A Will And A Way

“And some pencils,” he called out.

She slammed the door smartly.

Nearly two hours passed before Michael decided he deserved another cup of coffee. The story line was bumping along just as he’d planned, full of twists and turns. The fans of Logan’s Run expected the gritty with occasional bursts of color and magic. That’s just the way it was panning out.

Critics of the medium aside, Michael enjoyed writing for the small screen. He liked knowing his stories would reach literally millions of people every week and that for an hour, they could involve themselves with the character he had created.

The truth was, Michael liked Logan—the reluctant but steady heroism, the humor and the flaws. He’d made Logan human and fallible and reluctant because Michael had always imagined the best heroes were just that.

The ratings and the mail proved he was on target. His writing for Logan had won him critical acclaim and awards, just as the one-act play he’d written had won him critical acclaim and awards. But the play had reached a few thousand at best, the bulk of whom had been New Yorkers. Logan’s Run reached the family of four in Des Moines, the steelworkers in Chicago and the college crowd in Boston. Every week.

He didn’t see television as the vast wasteland but as the magic box. Michael figured everyone was entitled to a bit of magic.

Michael switched off the typewriter so that the humming died. For a moment he sat in silence. He’d known he could work at the Folley. He’d done so before, but never long-term. What he hadn’t known was that he’d work so well, so quickly or be so content. The truth was, he’d never expected to get along half so well with Pandora. Not that it was any picnic, Michael mused, absently running the stub of a pencil between his fingers.

They fought, certainly, but at least they weren’t taking chunks out of each other. Or not very big ones. All in all he enjoyed the evenings when they played cards if for no other reason than the challenge of trying to catch her cheating. So far he hadn’t.

Also true was the odd attraction he felt for her. That hadn’t been in the script. So far he’d been able to ignore, control or smother it. But there were times… There were times, Michael thought as he rose and stretched, when he’d like to close her smart-tongued mouth in a more satisfactory way. Just to see what it’d be like, he told himself. Curiosity about people was part of his makeup. He’d be interested to see how Pandora would react if he hauled her against him and kissed her until she went limp.

He let out a quick laugh as he wandered to the window. Limp? Pandora? Women like her never went soft. He might satisfy his curiosity, but he’d get a fist in the gut for his trouble. Even that might be worth it….

She wasn’t unmoved. He’d been sure of that since the first day they’d walked back together from her workshop. He’d seen it in her face, heard it, however briefly in her voice. They’d both been circling around it for two weeks. Or twenty years, Michael speculated.

He’d never felt about another woman exactly the way he felt about Pandora McVie. Uncomfortable, challenged, infuriated. The truth was that he was almost always at ease around women. He liked them—their femininity, their peculiar strengths and weaknesses, their style. Perhaps that was the reason for his success in relationships, though he’d carefully kept them short-term.

If he romanced a woman, it was because he was interested in her, not simply in the end result. True enough he was interested in Pandora, but he’d never considered romancing her. It surprised him that he’d caught himself once or twice considering seducing her.

Seducing, of course, was an entirely different matter than romancing. But all in all, he didn’t know if attempting a casual seduction of Pandora would be worth the risk.

If he offered her a candlelight dinner or a walk in the moonlight—or a mad night of passion—she’d come back with a sarcastic remark. Which would, inevitably, trigger some caustic rebuttal from him. The merry-go-round would begin again.

In any case, it wasn’t romance he wanted with Pandora. It was simply curiosity. In certain instances, it was best to remember what had happened to the intrepid cat. But as he thought of her, his gaze was drawn toward her workshop.

They weren’t so very different really, Michael mused. Pandora could insist from dawn to dusk that they had nothing in common, but Jolley had been closer to the mark. They were both quick-tempered, opinionated and passionately protective of their professions. He closed himself up for hours at a time with a typewriter. She closed herself up with tools and torches. The end result of both of their work was entertainment. And after all, that was…

His thoughts broke off as he saw the shed door open. Odd, he hadn’t thought she was back yet. His rooms were on the opposite end of the house from the garage, so he wouldn’t have heard her car, but he thought she’d drop off what she’d picked up for him.

He started to shrug and turn away when he saw the figure emerge from the shed. It was bundled deep in a coat and hat, but he knew immediately it wasn’t Pandora. She moved fluidly, unselfconsciously. This person walked with speed and wariness. Wariness, he thought again, that was evident in the way the head swiveled back and forth before the door was closed again. Without stopping to think, Michael dashed out of the room and down the stairs.

He nearly rammed into Charles at the bottom. “Pandora back?” he demanded.

“No, sir.” Relieved that he hadn’t been plowed down, Charles rested a hand on the rail. “She said she might stay in town and do some shopping. We shouldn’t worry if—”

But Michael was already halfway down the hall.

With a sigh for the agility he hadn’t had in thirty years, Charles creaked his way into the drawing room to lay a fire.

The wind hit Michael the moment he stepped outside, reminding him he hadn’t stopped for a coat. As he began to race toward the shed, his face chilled and his muscles warmed. There was no one in sight on the grounds. Not surprising, he mused as he slowed his pace just a bit. The woods were close at the edge, and there were a half a dozen easy paths through them.

Some kid poking around? he wondered. Pandora would be lucky if he hadn’t pocketed half her pretty stones. It would serve her right.

But he changed his mind the minute he stood in the doorway of her workshop.

Boxes were turned over so that gems and stones and beads were scattered everywhere. Balls of string and twine had been unraveled and twisted and knotted from wall to wall. He had to push some out of his way to step inside. What was usually almost pristine in its order was utter chaos. Gold and silver wire had been bent and snapped, tools lay where they’d been carelessly tossed to the floor.

Michael bent down and picked up an emerald. It glinted sharp and green in his palm. If it had been a thief, he decided, it had been a clumsy and shortsighted one.

“Oh, God!” Pandora dropped her purse with a thud and stared.

When Michael turned, he saw her standing in the doorway, ice pale and rigid. He swore, wishing he’d had a moment to prepare her. “Take it easy,” he began as he reached for her arm.

She shoved him aside forcibly and fought her way into the shed. Beads rolled and bounced at her feet. For a moment there was pure shock, disbelief. Then came a white wall of fury. “How could you?” When she turned back to him she was no longer pale. Her color was vivid, her eyes as sharp as the emerald he still held.

Because he was off guard, she nearly landed the first blow. The air whistled by his face as her fist passed. He caught her arms before she tried again. “Just a minute,” he began, but she threw herself bodily into him and knocked them both against the wall. Whatever had been left on the shelves shuddered or fell off. It took several moments, and a few bruises on both ends, before he managed to pin her arms back and hold her still.

“Stop it.” He pressed her back until she glared up at him, dry-eyed and furious. “You’ve a right to be upset, but putting a hole in me won’t accomplish anything.”

“I knew you could be low,” she said between her teeth. “But I’d never have believed you could do something so filthy.”

“Believe whatever the hell you want,” he began, but he felt her body shudder as she fought for control. “Pandora,” and his voice softened. “I didn’t do this. Look at me,” he demanded with a little shake. “Why would I?”

Because she wanted to cry, her voice, her eyes were hard. “You tell me.”

Patience wasn’t one of his strong points, but he tried again. “Pandora, listen to me. Try for common sense a minute and just listen. I got here a few minutes before you. I saw someone coming out of the shed from my window and came down. When I got here, this is what I found.”

She was going to disgrace herself. She felt the tears backing up and hated them. It was better to hate him. “Let go of me.”

Perhaps he could handle her anger better than her despair. Cautiously Michael released her arms and stepped back. “It hasn’t been more than ten minutes since I saw someone coming out of here. I figured they cut through the woods.”

She tried to think, tried to clear the fury out of her head. “You can go,” she said with deadly calm. “I have to clean up and take inventory.”

Something hot backed up in his throat at the casual dismissal. Remembering his own reaction when he’d opened the shed door, he swallowed it. “I’ll call the police if you like, but I don’t know if anything was stolen.” He opened his palm and showed her the emerald. “I can’t imagine any thief leaving stones like this behind.”

Pandora snatched it out of his hand. When her fingers closed over it, she felt the slight prick of the hoop she’d fastened onto it only the day before. The emerald seemed to grow out of the braided wire.

Her heart was thudding against her ribs as she walked to her worktable. There was what was left of the necklace she’d been fashioning for two weeks. The deceptively delicate tiers were in pieces, the emeralds that had hung gracefully from them, scattered. Her own nippers had been used to destroy it. She gathered up the pieces in her hands and fought back the urge to scream.

“It was this, wasn’t it?” Michael picked up the sketch from the floor. It was stunning on paper—at once fanciful and bold. He supposed what she had drawn had some claim to art. He imagined how he’d feel if someone took scissors to one of his scripts. “You’d nearly finished.”

Pandora dropped the pieces back on the table. “Leave me alone.” She crouched and began to gather up stones and beads.

“Pandora.” When she ignored him, Michael grabbed her by the shoulders and shook. “Dammit, Pandora, I want to help.”

She sent him a long, cold look. “You’ve done enough, Michael. Now leave me alone.”

“All right, fine.” He released her and stormed out. Anger and frustration carried him halfway across the lawn. Michael stopped, swore and wished bitterly for a cigarette. She had no right to accuse him. Worse, she had no right to make him feel responsible. The guilt he was experiencing was nearly as strong as it would have been if he’d actually vandalized her shop. Hands in his pockets, he stood staring back at the shed and cursing her.

She really thought he’d done that to her. That he was capable of such meaningless, bitter destruction. He’d tried to talk to her, soothe her. Every offer of help had been thrown back at him. Just like her, he thought with his teeth gritted. She deserved to be left alone.

He nearly started back to the house again when he remembered just how shocked and ill she’d looked in the doorway of the shed. Calling himself a fool, he went back.

When he opened the door of the shed again, the chaos was just as it had been. Sitting in the middle of it on the floor by her workbench was Pandora. She was weeping quietly.

He felt the initial male panic at being confronted with feminine tears and surprise that they came from Pandora who never shed them. Yet he felt sympathy for someone who’d been dealt a bull’s-eye blow. Without saying a word, he went to her and slipped his arms around her.

She stiffened, but he’d expected it. “I told you to go away.”

“Yeah. Why should I listen to you?” He stroked her hair.

She wanted to crawl into his lap and weep for hours. “I don’t want you here.”

“I know. Just pretend I’m someone else.” He drew her against his chest.

“I’m only crying because I’m angry.” With a sniff, she turned her face into his shirt.

“Sure.” He kissed the top of her head. “Go ahead and be angry for a while. I’m used to it.”

She told herself it was because she was weakened by shock and grief, but she relaxed against him. The tears came in floods. When she cried, she cried wholeheartedly. When she was finished, she was done.

Tears dry, she sat cushioned against him. Secure. She wouldn’t question it now. Along with the anger came a sense of shame she was unaccustomed to. She’d been filthy to him. But he’d come back and held her. Who’d have expected him to be patient, or caring? Or strong enough to make her accept both. Pandora let out a long breath and kept her eyes shut for just a moment. He smelled of soap and nothing else.

“I’m sorry, Michael.”

She was soft. Hadn’t he just told himself she wouldn’t be? He let his cheek brush against her hair. “Okay.”

“No, I mean it.” When she turned her head her lips skimmed across his cheek. It surprised them both. That kind of contact was for friends—or lovers. “I couldn’t think after I walked in here. I—” She broke off a moment, fascinated by his eyes. Wasn’t it strange how small the world could become if you looked into someone’s eyes? Why hadn’t she ever noticed that before? “I need to sort all this out.”

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