Now I know you didn't and you aren't."
Propping her hands on her hips, she glared up at him. "You sneaky lowlife, underhanded son-of a-"
"Before you launch into another round of name calling, could you fix me some breakfast?
This country air has given me a roaring appetite."
"Fix your breakfast?" she screeched.
"That was part of our deal, remember? You cook, I-"
"The deal is off, Mackie. What makes you think I'd stay here with you now?"
"Why is now any different from yesterday when you agreed?"
Last night for one, she thought. And for another, their reminiscent conversation about a shared experience she had hoped he'd forgotten.
She wasn't, however, going to cite those reasons.
"There's been too much water under the bridge. This is never going to work. One of us will end up murdering the other."
"Again, you're demonstrating a real flare for creativity, Stevie. If I get writer's block, I plan on consulting you first." He inspected the refrigerator.
"For right now, juice, toast and coffee will do. When we go to the store later today, remind me to buy bacon and eggs."
"Mackie?"
He came around. "What? And for future reference, you don't have to shout. I'm not hard of hearing."
"And I'm not staying."
He studied her for a moment, a picture of exasperation.
"Fine. The keys to the car are on the hall table. Be careful driving. But before you go, consider this."
He held up his index finger. "One. Your condo will probably still be staked out by the media.
The public will be panting to know whether or not you're going after the Grand Slam. Will you play Wimbledon in three weeks or not? Will you have surgery right away or won't you? What are the consequences if you don't? What's your prognosis if you do?"
"Can you give them answers to those questions, Stevie? No. Because those are the questions you're still grappling with yourself. What better place to arrive at some answers than the peace and quiet of the country, far away from the news hounds and unsolicited advisers?"
Another finger went up. "Two. You look like you need a vacation. You've still got unattractive dark circles under your eyes." His ring finger joined the first two. "Three. I got fired on account of you. The least you could do is cook a few meals for me while I try to hack out a rough draft for a novel. Selling it for publication may be my only hope of supporting myself in the future."
His pinkie sprang up. "And four, nothing infuriates me more than somebody who goes back on his word."
His reasons made sense, especially the first one, but Stevie glared at him mutinously, still not prepared to surrender unconditionally. "I need to practice. Do you realize how rusty I'll get if I don't play some tennis at least once every day?"
"Valid point." Gnawing the inside of his cheek, he considered their alternatives. "When we drive into town, we'll check the public school.
If memory serves me, it's got a tennis court. And since I'm the only famous or near-famous person from around here," he said with a conceited grin, "I think I can finagle permission to use it."
"If you can do that, I'll stay."
"Thank heaven that's settled," he muttered, turning to pour himself a fresh cup of coffee.
"I'll be in the dining room writing. You can bring me my juice and toast in there. I like it lightly browned and heavy on the butter."
"The juice or the toast?"
He was almost to the door when he turned and scowled. "Try and not make any distracting noise."
She was tempted to go after him and deliver a good swift kick to his taut, narrow buttocks.
But she didn't.
One evening over dinner, Stevie contentedly remarked that these were halcyon days. Judd gave her a reproving look and said, "You'll never make a writer if you resort to cliches like that."
Despite his teasing, that was the adjective that best described their days. She awoke early and puttered around in the yard. The mint growing near the back porch was thriving. She'd carefully weeded around long neglected, but stalwart, periwinkles, which were now profusely blooming in shades of pinks and purples in front of the house.
On one of their trips into town, she'd bought a package of zinnia seeds. They'd been planted and were already sprouting. She enjoyed watching the vibrant green shoots grow, thriving in the rich east Texas soil. Stevie regretted that she wouldn't be around to enjoy their brilliant blossoms.
Judd was a late and grumpy riser. Each morning he stumbled into the kitchen and poured himself coffee she had brewed. It took at least three cups to make him civil. He then retired to the dining room to work on his novel. Later she would take him toast or cereal, but as often as not when she silently checked from the archway, it was still on the tray, untouched.
After lunch, Judd would return to his typewriter.
Stevie napped or read in the afternoons.
She studiously avoided thinking about her illness or what she was going to do about it. That was the purpose behind this respite from her normal schedule, but she couldn't bring herself to dwell on it.
At dusk they drove to the public school campus and played low impact tennis, wearing inexpensive shorts they'd bought in the only dry-goods store in town, where they had also purchased other clothing. Her new wardrobe had little merit beyond keeping her decently cov ered, but she had had more fun shopping for it with Judd than she ever remembered having on a buying spree.
They took drives through the countryside in the cool of the evening, or sat together in the bench swing beneath the pecan tree, or played cards on the porch. Judd cheated unconscionably and sulked when he didn't win, blaming his losses on everything from the weak porch light to the racket made by the cicadas in the trees.
One evening he had disgustedly tossed down a losing hand and said, "Let's play strip poker and the winner has to take off all her clothes."
Gloating, Stevie had raked in her mountain of match sticks. "Such a sore loser."
"That's a game I wouldn't mind losing."
His back was propped against one of the posts supporting the roof over the porch. He was lazily wagging his knee back and forth. Even in the faint glow of the porch light, Stevie could see the intensity of his gaze and sensed that he was no longer teasing.
With clumsy hands, she quickly reshuffled the deck and dealt a new hand. "Maybe if you try playing fair instead of cheating, you'll win this hand."
She didn't acknowledge either his suggestion or the fire in his eyes. Doing so could prove dangerous.
She had been dancing close to the flame since agreeing to stay alone with him. So far, she had been singed, not burned. She wanted to keep it that way. There were undercurrents between her and Judd that she couldn't cope with. It was easier to pretend they didn't exist.
One afternoon they bought an edition of the Tribune at the grocery store. Stevie was crushed when she read the sports page. One of her rivals had won the Lobo Blanco tournament. "They're saying she might replace me as the top-seeded player," she told Judd glumly.
"Ready to go back and face the music?"
She raised her head and stared into his eyes for a moment, seeing in them the same reluctance she felt toward his suggestion. "No. Not yet."
"Me, either." Unable to mask his relief, he playfully jerked the newspaper out of her hands.
After a moment of reading, he said, "Look, here's a letter to the editor from a reader asking about me."
"How does the management respond?"
"That I'm taking a 'few weeks off.'"
'They don't come right out and say that you're fired," she said, reading over his shoulder.