Programmed for Peril

in the sink. “That’s not an excuse for no manners.”
    “Okay, Mom.” Melody was suitably chagrined.
    Trish said, “Do I get to hear your whistle?”
    “Sure!”
    As always Trish sat, hands on her lap, in her padded chair while her daughter performed with her usual enthusiasm. The girl narrowed her wide gray eyes (oh, you are your mother’s daughter!) when playing and wrinkled her button ¡ nose, saucy as any Disney cartoon character’s beneath its freckle shower. Spooky that she so seldom hit a false note, never mind a child’s limited coordination. The names of tunes often escaped her, though their key never did. Somewhere along the way she had learned to read simple music, though no one had taught her. Trish had no reason to doubt i that when the childish strings of quarter notes turned to clustered chords Melody would assimilate them easily, as a young bird flutters increasing distances and then one day soars.
    The tunes wound their way from the whistle down to her heart. She was reminded again that from the hellish waste j heap that her more than eight years in California often seemed this one incredible redheaded blossom had sprouted.
    One day, maybe, she would be able to get wholly past the emotional price she had paid for those years. She would heal the inner damage to her personality that snarled and snapped at the heels of her sexuality, even as she attempted to deepen and broaden her relationship with Foster Palmer. How badly she had thus far failed to do so could be proven by what she had avoided telling him. I have been less than candid, she thought. A great deal less than candid....
    The rhythm and fluidity of Melody’s tune summoned Trish’s attention with a sorcerer’s power. She had put off beginning her daughter’s formal musical instruction. She wanted to see toward which instrument the girl was tugged. What she didn’t want to create was a musical freak. Foster had been supportive about that in the face of Marylou’s opposite opinions, as he so often was—thank goodness! She felt a surge of warmth for the man.
    Melody took the whistle from her lips. Her narrowed eyes widened to normal. “I wonder if Daddy would like to hear me playing this,” she said.
    “I’m sure he would,” Trish said evenly.
    Melody frowned. “I miss him. Sometimes I really miss him and want to see him.”
    “You know how many times I’ve explained—”
    “I know. And I understand.”
    “Then you shouldn’t make it hard for yourself by wondering. Because that’s all it’ll ever be. Just wondering.” Melody’s smooth brow crumbled into a frown. “I can’t always do that. I can’t always not think of Carson.”
     
    Instead of the trial-by-wife Trish had expected, the celebration at Foster’s yacht and tennis club was painless. Thank the bubbly. Père Champagne anointed even the most conservative lady. No less than Blanche Twerbly burst into song. Though straight-haired and WASPy, she nonetheless passably sang “Empty Bed Blues,” to husband Phil’s grand astonishment and, as the light dawned, growing embarrassment. Another hidden, adulterous tale from the naked suburbs, Trish thought, glad it was theirs, not hers. She already had too many secrets.
    Foster made a speech of thanks to his crew and praised his yacht, the Emerald Lady. He stood six-four, hair thinning as he shoved hard at forty. The metal-rimmed glasses that winked as he gestured looked out of place on a face so tanned by sea sun. His long, wiry hands were rough from sailing duties. Trish felt great tenderness for him, marveling that the two of them should have come together and clicked—she the wandering one, so recently settled into respectable business, he a well-off middle sibling who bred English mastiffs for pleasure and played yachtsman. Foster could have done nothing, thanks to his heaps of stocks and bonds, but everyone in his family understood that while work might not be necessary, idleness was unacceptable. His older brother ran a brokerage house in New York. His younger sister imported South American fabrics to her Dallas boutique.
    When the party broke up Foster led Trish outside. The moon was out, the June night warm. They strolled toward the marina, where masts swayed to the beat of tides and current. They climbed the gangway to the deck of the Emerald Lady. Answering both their unspoken desires, he kissed her. She eagerly welcomed his taste and the grainy scent of his after-shave. His lips’ parting sounded