter and the sharing and the beating of two hearts as one in passion's glow.

Tate Ashley glanced once more at the square white wall clock as its black hands ticked past five-forty. Caren was late. Probably the snow had delayed her. Just because she had entered the house at exactly five-thirty each day for months didn't mean that anything was wrong if she was a few minutes late. She was a good driver, and having grown up across the lake in Michigan, she was used to driving in snowstorms. She could even put the car into a skid. In fact, she enjoyed it.

He recalled riding with her in the city during the first year of their marriage. At that time she'd owned a red English sports car that she drove much too fast. One day she'd taken him up a side street fresh with virgin snow and skidded till the car was broadside across the road. At first he had panicked, but then he'd spotted the mischievous glint in her green eyes.

After straightening out the car and coming to a stop, she had laughed and said, "Scared you, darling?"

"Darn right," he'd drawled, pretending to be cool. "Who showed you how to do that?"

"My uncle from Flint, Michigan. He taught me to drive."

"Well, at least I'll never have to worry about you driving in the snow," he'd said.

But now he was worried. It had been bad enough losing their child, but if anything ever happened to Caren...

He put down the pencil he had been using in a futile attempt to translate an idea onto the canvas. Then he stared at the colorful, fanlike arrangement of acrylic paint tubes that Caren had given him for Christmas. She kept giving him paints or brushes, an incentive to work. But he wasn't painting anymore. He spent most of his time arranging the tubes in some fancy design, or reading books. He'd gone through a pile of mysteries, detective stories, and even westerns in an effort to escape his thoughts.

Lately his creative energy seemed to find its only outlet in cooking. Although he and Caren had begun their marriage by sharing the household chores, he had always been the better cook; and after the miscarriage he hadn't wanted her to top off a strenuous day at the shop by exerting herself in the kitchen. He knew how much Caren's Crafts meant to her, yet he had assumed she would take a leave of absence when, after a year of trying, she'd finally become pregnant with the baby they'd both wanted so badly. It was then, actually, that he'd taken on the lion's share of the housework. With her porcelain skin and delicate bone structure, Caren had always seemed so fragile to him. "My angel," he often whispered to her during their lovemaking; for despite her voluptuous curves, she'd always had a certain ethereal quality about her.

He couldn't understand why she had seemed to resent his protectiveness during the pregnancy, or why she had rejected his overtures at lovemaking after the miscarriage. Surely she didn't feel that he had used her sexually. He hadn't touched her once he knew she was carrying his child, and afterward he had followed the doctor's advice and waited six weeks. Perhaps she hadn't been ready then. But last month, the way she'd said, almost hysterically, "I'm not safe now, Tate," and then exploded when he'd suggested it might not be a bad idea if she did get pregnant again...

He'd only thought that a healthy, full-term baby would banish her grief. No, he admitted to himself, he hadn't been thinking solely of his wife; he very much wanted a child himself. But what about Caren? Didn't she want his baby anymore? She was always so eager to be off to that shop she ran with David Halstead.

Halstead. Was she with him now? Tate glanced at the clock; it was after six. Perhaps they ... No, he would not be a jealous, suspicious husband. Still, it had come as a shock two weeks ago when David had casually revealed that he and Caren had dated in the early days of their partnership. Of course, Tate hadn't even known Caren then, and she'd assured him later that there had been nothing in it. But Tate couldn't help thinking that David had been her first choice and that he had only been a substitute for the man she really wanted. Caren had been looking for a serious relationship, and Halstead was something of a playboy. Then he, Tate, had come along, also seeking a commitment. No, he hadn't been Caren's second choice, he chided himself. They had fallen in love. And yet--

"Stop it," he ordered himself as he strode to the kitchen and turned down the oven. He had planned a special dinner tonight, a duplicate of the first meal he'd ever cooked for Caren: baked Cornish hens in his own special orange sauce, wild rice with mushrooms, tossed salad. Even the wine he had bought in town today was the same vintage Burgundy he had served that night.

A lovely romantic dinner to reestablish their intimacy, he had thought. He had even gone to the florist and arranged a colorful bouquet as a centerpiece for the kitchen table. He had polished the silver and taken out the good china.

Where the hell was Caren? He stalked to the telephone and called the shop, but there was no answer. Pushing aside the curtain, he looked out of the kitchen window and saw that the snow was falling faster now. He hoped she was safe. She meant so much to him, despite their present alienation, and he intended to woo her and win her all over again, starting tonight. Stop brooding, he commanded himself. He'd better baste the hens again; she'd surely be home soon. And if she hadn't arrived in another fifteen minutes he'd call the police, the hospital...

He had just picked up the receiver when he heard the front door slam.

"Caren!" he called, relief flooding through his veins and warming him like a fine wine.

"No-o-o, it's the Snow Queen," she called cheerily.

Rushing out to the hall, he impulsively caught her up in a fierce embrace, unmindful of her bulky coat, the melting snow.

"Angel," he breathed against her ear. "I was so worried about you. What happened? Did the car stall? Were the roads blocked? Di--"

She stopped him with a kiss. Her lips were so cold that he automatically drew back.

"Aren't you going to warm me up?" she asked archly. "All the way home from the lake, I was thinking about kissing you, about the feel of your lips on mine. You're always so deliciously warm..." Her voice trailed off uncertainly. She had wanted to let him know that she was ready to reestablish their physical intimacy, ready to make love to him again. Why did her words sound so artificial, so stiff?

"The lake!" Tate felt his relief turn to angry astonishment. "That's where you've been all this time? Don't you have any common sense, Caren? The snowstorm--"

"It wasn't a storm when I left the shop," she broke in defensively. Damn, she thought, I wanted to start off on a lighthearted note, but it's all wrong, wrong ... So make it right, an inner voice ordered.

She shrugged off her coat and quickly hung it in the closet. "I'm sorry, Tate. I should have called."

"It's all right," he said in a conciliatory tone. Hell, the last thing he wanted to do was start a quarrel. But had she really gone to the lake in this weather?

"No, I was inconsiderate," she apologized. "And now I'm so darned cold. Tate, hug me again."

He drew her to him, planting hot, moist kisses on each of her cheeks, then seeking her lips. His questing tongue was first tentative, then urgent as she seemed to melt into him, and he reveled in the feel of the soft swell of her breasts against his chest.

A loud buzz sounded through the still house. "What on earth?" Caren broke away, startled.

"It's only the timer. For dinner. I thought we'd have a glass of wine, talk for an hour or so, and then..." Inwardly, Tate groaned. The mood was broken now.

"Oh, Tate, there's something I want to show you before dinner. I left it in the car. It will just take a second."

"Never mind, Caren. I--" But Caren was already putting her coat back on. He'd better remove those hens from the oven before they dried out. With a heavy sigh, Tate returned to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, Caren entered the house a second time. Clutching the plastic bag containing the wall hanging behind her back, she rehung her coat and walked toward the kitchen, gazing around her at the house she shared with Tate. Almost the entire first floor was a studio filled with easels and benches covered with paints, bottles, brushes, and rags. Canvases were stacked backward around the cedar walls. One whole wall was a giant window with a glorious view of the bay and the little town of Russelton. The ceiling reached into a high cavern of cedar. Skylights that in daytime reflected the natural light downward were beaded with moisture from the melted snow. A small area around a gray stone fireplace was strewn with fluffy off-white rugs and bright red cushions. Music speakers were set up at either side of the fireplace. The armchair she'd brought from home and covered with red velour stood nearby. She recalled her first visit to what was then Tate's house, when she'd spotted only one stool.

"Don't you have any chairs?" she had asked.

"I'm a floor person," Tate had said. "Besides, I live on a shoestring."

"Oh, I live on money," she had quipped, and they'd both laughed.

Now Tate came out of the kitchen and stood close to her. She could smell the male essence of him: the slight whiff of expensive after shave he favored, the detergent-smelling soap he used to wash his hands after working in his studio. He was wearing a tight pair of black cords and a loose gray sweat shirt that had seen better days; its stretched-out neckline emphasized the strength of his throat and his lean jaw, dark with stubble. His straight black hair was slightly ruffled and quite long, partially covering his ears and neck. He looked tough.

A delicious aroma filled her nostrils as she followed him wordlessly into the kitchen. Seeing the flowers, china, and silver, she was about to compliment Tate on his dinner preparations, but then she checked herself. She didn't want to make him feel too much the househusband or to strike a false, calculated note. The dinner would no doubt be excellent--Tate was really a gifted chef--and she would find a graceful opening for praise without seeking one in advance. For now, it would be better to show him her wall hanging and let understanding and closeness flow from that.

"This is what I wanted you to see," she said, quickly withdrawing the wool and pottery creation from the bag and holding it out to Tate. She felt a glow of pleasure as she again examined the little ceramic shell-like shapes she had fashioned with her thumb and artistically arranged among the wool and macrame. Last summer, Tate had used a shell motif in several of his paintings; and she'd deliberately chosen the yarn in autumn hues--warm brown, soft gold, and vibrant vermilion--in honor of their late October wedding. The leaves had been just those colors, and Tate had joked that it was a specially brilliant fall in celebration of their nuptials. He'd chosen the same colors for the flower arrangements in the church...

Caren's memory transported her back to their wedding day. She had been dressed in white lace, chosen because she'd wanted the best for the man she loved so much. Tate wore a navy suit that hugged his lean, muscular body, and he'd had his thick hair trimmed. Caren had loved him even more for those gestures because it was Tate's philosophy to reject most of the trappings of civilization, and suits and haircuts were two of them.

They'd exchanged gold bands in a little stone church, oblivious to the rustle of the congregation as they stared into each other's eyes and pledged their adoration. Before they left the church, when they were really married, Caren, her green eyes brimming with tears, lifted her hand to trace Tate's features--his black eyebrows, almost perfectly shaped over his long-lashed blue eyes, his straight nose, his firm mouth.

Tate did the same to her, his fingertips trembling over her pert nose and full generous mouth.

"I love you," he'd said huskily. "I love you so much."

They'd honeymooned in the United States, spending the first night in a motel near Buffalo. Caren smiled unwillingly to herself at the memory.

"The walls are so thin," Tate had whispered, his hot naked body covering her, his passion familiar to her but subtly different because they were married now.

Caren giggled.

"Shush, someone will hear us."

"You'll have to stuff the pillow in my mouth."

Tate had complied, and their play added excitement to their passionate lovemaking.

They had traveled through the New England states, the trees a halo of burnt oranges and reds, lakes and rivers glistening like diamonds in the crisp fall air. They'd stopped when they felt tired, eaten when they were hungry, made love when they wanted...

"Very nice, Caren. But I'll admire it later. Our dinner is getting cold."

Tate's flat tones brought her back to the present with a painful jolt, and Caren realized she was still holding the wall hanging stiffly before her. Tate hadn't taken it, and his face was closed, his jaw tense.

He hates the shop and everything I do there, she thought bitterly. I failed to give him a child, and that's all he cares about. Maybe he only married me because he wanted a baby so much. And why does he? He never confides in me. And then there's all that tension between him and his father that he won't talk about.

She hasn't said a word about the meal, the table, he thought painfully. All she can think about is my failure as a painter. She brings her own work home as a reproach to me, and my "domestic accomplishments" embarrass her. She questions my manhood, just the way my father does.

Caren had vowed to fight for Tate's love, for their marriage, she reminded herself, and here she was ready to give up at the first rebuff. But she wouldn't give up.

"Tate? I thought ... Well, never mind. But I want you to know, I love you." There! It might have been awkward, but she'd said it. She'd expressed her feelings, though she didn't understand his attitude.

His eyes softened as he pulled out her chair for her with a gallant flourish that reminded Caren of the first night he'd invited her here for dinner. That dinner--Cornish hens in orange sauce, wild rice, the Burgundy. She examined the bottle closely; it was the same year.

"Oh, Tate, just like--"

"Caren, angel, I love you, too, so much."

They spoke simultaneously, then laughed. It was the first genuine laughter they had shared in four months.

As Caren unfolded the napkin in her lap, she saw Tate staring at the wall hanging, which she'd laid on the table.

"You've used a variation of my shell motif," he said slowly, "and the use of our wedding colors was deliberate, wasn't it?" His blue eyes held hers tenderly.

"Of course," she said. "And this dinner..."

"My tribute to you, to us." With a loud pop, he pulled the cork from the wine bottle and filled her glass, then his own.

"To us," she echoed, as they raised their glasses in a toast.

"We're like the couple in the O. Henry story. She cut off her hair and sold it to buy him a watch-chain."

"And he sold his watch to buy her a fancy comb for her hair," Caren finished, her eyes misting with tears.

"You planned--"

"The best-laid plans--"

"Oh, Caren. I want to ... I mean I..." Damn, don't make it seem as if you're panting after her, he rebuked himself. But he was. Only it was love that drove him as much as it was the magnetic pull of her body, her sensual hips, her soft, full lips.

"I understand. I feel the same way. But then your wonderful dinner will really get cold. And I won't be able to say I'm stuffed, and you won't be able to deliver your punchline about knowing the perfect no-calorie dessert."

"I always wondered if you thought that was a crude approach. It wasn't planned, you know."

"I thought it was the most natural thing in the world--and the most beautiful. I miss that spontaneity in our relationship now, Tate."

"Relationship?" His eyes were indigo with mock indignation. "Lady, this is no relationship; this is a marriage!"

Raising her wineglass to her lips, Caren said huskily, "To marriage, then--our marriage!" There were no words to describe her feeling of joy when he joined her in the toast.