But whenever they were not there Rachel found herself wishing she had children. How different these days would be if she could return home each day to the sound of their voices in the house, perhaps the blare of a stereo from one of the bedrooms, the clatter of a tennis racket being dropped in the middle of the kitchen floor, even the sound of adolescent bickering. She could imagine one of them coming to her, complaining, "Mother, will you tell him." Or her…

Don't think about Beth. Don't think about her father.

But every time she walked into the newly decorated bedroom, she thought of Tommy Lee. The room had been repapered with an airy yellow and white bamboo design, and the furniture was pristine white wicker-fresh, bright, a breath of springtime brought inside. Colorful silk flowers adorned a miniature dressing table, above which hung a wicker-framed mirror. The bed was strewn with the whitest, ruffliest spread she could buy, and piled high with yellow and white throw pillows. She'd dappled the room with potted palms and pothos, and changed the scents in the closet and drawers to a brisk herbal that complemented the new look. It was the bedroom of a fifteen-year-old girl now, as bright and different as Rachel could make it. But when she viewed it, she often thought with silent chagrin, "Is this my `Sue Ann Higgenbotham`?"

And at night, when she lay with the new woven wood shades lifted clear of the sliding glass door, she studied the reflection of the moon on the surface of the pool and took stock of her life, the void, the boredom that was becoming oppressive. She wondered if she would simply drift into her fifties, then her sixties, accepting Marshall's and her father's company as her social mainstay, because the town was small and offered little more.

But it offered one other whom she could not erase from her mind.

She pictured him as he'd looked the night he'd come to the house, wearing the new glasses that made him seem half a stranger, knowing in her heart that he was scarcely a stranger. She remembered the pain in his eyes as he'd told of his failed marriages and his lasting feelings for her. She recalled his lips, as familiar as they'd been years ago, and found herself wishing she had kissed him again, then felt guilty for making such a wish when Owen had been gone such a short time. But Owen's illness had depleted him so rapidly during the last half-year that their sexual relationship had been nonexistent. While he was alive, she'd been too preoccupied with concern for him to rue the lack, but now, alone in bed at night, memories of Tommy Lee and the past came crowding back, leaving her restless and unsatisfied.

Thank heavens she had the store to fill her days. She loved it and was tremendously proud of its success. It had taken ten years to endow the business with its current йclat-a Dun and Bradstreet rating of over $100,000 a year -and almost as long to acquire the eclectic fittings that made the setting at once genteel and warmly welcoming. Oddly enough, Panache was the antithesis of Rachel's house, where each item had its place and where neatness reigned.

The front door boasted a stained-glass window she had found at an auction. Apple-green carpeting created a soothing backdrop for well-chosen touches of pink in the accoutrements.

An elegant French provincial sofa of shell-pink velvet sat before the front bay window, surrounded by hanging ferns. At the rear of the store a tall French armoire spread mirrored doors wide, its illuminated interior highlighting the current display of Giorgio Sant'Angelos and Gloria Betkers draped artistically over the gaping doors and tilting from willow hangers.

At one rear corner was the fitting room: nothing more than a length of fringed French moirй, again in pink, shirred on a circular brass rod. Inside was a delicate wicker chair that matched the chest just outside, where a mountainous burst of spruce-green eucalyptus exploded from a fat-bellied pot in bleeding shades of rose. The spicy fragrance blended with that of herbal soaps, bath salts, and sachets displayed in an open curved-glass curio cabinet and the central display of Flora Danica fragrances.

The opposite rear corner housed Rachel's prized Louis XIV kneehole desk and matching chair with its gilded legs and rose damask seat. There was only one rectangular showcase in sight, and that housed jewelry and scarves in the center of the store. Otherwise, clothing was displayed hither and thither: on an antique butterfly table, hanging from the doe-foot supports of an oval shaving mirror, strewn with an artful eye on the graduated shelves of a whatnot, and slipping from the drawers of a provincial lowboy with graceful acanthus-leaf pulls. Around the walls, dresses hung on charming brass extenders, alternating with the array of wall decor that brought the green-and-white trellised paper to life: miniature Renoir prints, framed cross-stitch embroidery, sprigs of feathergrass bound with green and pink ribbons, toadstools and unicorns on knickknack shelves, decoupage fancies and gold-beaded neck ropes. The handmade crafts interspersed with couturier labels lent Panache that look of artful clutter only the most talented can successfully achieve. And the store managed to reflect its owner: cool, elegant, tasteful, and always, always fragrant.

Rachel's workdays followed a routine: up at seven, open at nine, paperwork at her corner desk in between helping customers, post office at eleven, lunch at twelve-thirty-usually a piece of fruit or a carton of yogurt at her desk while perusing Women's Wear Daily. The afternoons were slightly more varied: dust the furniture, water the ferns, steam the wrinkles from any newly arrived garments, tag incoming merchandise, straighten the stacks, rehang the tried-ons, then, at exactly quarter to four, walk down to the bank with the day's deposit before returning to the shop to help Verda close up for the day.

Given this regimentation, the biyearly clothing markets presented an inviting change of routine for Rachel. It was on a Wednesday in early April, when she and Verda were discussing the upcoming market in Dallas, that the phone rang on Rachel's desk. Verda, who happened to be standing right beside the desk, automatically picked it up. A moment later, wide-eyed, she covered the mouthpiece with her palm and announced in a stage whisper, "It's for you! It's him!"

Rachel's head snapped up. "Who?"

Verda's eyebrows nearly touched her hairline. "It's the one who kept calling you while you were gone to St. Thomas. The one who'd never give his name."

Rachel's stomach did a somersault, but she gave away none of the trepidation she felt as Verda handed over the phone, then stood listening, making no effort to appear as if she weren't.

"Hello?"

He needn't have given his name; this time she recognized the voice. There followed a long pause, and then Tommy Lee's voice came again. "I've been thinking about you."

With Verda right there, Rachel measured her reply carefully. "Is there something you wanted?"

"Yes. I wanted to know if you'd like to come out and see the lake rise. The dam's been opened for two months, and the water level's finally coming up at my end of the lake."

"I'm really sorry, but I won't have time."

"How do you know? I haven't told you when yet."

Verda now had her ear cocked like a robin listening for a worm. Unable to dream up an evasive reply, Rachel was forced to ask, "When?"

"Friday afternoon. I thought we could drive out together after we're both finished with work."

It sounded so much more appealing than dinner with her father and Marshall, but she quelled the urge to accept. "I'm sorry. I have plans for that night."

"I don't believe you, but that's okay. I'll try another time."

"That won't be necessary, T.." She caught herself just short of pronouncing his name.

"I know. But I'll try just the same." Then he ended softly, "Bye, Rachel."

"Good-bye."

Verda followed every motion as Rachel hung up the phone and slipped her large, squarish reading glasses back on her nose.

"Well, who was it?" the clerk asked point-blank.

Rachel managed to exude an air of total indifference as she relaxed against the chair with one slim wrist draped over its rim. "Oh, just someone I knew years ago who heard of Owen's death and wanted to express his sympathies."

"That's not what it sounded like to me. It sounded like somebody asking you out on a date."

"A date?" Rachel pushed her glasses low and peered at Verda over their rims, hoping she didn't look as shaken as she was by the sound of his voice. "A date? With a widow of less than two months? Don't be silly, Verda." Then she returned to her study of the calendar and the market announcement. "I'll make my flight reservations this afternoon." The subject of the phone call was set aside while they discussed the upcoming trip.

But that afternoon when Rachel made her three forty-five walk to the bank, Tommy Lee was standing in the doorway of his office building as she passed on the opposite side of the street. When she saw him, her navy-blue high heels came to an abrupt halt and she clutched the zippered bank pouch more tightly against her ribs. She'd been passing his office for ten years, and the few times he'd happened to come out while she was directly across the street he'd moved to his car with no indication of having seen her.

He raised a palm now, silently. While she acknowledged it with a silent nod, she mentally calculated how many people up and down Jackson Avenue might have witnessed the exchange. Then she hurried on, breathing freely only when she reached the comparative safety of the bank lobby. From inside, she turned to see if he was still there. He was, studying the bank steps, his expression unreadable from this distance. He found a cigarette, lit it, tossed his head back in that masculine way she sometimes pictured when she thought of him- late at night when she couldn't sleep-and turned, then disappeared into his office.