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w or unhappiness was forbidden from entering these four walls. This was a home for laughter and for love only. Anything else was to wait outside.

But Nature had taught me early in my life that everything has its season. Our romance grew and bloomed, flourished and ripened, with every passing moment, every kiss, every promise in our breaths. Happiness was a bird at full wing, gliding gracefully toward the warm sun.

I knew that clouds do come, that rain must fall, that shadows must darken, and that even though our love was good and pure and full, it wasn't strong enough to withstand the hard, cold truth that lay dormant at our doorstep, waiting like some patient snake, so still it was hard to distinguish from the surroundings, but ready and eager to strike at the first opportunity.

We weren't always careful when we made love. In the beginning our passion was so strong and overwhelming, we could no more hesitate to protect ourselves than we could hold back a hurricane. Afterward, when I had a chance to sit and think, I admitted to myself that it wasn't just carelessness or a devil-may-care attitude. I wanted Pierre's child. I wanted a part of him in me. I wanted to bond us some way forever and ever. Maybe he wanted the same thing.

Unfortunately, I knew the symptoms of pregnancy all too well. I didn't have to ask Mama what this or that meant. It came upon me one afternoon when I realized I was late, and all the other indications announced themselves with clarity and certainty.

Despite my feelings, I was frightened. I had no idea how I would tell Mama, but I thought I must tell Pierre first. He didn't return for nearly two weeks after I realized my condition, and when I saw the blue cravat, I felt a pang of trepidation along with a feeling of happiness.

Early that night when I poled to the Daisy landing and walked to the shack, my body was trembling. Was this the end of our love affair? Would he run from me once he learned what had happened? I couldn't prolong the answer and stop myself from drowning in that all too familiar pool of despair.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for my arrival. A bottle of wine was opened, more than half of it drunk already. He looked up with a smile.

But before I could blurt out what was

happening, he greeted me with his own shocking news.

"Daphne," he said, "has found out about us."

"I didn't think she would even care," he said after having me sit at the table before telling me. He poured me a glass of wine and one for himself. He paced as he continued. "All this time I thought she enjoyed the freedom I was giving her, enjoyed her distractions, her charities and causes, her art gallery openings and dinners. She surrounded herself with so many people and lived for the society pages. Whenever I had to travel for business, she was unconcerned and disinterested. She never complained about our being apart.

"Apparently, her lack of interest in me and my affairs was just a smoke screen for her real intentions and actions."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"She hired a private detective and had me followed and all this traced," he said, indicating our love nest. "Yesterday she came into my office, closed the door behind her, and revealed with glee all she had learned and knew."

"She knows my name?"

"The smallest details," he said, nodding. "She enjoyed rattling them off. Of course, she made threats. She would bring down my family name, destroy the Dumas reputation, but I know she would never do any such thing. She's terrified of putting a spot on her own reputation. The worst thing for Daphne is social embarrassment," he said confidently, but I couldn't keep the terror from jumping into my heart and bringing goose bumps over my arms.

"Maybe she will do something like that this time. You didn't expect her to have you investigated," I pointed out.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "It's all just a bluff. Right now she's playing the role of an abused wife."

"Oh, Pierre," I cried, and buried my face in my hands.

"It's all right." He laughed at what he thought was my reaction to only his news. "I just wanted you to know what was happening, but I don't intend for any of this to interfere in any way with our happiness. As far as Daphne goes--"

"You don't know the worst of it," I moaned, raising my bloodshot eyes to gaze into his proud, handsome face. "And at this time, too!"

"Worst? What could possibly . . ." He grimaced. "Something with your father again," he said. I shook my head. "Your mother?"

"No, Pierre. With me. I'm pregnant," I blurted. The words clapped like thunder in my own ears.

"Pregnant?"

"And there is no doubt," I added firmly. My tears rolled freely. With Daphne on the warpath, what would happen now?

"Pregnant," he said again, and sat, looking stunned for a moment. Then he smiled, a light springing into his soft green eyes. "How wonderful."

"Wonderful? Are you mad? How can this be wonderful?" I asked, my anxieties twisted into a tight knot.

"You're having my child; how could anything be more wonderful?" he replied. I shook my head in amazement. Sometimes, despite his urban

sophistication, his formal education, his years and years in business and society, Pierre seemed more like a foolish little boy to me. Was this the power of love: to hypnotize and turn grown men into children again, children who lived in fantasy worlds?