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Show DAD-67 I push aside George's arm. "I've got to go," I tell him. I long for my own bed, a cup of tea, Cat. He looks hurt. I can't help that. He glances at his watch. "It's after ten. No more ferries until morning." I stand up, wrapping a sheet around me, and slip down the ladder to the floor of the cottage. It is all I can do not to begin running to and fro, must find some way to finish the night. George has come down the ladder, wearing a white terry cloth robe, and he is handing me a snifter of brandy. I whirl sideways and fling my hand into the fine glass. It smashes on the pine floor next to the rocking chair and I watch the brandy ooze from it like blood. I feel as though I've killed something, and out of the darkness a thousand moths seem to fly into the room. Quickly, I turn away. I'll pack, dress, wait on the pier until morning. George is standing next to the chair, rocking it with one hand. I hear him say, "Please stay." The terror flutters up again, but I'm tired of it, wish it would leave me alone. But the thought of tea and cat draws me like a hook in my throat. "Stay. Help me clean this up." I look down at the smashed glass and the ooze and feel pulled smooth again. If I were to look at George, he would be smiling a l i t t l e , but I'm not ready for that. "I'm sorry," I say, and clutch the sheet tighter around me, walk over to the mess near the chair. I stoop to pick up the shards, still not looking at him. He stoops, too, and we nearly bump heads. He slips and goes down on one knee to catch his balance, tries to get up and slips again. He grabs my arm and I look |