WE DON'T NEED A BLIZZARD TO BE TOGETHER

broke his heart in this room, in what was to be his home soon.

"Andrew," she said, her voice holding a warning note. She didn't move away. Instead she stood there looking at him, a question in her green eyes.

Andrew remembered it was exactly the way she'd looked at him those long months ago, while the storm raged outside and snow battered the windows. He had come up behind her and touched her shoulders. She'd turned around and he'd cupped her face and kissed her. And she'd looked at him with that questioning expression, as if to say, "Who are you and how do you do this to me?"

This time he didn't touch her face, which took more self-control than he knew he had. "Roro, honey, do we need a storm?"

She shook her head. "No."

"No, you are not going to kiss me or no, we don't need a blizzard to be together," She opened her mouth to respond, but he sensed the refusal coming and stopped her. "No, don't say anything. I'm not sure I can take much more rejection." She smiled at his feeble attempt at humor and then looked around for the dog. Pookie lay curled up in the corner in a pile of bath towels.

"Do I get the rest of the tour?"

"Yeah."

They left the dog snoring in the kitchen while Andrew led Rose upstairs and showed her the three bedrooms, complete with iron beds and dressers with peeling paint and faded quilts covering the sagging mattresses.

"I guess I'd better start buying new furniture," he said, opening a window to let air cool the stifling second floor.

"You could use new mattresses," she agreed, "But the rest is perfect."

"I'm going to have the floors sanded and refinished."

"Then all you will need are some throw rugs," she said, helping him open the windows in the largest room, the one he would take for himself when he moved in. It had its own entrance to the bathroom, and one of the previous owners had built in cupboards and shelves along the west wall. He'd stored most of his mother's things in the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. "To match the quilts."

He glanced toward the blue checked quilt that covered the double bed. And then he thought he'd better not look at that bed anymore. He could picture Rosy waking in this room, reaching for him under the warmth of the covers. "Those aren't the ones I was telling you about. The best are in the chest over there."

"Can I see?"

"Sure." Andrew walked over and lifted the lid, Rose close behind him. Lifting the lid brought the fragrance of cedar and the musty smell of clothing stored for a long time. "Help yourself."

She knelt on the floor in front of the chest and lifted out a bundle wrapped in tissue paper. "This is like Christmas," she said, darting a glance his way before unwrapping the tissue to reveal a quilt made of small strips that formed squares. She touched the brown and cream fabrics with reverent fingers and traced the stitching gently. "Your mother did beautiful work."

"Not my mother," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed so he could see her face. Was this how a man in love behaved? "My grandmother and her sisters. She used to say it was all she had of her family."

Rose wrapped the quilt and placed it carefully beside her on the floor before reaching for another bundle. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

He shook his head. "Take all the time you need," he replied. Maybe he was in love with her if he was content to sit here and watch her admire old bedding. If this was what love did to a man, then maybe he should try to get out now, before he did something foolish.

He should make love to her or avoid her, Andrew figured, watching Rose's face light up as she unwrapped something yellow and delicate-looking.

Somehow he had to put himself out of this misery of wanting her and not having her.

*****

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