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But she didn’t call for help. Instead, she thrashed forward, trying to keep her head above water.
“Kick your legs,” he yelled.
Suddenly she was ploughing through the water, her arms making sloppy waving motions, her eyes scrunched tightly closed.
“Winifred,” he shouted. “Open your eyes.”
“Can’t,” she called. “I’ll drown.”
That made him laugh out loud. She’d come this far; he’d let her discover the rest for herself.
He stroked to the far end of the pool and back again, then methodically swam ten or twelve additional lengths. When he pulled himself onto the sandy bank he was breathing hard.
Winifred was clumsily propelling herself in a ragged circle, but she had opened her eyes. Zane lay back on the warm sand and laid his arm over his face. He didn’t want to watch her come out of the river. She’d be wet, and the too-small swimming suit would hide nothing. He couldn’t help smiling at the picture he imagined, but he wouldn’t embarrass her by actually looking.
He’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of women’s bodies; but this woman was different. For one thing, she was his wife’s sister.
But God, how he wanted to see her!
After half an hour she splashed out of the water with a triumphant cry. “I did it! I can swim!”
Zane kept his eyes closed.
“Did you see me? I was really swimming, wasn’t I?”
“You were really swimming, Winifred. Congratulations.”
Droplets of cool water hit his chest and still he didn’t open his eyes. “Better get out of that wet suit,” he ordered.
He prayed she would do just that. The temptation to open his eyes was overpowering.
He managed another sixty seconds, then caught a fleeting glimpse of her as she ducked behind the huckleberry bush. He groaned, got to his feet and dove into the water again for twelve more laps. When he emerged, Winifred sat on the bank, the skirt of her blue dimity dress hiked up to her calves, her bare toes digging into the sand. She looked like a happy child.
A lump as big as an orange lodged in his throat. He had never seen Celeste look that young and unguarded. Never.
He propelled himself out of the river and strode past her to yank on his trousers and shirt. He was still short of breath, but this time he knew it had nothing to do with swimming laps.
On the drive back to town, Winifred chattered on about teaching herself to swim, about the chickadees, about gathering the mint, about everything. Zane held onto the traces so tight his knuckles ached but said nothing. His breath came in short gusts, his brain swirled with a thousand thoughts. Outrageous thoughts.
His wife’s sister. He was attracted to his sister-in-law!
When they reached the house, he tossed the reins to Sam and bolted for his office and the brandy decanter.
* * *
After supper that night, Zane went outside to rock in the porch swing in the soft evening air, sweet with honeysuckle. Then, to his horror, Winifred joined him.
They said nothing for a long time, then she drew in a steadying breath and lightly touched his arm.
“I must leave, Zane.”
“I thought as much.”
“I have a concert in two weeks, and I must prepare.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve grown to love Rosemarie. I would like to come back at Christmastime. If I may.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I will go tomorrow, then. The train leaves at noon.”
He said nothing for a long moment. “I’ll drive you to the station in the buggy.”
“Thank you.”
“We will miss you. All of us—Rosemarie and Sam and...and me.”
There was nothing more to say. He felt as if a candle were being extinguished. It made no sense.
He rose abruptly, stalked inside the house and tramped upstairs to hold his baby daughter in his arms.
Winifred waited until his footsteps faded, then slipped through the front door and into his office and searched until she found the brandy decanter.
* * *
At eleven o’clock the following searingly hot morning, Zane drove Winifred to catch the train. Neither spoke. At the station he helped her down and carried her valise into the station house while she purchased her ticket.
He watched her fold the ticket into her reticule and felt his gut clench. He was torn about her leaving. He would miss seeing her across the table at breakfast, miss watching her rocking his baby daughter to sleep, watching her thrash across the swimming hole learning to swim.
Oh, hell, he’d just miss her.
