something wrong with your hearing?’
‘That’s possible,’ he said.
Such a nice voice, Abby told herself. If I weren’t so angry with him I’d—well, I won’t! Good-sized, too. Well proportioned. Nice tan. An outdoor man. So maybe we could talk this out?
‘My bathroom,’ she said. ‘My uncle left it to me. I mean not just the bathroom, but the house and the island and—well, everything. And now if you would kindly remove yourself I’ll get dressed and—what are you doing?’
‘You claim you’re taking a bath, but you’re sitting in the corner,’ he said menacingly. ‘So why is there another hand in the tub? And if the other half of this act is my son Harry there’ll be hell to pay.’ He came up on to the pedestal step and bent over the tub.
‘No,’ Abby protested. ‘Don’t—’
Cleo had been following the play of the game, and thought she understood the rules. She came up to her feet, walked over behind the man and barked. A very impressive bark, Cleo’s, one that might have come from any self-respecting monster. The man hesitated.
‘Does he bite?’
‘All the time. She bites all the time.’
‘Harry. Come out of there!’ No longer a gentle voice, but rather the kind that tamed hurricanes.
‘Oh, no,’ Abby said. ‘She—’
Whatever nonsense Abby thought her dog would get into was hardly comparable to what actually happened. One more ‘woof’ and Cleo reared back on her hind legs and gave the man a considerable bump on his posterior. It was not an excessively strong attack, but he was already half bent over the tub, and Cleo did the rest. He tottered for a moment, then came head first into the tub. A wave of water came over the edge and splashed down on to the tile floor, taking some of the suds with it. With a squeak of alarm Abby struggled to her feet, wrapped herself securely in the towels, and sidled towards the door.
‘Gotcha,’ the male voice in the tub commented. The boy appeared, coming up out of the suds, suspended by his father’s right arm. A second or two later the man appeared, spitting suds in all directions. He groped for the wet step and set the boy down on the floor. As soon as Harry’s feet hit the floor he started running. But his father maintained a grip on his bathing suit. The lad was making running motions but getting nowhere. The man emerged. Another wave of water splattered out of the tub. Abby, too astonished to notice anything else, just stood there. That last splash of water had washed away almost all the suds on the floor. The man stared at her, while firmly holding the boy’s head in the other direction. ‘Put something on!’ he commanded.
Up to that moment Abby Spencer had been riding high on her anger. Now, with the man’s remark, she looked hastily down. The towel covered her. Not artistically, perhaps, but covered. Her only hope was disdain. ‘As it happens, Whoever-you-are, I’m a good deal better covered than either one of you.’
His father took a good long look, then pushed the boy towards the door. ‘Out, son.’
That’s all he can do, Abby thought. While I’m standing here shivering he’s chasing the boy out of the room. ‘You could go yourself,’ she muttered at him. The towel was slipping off her left shoulder. His eyes bugged.
‘Look, Mrs—’
‘Miss,’ Abby said. ‘Miss.’ And then very slowly, ‘Would you do me the favour of getting out of my bathroom?’ It wasn’t exactly a polite question. The bath-sheet was soaking wet and clinging to her frame like a piece of wet tissue—very revealing and form-fitting. She could see by the look on his face that the towel promised much more than she was even willing to think about. But if she was going to think about it he just about fitted her dream qualifications.
‘Daddy?’ The boy twisted around to see the goings on, and was immediately twisted back again by his father.
‘I’m sorry, Miss—’
‘Spencer,’ she yelled at him. ‘Now will you get out of here?’
‘Out of here? Oh, yes.’ A big grin sparkled across his face, lighting him and half the world. He looked boyish—no longer threatening. He left the room, shepherding his son in front of him. Taking his own darned time about it too, Abby told herself.
He left the door open as he marched his son out in front of him. A chill raced up Abby’s spine. She wrapped the bath-sheet more securely around her. The chill was not entirely due to the wind blowing into the room, she assured herself. A large portion of it was due to the man himself. Not a man, but rather this man. He was having an effect on her that she wasn’t sure she wanted. And yet—?
Not being the tidiest person in her family, Abby turned the switch that emptied the tub, and then looked around at the flood of water on the floor. For some reason it seemed to be eddying over into the corner. Closer inspection showed that a drain was built in that corner and the floor was slightly tilted. ‘Oh, Uncle Teddy,’ she giggled. ‘Just what were you up to in this magnificent tub?’
From downstairs there came the noise of harsh words. It seemed that little Harry was listening while his father did all the talking. Curiosity had always been one of Abby’s major weaknesses. She hurried down the hall to her bedroom, drying herself while she went, and when she reached her room she snatched up a green floor-length beach-robe. Cleo padded docilely along beside her.
No reason to dress, she told herself. He won’t be around that long. She fastened the robe, made a vague effort to dry her hair, but gave it up in disgust. Curiosity and anger were driving her much faster than beauty. Together she and Cleo went down the stairs as fast as they could walk.
The men were making themselves at home in the living-room. Or, as Abby called it, the blue room. It was a dark room with few windows and many drapes, all blue. It gave the appearance of a cave, a blue cave. Since there was no electric power available on the island except from the house generator, the room was softly lit by a pair of propane-powered lamps.
The two males had evidently run through their arguments. The elder was sitting in one of her over-stuffed chairs. He was still soaking wet and he was towelling the boy, who stood between his legs with a big grin on his small face.
‘There,’ the boy said. ‘There’s four of us here in this room and only one of us is wearing shoes. Take your shoes off, Daddy.’
‘Four of us?’
‘Yeah. You, me and her and her dog.’
‘Ah, I forgot the dog. But no, I can’t do that,’ the man returned. ‘She—will be leaving any minute now, and she’ll need my help. That’s what men do for women—they help.’
Abby walked over to the huge couch and sat down, pulling her feet up beneath her. She had walked down the stairs torn between curiosity and growing anger that anyone would be on her island and disturb her peace. ‘Now then, Mr—?’
‘Farnsworth,’ he answered the prompt. ‘Selby Farnsworth. And this is my son Harry—’
‘My name is Henry,’ the child interrupted. ‘Henry Farnsworth.’
A fine pair of liars, both of you, Abby thought. How could he have got the child so well-trained? Harry Farnsworth is a fictional character. Who should know better than me? Selby Jones had written three books and she had panned the first two while the third was—well, almost perfect.
‘Farnsworth,’ she mused. ‘It seems to me that that’s a name I’d choose if I was going to hide out. So tell me, Mr Farnsworth—’ and you could hear the question mark in the name ‘—how long have you been on the island? I’ve been cleaning the house all day and I’ve not seen hide nor hair of either of you. This is a very small island. I can’t believe you’ve been on my island all day without coming up to the house.’
‘My son and I have been on the island for three weeks,’ the man retorted. ‘We went over to Hyannis to do