on his skin. The crowd was speechless. There I was waltzing around with Archie quite calmly. It just doesn’t make sense. It was like I was transformed. McGuire thought we were having him on. He told me to go home and get a good night’s sleep. But it did happen. That’s the mystery. What do you think?”
Then came the shock.
“What?” Chloe, who had been looking out toward the lake whilst she was speaking, shot a startled upward glance at her mother. Her warm voice had clearly sounded in Chloe’s mind.
But Delia Cavanagh’s expression was unchanged. A frisson of something that was almost awe rippled through Chloe’s body from brain to heart to the tip of her toes. Was she going mad? In some way she couldn’t possibly fathom, she was convinced her mother had spoken to her at some level. Some subtle communication.
“Mumma!” She clutched her mother’s hand more tightly, finding what was happening difficult to grasp, but there was no response on her mother’s tranquil face nor did a muscle move.
“Oh, God!” Chloe tried desperately to collect herself before she burst into tears. She wasn’t entirely right in the head. That was it. Psychological damage from severe trauma was a reality of life. Yet she had caught that whisper as it rippled past her ear. She had. She had. What else did she have to cling to but hope? Her faith in God had lessened over this terrible time.
Chloe struggled to her feet, upset and without direction, only, she realised with a rush of sensation, someone was giving her a helping hand. On her feet she stopped abruptly as though she could very easily bump into them. She even rubbed her hands together waiting for the electric little tingle to subside.
“This is insane,” she said out loud, causing a passing nurse to stare at her. Yet there was comfort, an easing of her grief.
Chloe dusted off her jeans and began to push her mother’s wheelchair in the direction of the pretty little summerhouse at the far end of the lake. A beautiful pink rose clambered over the white lattice walls, and the pair of stone deer donated by a patient’s grateful family, flanked the entrance. It was their usual route. What was unusual was her extraordinary notion this third person, this invisible person, accompanied them on their journey. The person who had taken her by the hand.
Spirit power, Chloe thought, giving her mother’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. She was going to have to start saying her prayers again. Renew the communication she so abruptly had broken off with a great and loving God.
Chloe had never taken as much trouble over a party; never spent so much time trying on different dresses, or regarding herself so long and critically in the minor. She was down to two dresses now. The lime green silk, long with a halter neck, or the floral-print chiffon, sleeveless with a ruffle around the crossover V-neck and a sort of handkerchief skirt. Each conveyed a certain look. Cool and classic, or that delicate ethereal look she couldn’t seem to escape. Neither dress was new. She didn’t feel she had the right to spend the money anymore, but they were still in fashion. Maybe the flowered chiffon had the edge. The very feminine look was in and the fabric was beautiful, rose pink peonies with a tracery of jade leaves on a turquoise ground. The chiffon would have to do. She could be the Spring fairy.
A very strange feeling ran through her all the time she dressed. Pleasurable anticipation, normal enough in the circumstances, but she was haunted by the element of sexual awareness. Since when did she find McGuire sexy? Since when was she all atremble at the thought of being close to him? She disliked the man, was highly wary of him and had said so at length. Nevertheless she was excited and it sparkled in her looks.
Chloe opened the front door to McGuire as the grandfather clock in the living room was chiming eight She’d known it was to be a black tie occasion but she hadn’t expected to see him look so—gosh, she couldn’t avoid the word splendid, in evening dress. She almost had to look away.
“Hi,” he offered with dark, gleaming eyes. “You look enchanting.” A rare enough quality, but it was true. Tonight she wore her marvellous hair—red, amber, gold, a combination of all three—in an unfamiliar style. Pulled back off her face and arranged in a thick upturning roll but molten little tendrils sprang out around her face and nape. Her deep blue eyes, large and liquid, had picked up the colour of her dress, her skin was blushed porcelain, her mouth surprisingly full, tender, even a little pouty. He wondered as he always did what it would be like to kiss it, to open soft lips with the tip of his tongue.
She was always immaculately turned out in her little blouses and skirts, the snappy little suits, but he had never seen her in an evening dress before. The frothy shimmering ruffle of the bodice plunged low to reveal the shadowed cleft between her delicate breasts. He had to fight down the irresistible urge to reach for her. He knew she would only recoil in dismay.
“Why, thank you.” She dropped a graceful little bob, some note in his voice had got to her. This was McGuire, remember? Her old combatant and sparring partner. “Would you like to come in for a moment?” Keeping him on the doorstep was impossibly rude.
“Yes, I would.” He stepped across the threshold, looking like someone who could very easily mix it with the mega-rich. “This is a wonderful old house,” he said almost wistfully, glancing down the wide hallway with its glowing parqueted floor and rosy Chinese rug. A circular rosewood library table holding a jade horse on a carved stand and a large crystal bowl massed with white roses stood midway between the graceful arches that led to the formal rooms.
“I love it.” Chloe smiled, standing at his shoulder. “Let me show you through, that’s if we have time.”
“I’d like that.” Amazingly his whole expression had softened. “The house was built by your great-grandfather, I understand.” It had heritage listing he knew.
Chloe paused, lifting her chin. She so hated people talking about her. “Who told you that?”
He gave an easy shrug of his powerful shoulders, breaking the slight tension. “I do a lot of checking.”
“I suppose it goes with the territory,” she answered wryly.
“You should know, Chloe.”
At the use of her Christian name, so honeyed and intimate, a mild giddiness overtook her.
“If one could really chart the course of one’s life, this is just the sort of house I’d have liked to live in,” he said.
“Really? I thought you’d like something very modern, very strong, with sweeping clear places.” And terrible pictures that looked like cubic puzzles on the walls.
Once again his black eyes roved over her, checking out her too innocent expression. “I won’t say I don’t like to integrate old and new, but in terms of architecture I love these old Queensland Colonials with their sweeping verandah and white iron lace. They’re perfect for the subtropical climate. I particularly like the high ceilings and large rooms.”
“A big man would.” She was surprised by how sweetly that came out. They walked side by side, Chloe in her exquisite flowered chiffon, McGuire in his beautifully cut evening clothes. It was all so extraordinarily civilised.
“Someone had a very graceful hand with the decorating,” he commented.
Chloe felt her throat tighten. “My mother.” She couldn’t say a word more.
He admired the classic elegance of the living room, the mix of fine antique pieces with overstuffed chintz-covered
