The Ties That Bind

flying the Jolly Roger."
    "You have got an imagination, haven't you?" Garth turned and started back along the beach.
    Shannon took a couple of extra quick paces to catch up with him. "Look, if you're not doing anything this evening, would you like to come over to my place for dinner? I'm having a couple of friends in, and you'd be quite welcome. Nothing fancy, I promise. Annie and Dan are very comfortable people."
    "Annie and Dan?"
    "Annie does macrame and Dan writes. He actually sold his first book this year. I'm sure you'd enjoy their company." Damn it, she wished she didn't sound quite so anxious. Shannon had intended the invitation to be supremely casual. Suddenly another thought occurred to her.
    "Perhaps you work in the evenings?"
    "No. Not this evening."
    "I see." She floundered, wondering what to say next. He wasn't accepting or declining the invitation. It made things awkward. Writers were often a little difficult, she reminded herself. One couldn't always expect normal manners from many of them. She had to make this as openended as possible. "Don't worry about making up your mind right away. I mean, there will be plenty of food, so if you decide to drop over at the last minute, feel free. Annie and Dan will be arriving around six."
    "I'll keep it in mind."
    So much for first contact, Shannon thought ruefully. If she had any sense, she would back off right now. It was clear the man was not the sociable type. A part of her wondered why she felt so compelled to draw him out. It was probably going to be a complete waste of time. Besides, she wasn't quite sure what she would do with Garth Sheridan if she succeeded in getting him to open up to her. She came to a halt on the beach and smiled with what she hoped was a casual charm.
    "I guess I'd better get back to work. I have a lot of designing ahead of me today. I'm refining some sketches for the tote bags I told you about. See you around six, if you feel like dinner." Without waiting for a response she was certain wouldn't be forthcoming, anyway, Shannon nodded once and hurried up the short cliff.
    At the top she turned to look down at him. Sheridan was standing on the beach, staring up at her. Even as she watched, a tendril of fog curled around him, partially veiling him from her sight. Shannon turned again and started toward her cottage. She had the oddest sensation of fleeing from something she didn't understand, and at the same time, she could feel the tug of invisible bonds urging her to go back and try again to break through the barriers surrounding Garth Sheridan.
    Shannon was wise enough to recognize that some mysteries were better left alone. Unfortunately, perhaps, for her, she didn't think she was going to be able to leave Sheridan alone. Something in him was calling her, demanding further contact. She felt a little like a moth drawn to a shrouded flame.
    By
six o'clock
that evening Shannon was convinced Garth Sheridan would not accept her invitation. With a curious sense of disappointment she finished setting the trestle table in front of the brick fireplace. The long runners that formed place mats had been screened in an exotic bird motif that she had designed three months ago during a long winter's weekend. She liked the birds with their otherworldly crests and flamboyant tail feathers and had idly considered using the design on a commercial batch of place mats.
    She heard Dan Turcott's car crunching on the gravel in front of the cottage just as she was setting out the ceramic wine goblets that had been made by a friend in the town of Mendocino. Telling herself that she didn't really care if her reclusive neighbor failed to show, Shannon went to the door to greet her friends.
    Annie O'Connor, her seven-months-pregnant figure outlined in a hand-embroidered jumper, reached the door first.
    "Hi, Shannon, I'm starving," she said, grinning. Annie was the perfect image of an earth mother. There was a round fullness to her that, enhanced now by pregnancy, seemed to be the walking embodiment of the fertile female. She wore her long hair in braids, made her own clothes, her own bread and her own granola. She was close to Shannon's age, which was twenty-nine, but the two women bore little resemblance.
    Instead of Annie's bosomy, motherly roundness, Shannon was slender with small, pert breasts and a graceful but not overly generous flare of thigh. She wore her seal-brown hair parted in the middle and falling in a casual curve that ended at the shoulder. The