Chapter 2

ELLEN SHELBY WAS sitting in her favourite spot on the porch, swaying idly back and forth in the old iron swing as she watched the setting sun drag those final fiery rays into the far horizon. She sat with one foot tucked carelessly under her, the other skimmed the dusty porch boards as she rocked. Her arms were spread out across the back of the seat, her thick, shiny brown curls were twisted into a band at the top of her head. Between her and that far-away edge of the world was nothing but space, and carpeting that wide, wonderful space was acre upon luscious acre of ripe, almost ready for market, soybeans.

The leaves of the plants fluttered like tiny wings in the breeze. Thin furrows lined the sandy loam, as though a giant comb had descended from the heavens and run itself through the disorderly plants to tidy them up and stand them to attention for harvest. It had been like this for as long as Ellen could remember, planting in spring after the frosts had gone, harvesting in October once the leaves had fallen. It was as regular and monotonous as the endless loop of the sun and she had come to rely on it in much the same way. It never changed, only the weather cast different shades or different patterns upon the ceaseless tangle of lush vegetation.

The house didn’t change either, always dust on the porch, a couple of brooms propped up behind the fly screen, a pail lying on its side, a supply of logs stacked against the wall. Suspended over the handrails were her mother’s cherished clay planters, filled with impatients and cyclamen, and snaking up the posts were the pretty bell flowers of pink and purple fuchsias. One of the steps descending into the yard was missing. It had been like that for years, if anyone replaced it now it was likely someone would take a fall.

Ellen yawned and resting her head on the seat-back gazed out at the darkening sky. A tiny sliver of moon was peeking through a drifting cluster of cloud. A jet plane, way too high to be heard, passed on to an unknown destination. The scent of damp earth rose into the night air and mingled with the pleasing smell of home baking. If she were to close her eyes it would be easy to imagine she was still only five years old, or twelve, or sixteen.

In three months she would be thirty. She wasn’t sure whether to be concerned about that or not. Sitting here right now she couldn’t have cared less, but this wasn’t LA where things like age, laugh lines, gravity responses and hair loss mattered more than God. This was Nebraska where the only thing that mattered more than God was the harvest.

She was here, spending a short vacation with her folks, before flying on to New York to finalize a movie deal for Ricky Leigh, the stand-up comic who, just last year, had turned his successful club act into a smash-hit sitcom for NBC. The guy wasn’t only a great performer and a great star, he was a great big pain in the butt, but Ellen was well used to pains in the butt now, they came with the territory of being an agent, much like paranoia and ego.

Closing her eyes she inhaled deeply, as though to absorb the rich, soothing calmness of home. The thought brought an ironic smile to her lips. She’d been here two days now and her father had yet to speak to her directly. Everything he had to say was relayed through her mother, even though Ellen was standing right there. It had been like that for years, ever since she’d returned from college and announced she was leaving again to go join her cousin Matty in LA. Matty was an actress, which, in their house, was the same as saying Matty was a harlot; and now Ellen was an actors’ agent, which, according to her father, was just a fancy way of saying she was a begetter of flesh for the devil.

The first time he had said that Ellen had made the grand mistake of laughing. Not noted for his humour, Frank Shelby, the giant bear of a soybean farmer who drove fifteen miles to church every Sunday and read to his wife from the Good Book every evening, had reached for his belt. There was no place for the devil in his house and if his daughter, his own flesh and blood, thought she could bring him here, then he, as God’s servant, was going to drive him out.

He hadn’t whipped her, he never did; he just thwacked his belt on the table a couple of times, making both her and her mother jump, then took himself off in a rage to go pray for God’s guidance on the matter of his fallen daughter.

Ellen’s heart ached for him, as deep down inside she knew he loved her, though never in all her twenty-nine years had he been able to to tell her that. She knew too how deeply hurt he had been when she had chosen to study literature and dramatic art at NYU, when the University of Nebraska had some of the finest agriculture and economics teachers in the world and Lincoln was just a couple hundred miles down the road.

The college battle had been fought and won a long time ago now, but it still saddened her to think of how badly let down he felt that she hadn’t chosen to stay on the farm and marry Richie Hughes, the boy next door, the way everyone had expected her to. She’d known Richie all her life. He lived with his folks further along the road to North Platte, the small town where everyone hereabouts shopped for their groceries, picked up the local gossip and placed a weekly bet on the lottery. Richie and his family were their nearest neighbours and closest friends. Richie was a good and dutiful son who had gone to college in Lincoln, got all his diplomas and degrees in subjects that mattered and was back home now, preparing for the day he would take over the farm from his father. He’d have married Ellen if she were willing, they’d been sweethearts since high school, their families expected it, and no one would be happier than Frank Shelby for Richie Hughes to become the son he’d never had and combine the Hughes’ precious four hundred acres of the world’s most important bean with the Shelby four hundred when the Good Lord saw fit to call Frank to the great farm in the sky.

Ellen had adored Richie and still did. He was kind and funny, steady and dependable, deeply moral and far too handsome to be buried away in Nebraska. For years she had thought she would marry him, they’d talked about it often enough, especially as teenagers, when he would borrow his dad’s truck after church and take her over to the bluff near Laramie for picnics. At first, as they ate their mothers’ home- made pies and drank Pepsi from bottles, he used to entertain her with stories about the pioneers who had ground their wagons along this route towards the Oregon trail. She had loved those stories and doubted she would ever forget them. Nor would she forget the first time he kissed her, a real, grown-up kiss, using his tongue and pressing his body against hers. It had turned her breathless and weak with feelings she had never experienced before, but though she’d wanted him to carry on as far it could go, she’d been too shy to say and he too respectful to try. It had taken almost a year for them to pluck up the courage to go all the way, but it had happened right there on the bluff, with the bubbly, rocky river rushing along below and the huge, billowing clouds sailing by overhead.

She’d broken his heart when she’d told him she was leaving. It hadn’t been easy for her either; never in her life had she left Nebraska and the only time she had ever spent away from home was when she had been taken into the hospital to have her appendix removed. But she had promised her cousin Matty, a promise sealed in blood when they were eight years old, that one day they would go to college together in New York. As Matty and her brothers lived in White Plains with Aunt Julie and Uncle Melvin, Matty’s side of the bargain hadn’t been hard to keep. For Ellen it had been the most difficult step she had ever taken in her life.

But that was a long way behind her now; Richie had married a girl from Omaha three years back and just yesterday Ellen had stopped by to say hello to the newest member of the family. Richie’s wife, Mitzi, who was as addicted to showbiz as anyone Ellen knew, had wanted to hear all about Ellen’s wildly glamorous life in LA, how many big stars she knew, which famous places she went to and whether or not it was true what they were saying about Bruce and Demi. Even before she had a chance to answer Mitzi was telling her what was happening in Melrose Place, then declaring how she just didn’t understand why everyone raved about The Nanny, when the woman’s voice was like a cat in a garbage can and what she knew about kids had been tossed out with towelling diapers. Richie, who obviously loved his wife a great deal, teased her for getting so involved and tried not to seem embarrassed when he asked Ellen if she’d met anyone special yet. Ellen had merely winked and tapped the side of her nose, before changing the subject to much more important matters, like what they were going to call the new baby.

Now, as she sat there on the porch, her tall, slender body curled up on the seat, her lovely face turned to the moon, she wondered what they would say if she told them the truth. A smile curved her lips as a current of excitement stole through her heart and closing her eyes she felt herself sink into the tingling warmth of her secret.

Hearing the TV go on inside, she was tempted to escape the noise and go wander round to the barns, maybe check on the horses or sit a while with the dogs. Her mother was addicted to TV. If she could, she’d watch it around the clock, but Frank wouldn’t allow that. It was a miracle he had allowed a TV in the house at all, considering his views on it, but as softly spoken, pliable and easily dominated as Ellen’s mother appeared to be, when it came to wanting something badly she knew how to get her way. And over this she’d really done herself proud for there were now TVs in the living-room, kitchen and two of the four bedrooms; and if Ellen had to lay bets on who knew more about Seinfeld, ER, Savannah or any of the other soaps and sitcoms currently bombarding America, she’d probably have to put her money on Frank. How he reconciled this with the Good Lord she had no idea, but she imagined he’d found a way.

Of course, with her parents watching TV as much as they did they’d know exactly who Clay Ingall was, were she to mention his name. Anyone would, for not only had Clay played lead guitar for the Stones, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin and the Doors in his time, he’d also starred in three major hit movies in the past three years and was currently, thanks to a messy divorce, making most of the gossip shows and all of the tabloids on a pretty regular basis. It was amazing, in fact quite unbelievable really, that no one had gotten hold of his romance with Ellen yet, particularly as Ellen was something of a name in her own right and the affair, such as it was, had been going on for the best part of six months.

Of course, they had gone to great pains not to be discovered, for if Clay’s wife, Nola, were to get wind of Ellen then God only knew how many more millions she would add to her alimony suit, nor how much more bitter her attacks in the press would become. Already she had labelled Clay a lousy lover, a recovering alcoholic and a wife-beater, none of which was true, though Clay had not uttered a single word in his own defence, for fear of making it any worse than it already was for his children.

He and Ellen had met at a party hosted by American Talent International, one of the top-ranking agencies in LA where Ellen now worked. She’d started out, five years ago, as a booking clerk at a much smaller agency over on Olympic where the owners, Phil and Flynn, two wicked old gays, taught her the basics of agenting, introduced her around town, hyped her up to the press and promoted her to full-blown agent within a year. They’d also brought her to the attention of Ted Forgon, the owner of ATI, who had approached her soon after with an offer Phil and Flynn wouldn’t hear of her refusing. It was time for them to pack up and retire to Palm Springs anyhow, so Ellen didn’t only get herself a new job, she also got to take the cream of Phil’s and Flynn’s client list with her. Now, thanks to some ruthless manoeuvres and a remarkable gift for discovering new talent, as well as recognizing great scripts, she had a list to rival many in LA and a reputation for pulling down a deal and promoting her clients that had made her the talk of the industry. Being as beautiful as she was, it seemed the press were forever on her case, taking shots of her coming and going from restaurants or night-clubs and taking great delight in pairing her name with anyone from Ted Forgon, her boss, to Felix Moselle the disgraced California senator whose wife was currently doing any talk show that would have her, telling the story of how she had caught her husband writhing around the bed in a Hollywood hotel with three budding bimbos and a couple of chihuahuas.

Hearing the theme tune for Lucy start up inside, Ellen picked up her cellphone and, wandering down from the porch, walked across the yard and round to the back of the machine shed. It was dark now, but she knew this place like the back of her hand and since her parents would be engrossed for the next half-hour it was a perfect opportunity to make a call without being overheard. Her stomach was already churning, her muscles were tensing and her heartbeat was starting to race at the prospect of hearing his voice. The disappointment that he hadn’t yet called when he’d said he would was lessened by the understanding that he was busy with a new band this weekend and had probably got so engrossed he’d forgotten what day it was, never mind what time.

‘Hi, this is Ellen,’ she said, as he answered his cellphone. ‘Oh, hi, honey,’ he responded, sounding genuinely pleased to hear her. ‘How’re you doing? You still with your folks?’

‘Yeah, still here.’ She smiled, so easily able to picture his humorous dark eyes, dishevelled silver hair and unbelievably sensuous mouth that she melted back against the tractor shed, hugging an arm to her waist. ‘How about you? How are you doing with the band?’

‘With the band, OK,’ he answered. ‘But I’ve got to tell you, I’m having a real tough time otherwise. I mean real tough.’

Ellen’s smile faded. ‘Nola?’ she said, wishing the woman’s name didn’t have to come into every conversation they had.

He chuckled softly. ‘The woman’s name is Ellen,’ he told her, ‘and I’m missing her like crazy.’

Immediately the light returned to Ellen’s eyes, and the insecurity fled. ‘But she’s only been gone a couple of days,’ she reminded him. ‘And you’re supposed to be catching up with her in New York tomorrow. Is that too long to wait?’

‘Damn right it is,’ he said gruffly. Then, after a pause, ‘Listen babe, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be able to make New York. Something’s come up here. Vic Lovell, you know the guy who’s supposed to be taking over the rewrites on Prizewinners? He’s backed out and all hell’s breaking loose around here so I feel like I ought to stay. Do you mind?’

‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘I miss you too and I was looking forward to seeing you. Why did Lovell back out?’

‘Oh, it’s kind of complicated to go into right now, but he’s not getting along with the director and a couple of the other guys wanted to fire him anyway. It’s crazyville, but we’ll work it out. How’s it going down there? How’re your folks? Did you tell them about me?’

‘My mother swooned and my father’s coming after you with a shotgun,’ she told him.

He laughed. ‘When do you get back to LA?’

‘Next Tuesday,’ she answered. ‘Ted Forgon’s asked to see me as soon as I get in.’

‘Does that mean something?’ he said.

‘I’m not sure,’ Ellen responded, loving him for caring. ‘I had a bit of a run in with Faith Berry, one of the seniors, before I left on Thursday, it could have something to do with that.’

‘What was it about?’

‘Oh, you know Faith, you never get to the root of what’s bugging her, but it was something to do with the way I’d spoken to her at a meeting we had last week. She thought I’d made her look foolish in front of the guys from Universal.’

‘Because you closed the deal for a higher figure than she was prepared to ask,’ Clay said. ‘I can’t see Forgon having a problem with that.’

‘No, but Faith’s been stacking up the complaints since I arrived and you know what this business is like, one day you’re in lights the next you’re in history.’

Clay laughed. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said. ‘But take it from me, honey, Forgon’s not letting you go anywhere, ’cos if anyone knows when he’s onto a good thing in this town, Forgon’s the man. And you’re one hell of a good thing. So good I can hardly believe my luck or what’s happening to me right now, just thinking about how god-damned beautiful you are.’ As his voice dropped, taking on a sleepy, much more intimate quality, Ellen felt an instant response flare through her loins. She knew what was coming next and already her heart was starting to pound, as her nipples stiffened and the desire turned almost to a pain.

‘You some place private?’ he asked.

‘Kind of,’ she responded. ‘I’m outside, by the barn.’

‘What are you wearing?’

‘A shirt, cotton pants.’

‘Undo the shirt,’ he said huskily.

Ellen’s fingers moved to the buttons and began to twist. ‘It’s undone,’ she told him a minute later.

‘You wearing a bra?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she answered, gazing blindly out at the night. ‘It’s a front fastener.’

‘Then undo it, honey,’ he said. ‘Show those big, beautiful breasts to the moon. Did all those cowboys go home yet?’

‘There might be a couple still around,’ she answered, knowing it was what he wanted to hear, even though the farmhands had taken off much earlier in the day.

‘Touch yourself, honey,’ he whispered. ‘Squeeze those nipples and tell me what you’re thinking.’

Ellen’s pulses were racing as she leaned back against the barn, stroking her breasts and imagining it was his fingers pulling at her nipples. ‘I’m thinking about how hard you must be by now,’ she told him, ‘and how much I want you inside me.’

‘It’s where I want to be,’ he groaned. ‘Christ, I miss you.’

‘Are you touching yourself?’ she asked.

There was a smile in his voice as he said, ‘Hard and fast.’

‘I think there’s someone watching me,’ she whispered, looking round at the dark, empty night.

‘One of the cowboys?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Do you want him to fuck you?’

Ellen’s breath caught in her throat.

‘Do you want his cock?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she murmured.

‘Then pull down your pants.’

Obediently Ellen pushed her pants down over her hips. She could feel the cool night air like a caress on her skin and the need for him slaked through her in piercing waves. ‘They’re down,’ she told him, barely able to speak.

‘Is he still watching you?’

‘I think so. Oh God, I wish you were here,’ she gasped, pushing her fingers between her legs.

‘So do I, honey,’ he said softly. ‘If you let the cowboy touch you, I’ll kill him.’

Ellen smiled. ‘My fingers are where you should be,’ she told him.

‘You got me there,’ he said. Then his voice sounded strangled as he said, ‘Jesus Christ, I’m going to come just thinking about being there.’

‘I can feel you filling me.’

‘Oh God, Ellen,’ he moaned. ‘I’m there. I’m right there.’

‘Do it harder,’ she begged. ‘Really fuck me.’

‘I’m coming, honey,’ he panted.

Ellen’s fingers were moving rapidly back and forth, bringing on her own shuddering climax.

‘Are you with me?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, Clay.’

There were several moments of silence, then his voice came over the line, saying, ‘I want to kiss you real bad.’

Ellen’s eyes were closed, her lips were parted as the breath shook from her lungs and the climax shot from her fingertips right into her body. Only with Clay had she ever had sex like this and until now she’d never have believed it could turn her on so much.

‘Are you OK, honey?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she answered weakly.

He chuckled. ‘I guess you really were doing it,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘It was you who did it,’ she told him.

‘Me and the cowboy.’

She laughed. ‘Can I get dressed now?’ she asked.

‘Hell, I really want to say no,’ he answered, ‘but this is the third time the bleep’s gone, telling me someone’s trying to get through. It could be the kids. I’ll call you later, OK? Love you,’ and he was gone.

‘Love you too,’ Ellen echoed as the line went dead and, taking the phone from her ear, she began to hike up her trousers. Now that his voice was no longer there, egging her on and arousing her so much, she felt faintly embarrassed at what she had done and suddenly afraid that someone might actually have seen her. But it wasn’t very likely and, refastening her bra and shirt, she gazed out at the moonlit fields. It was strange how sometimes when she spoke to him she ended up feeling so miserable after, especially when there didn’t seem any reason to, but as a wave of dismay coasted through her heart she forgot all about the intimacy they had just shared and gave in to the bitter disappointment that he wasn’t going to make New York, even though she’d already guessed he wouldn’t.

Sighing, she thought of how they never went anywhere together. They only ever saw each other at his house where the security was tight and totally ignored each other if they were ever at the same parties. Even worse was that sometimes as much as three, or even four, weeks would go by without them seeing each other at all, which was of course how come they had got so good at telephone sex.

Pushing herself away from the wall, she started slowly back to the house. The wind was picking up now and in only a pair of check, seersucker pants, a thin shell top and one of her mother’s hand-knit cardigans she was starting to feel cold. Not that she noticed particularly, for her mind was still full of Clay, wondering exactly what he was doing now, where he had been when she’d called, and if he’d really meant it when he said he was missing her. She hated giving in to her insecurities like this, but she’d had such a rough time with boyfriends in the past – with the exception of Richie, of course – that despite her success as an agent, she sometimes wondered if there wasn’t something seriously wrong with her character. Maybe there was something in her that made men treat her badly, for she’d yet to meet one who didn’t, even though they started out as besotted with her as she was with them. And none of her friends seemed to have the kind of problems she had, so she could only conclude that she was doing something they weren’t. Or maybe not doing. She wished to God she knew which, or what, because it was playing hell with her self-esteem and Clay, with his interminable divorce case and obsession with secrecy, wasn’t really doing much to help.

But now wasn’t the time to be dwelling on her problems; her mother would only detect something and though Ellen rarely held anything back from her, she knew that her mother wasn’t yet ready to accept the hell-raiser Clay Ingall as a part of her daughter’s life. Of course he’d changed a lot since those early days when his reputation had been as wild and crazy as any other rocker from the sixties, but compared with the allegations his wife was throwing out about him these days, his past was starting to appear pretty tame. Indeed, if she didn’t know him so well, Ellen guessed she’d probably have him labelled too, because neither his looks nor his image did much to portray the kindness and sensitivity she had come to know.

The moment she walked in the door of the farmhouse her mouth started watering, as the delicious aroma of her mother’s special pot-roast was filling up the house. Her mother was right there in the kitchen, absently stirring gravy as her eyes stayed riveted to the TV.

‘Anything I can do?’ Ellen offered, stealing a taste of the gravy.

‘Set the table, honey,’ her mother answered, still watching Lucy. ‘And take your father a beer.’

Ellen glanced up at the clock over the washer. At six fifteen every evening her father had a beer. And sure enough, even without looking Nina Shelby had known it was time.

Amazing, Ellen thought, pulling open the refrigerator and taking out a Budweiser. Most other evenings the workers would still be here and they would drink a beer too, out on the porch, while Nina served some of her bite-size home-made pies and hot potatoes. As it was Saturday they were alone as a family.

Helping herself to a carrot, Ellen carried an open bottle through to her father and set it down on the cherry wood table beside him. His eyes didn’t move from the TV as his hand went out to take the bottle. Ellen crunched loudly on the carrot. The bottle paused at Frank Shelby’s lips, then he continued to drink as though nothing had happened and no one was there.

As soon as the programme was over they sat down to eat at the old pine kitchen table that was engraved with names of workers and children from along the years. Ellen searched for and easily found her cousin Matty’s name, carved much bigger than the others with a diamond around it and a flower beneath. Matty had come to stay every year since she was five and Ellen four. She had always come alone as her brothers had other places to go and Aunt Julie wasn’t allowed in the house – nor was Uncle Melvin since the day he’d married Aunt Julie. Aunt Julie, in her younger years, had been a dancer in a Paris night-club where, Nina Shelby had once confided to Ellen, she had danced topless in front of crowds of men. It was only when she went to college that Ellen had actually gotten to know her aunt and uncle, until then she’d never even met them, for Matty had always been put on the plane in New York to fly alone over to Nebraska. Ellen had so envied her that freedom, and as much as she loved her parents, she couldn’t help wishing, once she got to know her aunt and uncle, that there had been as much fun in their house as there was in Matty’s.

‘How’s Matty, dear?’ her mother said, as though picking up on her thoughts. ‘Is she still running the coffee bar?’

Ellen nodded as she took a mouthful of food. ‘Mmm,’ she said, then, waiting until she had swallowed she went on. ‘She had an audition last week for a regular singing spot at a club on Sunset.’

Nina Shelby’s eyes slid over to her husband whose face remained stony. ‘That’s nice,’ Nina said. Then turning back to Ellen, ‘I thought she wanted to act.’

‘She does,’ Ellen confirmed. ‘But she’s not getting a lot of work and she has to pay the rent somehow. Oh, that reminds me, I brought some photographs of our apartment in Valley Village. I’ll get them after dinner.’

Nina nodded and took a mouthful of food.

‘Actually, I’ve been looking around for a place of my own,’ Ellen went on. ‘If Matty gets the singing job then I’ll probably move out, but I don’t want to do that until I know she can manage the rent.’

‘Could she find someone else to share?’ Nina asked.

Ellen was about to mention that Gene, Matty’s boyfriend, was dying to move in, but realizing that would be too much for her father, she simply said, ‘Sure, I expect so. She just has to find the right person.’

They ate on in silence for a while, the crackle and pop of the logs on the fire and the faint hum of the wind outside making the kitchen seem cosy and safe and very far from the rest of the world. After a while Ellen and her mother fell into conversation again, years of habit steering them safely around subjects that would either offend or upset Frank. Once in a while he spoke, addressing himself only to his wife as he asked about one of the workers, or talked about the upcoming harvest and the weeds that needed to be cleared before they could begin. Though Ellen could see how deeply it pained her mother to keep switching her attention between the two people she loved, she knew that to try to force her father to acknowledge she was there was pointless. He was too stubborn to shift, had come too far with this now to back down.

‘Do you think you’ll make it home for Thanksgiving?’ Nina asked, as she and Ellen cleared the table after a blueberry pie dessert.

Ellen thought about it, then nodded. ‘Mmm, there’s a chance,’ she answered. She was thinking of Clay and wondering if he was planning on spending it with his kids. She knew he would if he could, but he’d have to get Nola’s agreement on that and it was doubtful she’d give it. Whether he would come here instead, though, was another matter altogether.

Taking a clean tea cloth from an overhead rack, to wipe as her mother washed, she couldn’t help smiling as she tried to picture the forty-six-year-old rock star with his movie-star good looks, shabby denims and crocodile boots, sitting at a table with Frank and Nina Shelby of Willoughby Farm, Nebraska. The image almost made her laugh, though Clay would love it here, she felt sure of that, for being the kind of man he was it wouldn’t suprise her at all to see him motoring off to church with her father on Sunday, or helping chop wood, or walking the bean with the workers. He’d get a real kick out of getting involved in something so different from his normal life and meeting the kind of folks he never came across in LA.

What her parents would make of him, though, was almost beyond imagining, and just thinking about it got her feeling sorry for her father to think of how awkward and out of his depth he would be in the company of a man like Clay – and how horribly distressed it would make him to discover how deeply involved she was with a man so at odds with his own hopes for her future. After a time, though, he might come to accept the guitar and the Oscars and the denims; what he would never be able to handle was the fact that Clay was married. OK, Clay and his wife were split up, but that wouldn’t make it any better for Frank; if anything, it would probably make it worse, as divorce ranked right up there along with all the other deadly sins.

Not until late the following morning did Ellen see her father again when he and Nina, all spruced up in their Sunday best, set out for church. By the time they returned, Ellen and her rented car would be gone, so the goodbyes had to be said now before Frank and Nina climbed into the truck.

The parting was never easy, as Ellen hated leaving without having resolved things with her father, even though, in the last couple of years, she’d more or less given up trying. Nina always said that he would come round in time, but more than seven years had gone by now and Ellen couldn’t see it getting any better.

As she and her mother walked outside to the truck a chill wind was blowing across the land, dancing dead leaves around the yard and whistling merrily through the cracks in the old tractor shed. It was a crystal clear, bright sunny day making the sky seem bluer than ever and the beans about ready to explode.

Frank had already brought the truck round and was standing in front of it, looking awkward and impatient and slightly pale in the face. Ellen was surprised to see him there as normally he made himself scarce when the time came for goodbyes.

Nina’s eyebrows were raised, showing her surprise too as she turned to take Ellen in her arms. ‘You’ll call us when you get to New York,’ she said, hugging her. ‘Let us know you’ve arrived safely.’

‘Of course,’ Ellen answered. ‘And you take care of yourself, do you hear? Don’t go overdoing it at harvest, the way you usually do. And I’ll try to get back for Thanksgiving.’

Frank cleared his throat loudly. Ellen and her mother turned to look at him. He was staring past them towards the house, as though neither of them was there. ‘Tell her she should stay with Matty,’ he barked. ‘It’s not safe in that city. She shouldn’t live alone.’

Nina turned to Ellen. Ellen was looking at her father. ‘The apartments I’ve been looking at all have private security,’ she told him.

‘That city’s not safe,’ he growled, glaring at Nina.

Ellen glanced at her mother, then, turning back to her father she said, ‘Why don’t you come to LA and help me find a place? That way you’ll know where I am and then you won’t have to worry.’

Frank was already walking round the truck to the driver’s door.

Ellen looked at her mother in dismay. But inviting her father to his idea of Babylon wasn’t clever and not necessary either, for there was every chance that when she moved out on Matty she would actually move right in with Clay, provided the divorce was settled, so it was unfair of her to worry her father about living alone. She supposed she had just hoped to get some reassurance from him that he still cared and here, at the eleventh hour, he had given it.

‘I love you, Dad,’ she called out as he got in the car.

The door slammed, but she knew he had heard her.

‘Don’t tease him,’ her mother chided, giving her another kiss on the cheek.

‘Who’s teasing?’ Ellen responded.

‘You. Asking him to Los Angeles and telling him you love him, you know that’s not your father’s sort of thing. Ah, ah, don’t argue,’ she said, holding up a hand. ‘Just look after yourself and promise to call when you get to New York.’

‘I promise,’ Ellen said.

‘And tell Matty that her Uncle Frank and Aunt Nina would love to see her at Thanksgiving if she’s not going home to her folks.’

‘I’ll tell her,’ Ellen said, linking her mother’s arm as they walked the few steps to the truck.

She stood, waving and blowing kisses, until the truck was on its way to the horizon, then hurried back inside out of the cold. She’d be leaving herself in less than an hour and had several calls she needed to make before she got on the road to the airport. She looked at her watch to check the time in New York, then took out her cellphone and a heap of annotated contracts and started to dial. She shuddered to think what her father would say if he could see her working on a Sunday like this, but fortunately he would never know and what he didn’t know wasn’t going to hurt him.

Several lengthy and interesting phone calls later, she packed up her briefcase and carried it out to the car. It was clear that the next thirty-six hours were going to need every iota of negotiating skill she possessed. Not that she was sorry for that; she enjoyed a good fight and she could certainly do with something to take her mind off Clay for a while. She had lain awake until the early hours going over and over all the reasons she had to believe they would work out and trying desperately not to mind that he hadn’t called back as he’d said he would.

The fact that Ted Forgon wanted to see her the moment she returned to LA was playing on her mind too. It was rare for Forgon to summon one of the agents individually, though it was true he had singled her out for special attention in the past. But he hadn’t done that for some time, and feeling as vulnerable and uncertain about things as she did right now, she was scaring herself into thinking that he was intending to involve her in his ongoing battle with the British agent Michael McCann. That was a vendetta she definitely didn’t want to be a part of, especially not when three of her colleagues had already lost their jobs as a result of it and certainly not when she was so concerned about where her relationship with Clay was headed.