| Copyright © 2009,
Amy
Gallow Reviews For SNOW DRIFTER by Amy Gallow 5 out of 5 Hearts! “Amy Gallow is a bright and talented author always gluing you in your seat until you finish the story. The characters pop right off the page into whatever room you are reading in. I will definitely read any other book that Amy Gallow writes. She is a wonderful author who can sweep you off your feet and into a while new realm.” Night Owl Romance 4 ½ Books! “ Amy Gallow uses splendid imagery and analogies to make Allison and Stuart’s story come alive. Alluding to Kipling’s “The Cat Who Walked By Itself” and Tennyson’s “Ulysses” gives a special understanding of Stuart. The setting, so realistically described, helps the reader feel as if she is there with the characters whether they are on the snowy ski slopes in Australia, in Sydney with the Opera House in the background, or in an attic room in Aspen, Colorado USA. All the senses are engaged as the story unfolds and the secondary characters heighten these senses at times with humor, innuendo, suspense, and intrigue. However, the greatest of all is the love that cherishes, comforts, gives unstintingly, and holds steady even when it seems impossible for things to work out. I loved this story. It expresses such an all-encompassing love.” Camellia, Long & Short Reviews “Amy Gallow has done a wonderful job here. Amy leaves you believing
the story is going in one direction, when in the end it has an amazing
ending. This story will have you hugging a box of tissues and rooting
for both of the characters. Great job Amy Gallow, I think this book
is left open for some of the other characters to have their own stories
to tell.” Sample Chapter For SNOW DRIFTER
by Amy Gallow
Allison kept working after she caught the virus, persisting far longer than she’d have allowed anyone else, but it became obvious, even to her, that soldiering on was pointless, and she took her first sick leave since Paul’s death. A week later, her illness was still virulent. Her eyes were tight aching balls and her brain a mass of rusty steel shavings lacerating the inside of her skull. She knew the shavings were rusty because she could taste them every time she coughed. When Frederick Mayfield rang, she’d explained her condition, and he’d appeared to listen before returning to the importance of the amalgamation of the two firms, his concerns about Stuart Ferguson’s visit and his need for her to be present to adequately represent his interests. Realizing his concerns made him deaf to anything she might say, she took the easy way out and agreed to come in the next morning. It was a mistake. Antihistamines and analgesics notwithstanding, the fifteen-minute ferry ride from Balmain to Circular Quay and the five-minute walk in the midst of the morning rush to her office block in the central CBD brought her close to tears by the time she stood in the ground floor lobby waiting for a lift to carry her up to the fourteenth floor, held there by stubborn pride. The lift arrived, doors opened and the crowd around her pressed forward, carrying her with them. The miasma of wet clothing, perfume and stale cigarette smoke triggered a fit of coughing, sending her brain cannoning around inside her skull, agony exploding at every bounce. Her knees sagged, and she would have fallen, but for the crush of people around her. All she could do was damn Frederick Mayfield. No decision would be made today—she felt like death and probably looked worse. Her anger expanded to include Stuart Ferguson, his boss Ken Simpson and the entire staff of I-Tech Enterprises. With a little luck, her virus would travel back to Canberra and decimate them all. Damn them, she thought, each cough jangling her brain. The lift door slid open at the fourteenth floor, catching her by surprise, and she was still fumbling in her purse for her key card when she reached the outer door of the office. The electronic lock was its usual cantankerous self, forcing her to swipe the card three times before it clicked open. The receptionist, caught in the middle of another task, looked up and greeted her brightly. “Hi, Ally,” she said and looked set to continue. “Call the maintenance people and tell them if they don’t fix this dammed door today, I’ll transfer our contract elsewhere.” It was close to a snarl. “Better still, get them on the phone now and transfer the call through to my office.” The outburst didn’t offend the girl. “Yes, Ally.” Her voice sounded strangely distorted to Allison’s fevered brain, and her patience did little to improve Allison’s mood. “Call me when Ferguson arrives,” she said, pushing her way through the inner door and into the bustle of the general office. She heard the girl answer, but the closing door muffled the words. They couldn’t compete against the chatter of six women settling down to their working day. Her headache worsened, and she fled towards the sanctuary of her office. Grant her a half hour’s peace and she’d deal with Ferguson and go home to bed. She pushed open the door of her corner office and stepped unsuspectingly into a shaft of sunlight reflected from the new façade of the building opposite. Twin shards of glass pierced her eyes, and she turned to grope blindly for the cord to draw the curtains, eyes shut tightly against the pain. “Let me.” The subtle Americanization of an Australian accent stilled Allison’s heart, and its aching familiarity pierced her fever-distorted brain. She spun to face the speaker, the tears streaming from her eyes turning his outline into a blur. “Paul?” For an instant, there was nothing beyond the joy of waking to find the nightmare over…and then sanity crashed in. Paul Morrison was dead. She felt again the terrible limpness overtake him in her arms and the queer thrill of horror she’d felt as his coffin disappeared into the grave. Her mind screamed the impossibility of him being here as the room dissolved around her and she plunged forward into an abyss. A flare of pain inside her head, and consciousness shrank to a single point of light and then died completely. * * * * She didn’t want to return, fought to remain in the timeless darkness, but a distant pinpoint of light expanded to fill her vision with a harsh glare. She flinched and tried to turn away. “You’ve decided to rejoin us.” It was not a voice she knew. Her eyes opened on a young man in a white jacket leaning over her. A stethoscope dangled from his neck like a badge of rank, and he was replacing a pencil torch in his breast pocket, which explained the light. He’d been checking the reaction of her pupils. She opened her mouth to speak, but he forestalled her. “What’s your name?” he asked, the irrelevant question making her bridle. “Allison Farrell.” “How did you get here?” Another stupid question left her unimpressed. “Where’s here?” “The emergency ward of Royal Prince Alfred Hospital.” Allison digested this more slowly. The emergency ward of a hospital suggested an injury of some sort. She raised her hand, and her fingers encountered a thick pad of gauze on her right temple. Pain flared at her touch, and her brain hardened into a steel ball, hammering its way outwards to the beat of her pulse. “I seem to have hit my head when I fainted…” she said, her voice dying away as the dots of her memory connected to reach the impossibility of Paul’s return. “You don’t appear to be concussed,” the doctor conceded. “The bump on your head would’ve been a lot more serious, but for your man’s quick reflexes,” he said, picking up her wrist and turning it to place his fingers on her pulse. Allison’s mouth opened, but the doctor shushed her to concentrate on the second hand of his watch, leaving her to wonder who she’d mistaken for Paul—the only logical explanation outside of believing in ghosts. Frustrated by the need to remain silent, she looked around. There wasn’t much to see. A curtained cubicle, a high trolley of medical paraphernalia and the doctor, his lips moving silently as he counted. He finished and looked up. “What were you doing in your office in this state?” A shake of his head forestalled any reply, but he was smiling. “Soldiering on, I suppose. If I had my way, I’d put you in the psychiatric ward for a week. As it is, your friends are here, and they’ve agreed to see you tucked into your own bed—where you should have been in the first place.” He shook his head in mock disgust and swept the curtains aside to admit the outer world. Across the ward, Allison could see her senior assistant talking animatedly to a strange man. It wasn’t hard to guess what had attracted Georgia. Her companion was tall, incredibly tanned for mid-winter, and darkly handsome in the polished way of a male fashion model. Allison smiled to see an expression of concern replace the brightness of flirtation on Georgia’s face as her friend hurried to her side. “Ally, this is Stuart Ferguson.” “Hello,” the fashion plate spoke, his voice identifying him as the man who’d startled her in her office. “I’m pleased to meet you more formally.” He approached her bed, his hand extended. “Georgia’s explained about Paul.” He paused, and Allison expected some trite expression of sympathy, but he thought better of it, earning her instant gratitude. She accepted his hand. Seeing him clearly, she realized there was little resemblance to Paul. The voices were similar, and both had spent long periods working with Americans. She half closed her eyes to see him in outline, as she had in her office, and saw nothing to justify her mistake. An embarrassed flush of blood warmed her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.” “I’d suggest the combination of an unsympathetic employer, an impatient visitor from Canberra and a viral infection,” he said and turned to the doctor. “Are you going to keep her in for observation?” “Not if there’s going to be someone with her for the rest of the day,” the doctor said. “She can go home as soon as she’s ready.” She watched Stuart consider the matter and then nod before turning back to her. “I’ll wait outside. Georgia will help you dress when you feel up to it,” he said, his right hand coming to rest on the doctor’s shoulder, an obvious signal that he wanted to discuss the matter further. The doctor nodded in turn, and both men withdrew, the doctor pausing to close the curtains. “Wow.” Georgia leaned close to keep her comments private. “Momma, please buy me one of those.” Georgia’s infatuation didn’t distract Allison from the casual way Stuart Ferguson was taking charge, but her attempt to rise and put him in his place produced a wave of nausea. She collapsed back onto the pillow, and Georgia’s yelp of dismay brought the doctor back to her side. “Take it gently,” he advised. “I didn’t mean for you to leap to your feet immediately.” “Would there be a suitable hospital close to her home?” Stuart was compounding his sin by taking direct charge. The doctor picked up Allison’s chart. “The Masonic in Ashfield is the closest,” he said. “It should have a bed available if she has private cover.” “The firm will meet the cost if she hasn’t. Could you arrange it? Ambulance transport as well.” Stuart established his authority without raising his voice. “Georgia will collect what she needs on the way.” “Just a minute,” Allison protested, ill-advisedly raising her head and paying the penalty as another wave of dizziness beaded her forehead with chill perspiration while nausea threatened her last vestige of dignity. “Just lie there and accept it,” Georgia advised, leaning over her, the eyelid hidden from the two men semaphoring furiously. “Mayfield & Associates owes you a little TLC.” Feeling too ill to argue, Allison closed her eyes. She’d take charge as soon as she felt better. Until then, she could do nothing but listen to the doctor discussing her condition with Stuart. The IT specialist robbed her of a reason to interrupt by asking the questions she wanted answered. He showed a good grasp of medical terms and wasn’t prepared to accept anything on face value. When Georgia wanted to discuss what to bring into the hospital, Allison tried to follow both conversations and failed, her confusion triggering an infuriating smile on her friend’s face. The doctor and Georgia departed, the latter promising to meet them at the private hospital, and Allison found herself alone in the curtained cubicle with a man she hardly knew. He seemed content to sit without conversation, and Allison closed her eyes. The pain in her head was less that way, and she fell into a half doze. A small part of her mind wondered what combination of aftershave and cologne gave her visitor such a warm, masculine smell. It was oddly reassuring, verging on the familiar, like an old friend come to visit. “The ambulance people are here.” At Stuart’s voice, Allison’s eyes opened, and she found him leaning over her, their faces less than an arm’s length apart. For the first time, she saw that his eyes were not blue, but a clear translucent green. Something lay in their depths that she couldn’t identify, and he looked away before she could, leaving the feeling that she’d missed something important. “I’d like the doctor to check her before she’s moved,” he said to the two ambulance men. “I’m here,” the doctor said, coming up behind them. Whether in response to Stuart’s concern, or because it was a hospital discharge requirement, the doctor’s examination was thorough, eliciting her confession of both pain in her forehead and nausea. “We’ll fix that,” he promised and gave instructions to the nurse who’d joined him. She shooed everyone out to administer an injection into Allison’s right buttock. “This’ll reduce the nausea while they transport you,” she advised. “It might make you a bit sleepy. If it does, relax and nap your way through the journey. It’s the only way to travel. Ambulance gurneys aren’t noted for comfort.” She was right on both counts. Allison was drowsy before she reached the ambulance and was only half aware when the drive started. She remembered little of the admission formalities at the Masonic Hospital, Stuart apparently dealing with everything. Georgia’s return brought her back to full awareness, and she realized they were alone. It felt different without him at her side. She felt betrayed, as if he’d deserted her without permission, which was unreasonable by any standard and doubly so when she considered her behavior. She pulled a face at her ingratitude. “Where’s our friend,” she asked. “They’ve sent him out into the corridor,” Georgia explained. “He’s probably charmed half the nursing staff by now.” “Could you find him? I think I need to apologize,” she explained and flushed at the look Georgia gave her. Stuart came into the room, a half emptied cup in one hand and the saucer in the other bearing an expensive cream biscuit that was definitely not standard hospital fare. “You know how to get looked after,” she accused him, smiling to take the sting from her words. “Yours is on the way,” he defended himself. “One for Georgia as well. She brought in a supply of your herbal tea. They’re making yours with no milk or sugar. Right?” Allison nodded, not allowing his question to distract her. “I’ve taken a great deal of your time,” she said, an inquiring lift at the end making it a question. He didn’t quite shrug, but the impression remained. “You’re the one they sent me to see. Neither mentioned your illness,” he said, an edge to his voice promising an uncomfortable moment in the future for the unnamed individuals. “What did you want to discuss?” “As you weren’t in the office, you haven’t seen my e-mails, and it’s a bit complex. I’d prefer to come back when you’ve recovered.” A smile in those green eyes made her lips curve in response. “Why don’t you outline what you want? Maybe Georgia can help.” “Yes, please,” Georgia broke in. He smiled at Georgia’s enthusiasm. “To merge the administration of the two firms and allow the introduction of online trading to your broking systems, I need to go through your critical requirements and match them to Canberra’s. They’ve already briefed me thoroughly, and I need an equally thorough briefing at this end.” Allison’s mind went racing off in a dozen tangents. “You don’t sound like a long-term employee,” she said, buying time to think. “That’s very astute,” he said, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “Ken brought me in because I’ve worked through a couple of similar situations in the States.” “What were you doing in America,” Georgia asked, having been silent for longer than usual. He turned to her. “Teaching skiing in Aspen,” he said. “One of my private clients was the owner/manager of the West Coast end of a deal and was a little suspicious of the Easterners, particularly the New York connection. He thought I’d be impartial and was happy with the result. It took longer than I’d planned, and I missed the ski season back here. Ken heard I was free and asked me to help.” “You know Ken Simpson,” Allison said, entering the conversation again. “Yes. We went to school and university together. He majored in economics while I filled in time between ski seasons.”
“Yes.” He didn’t rise to the bait of her tone, his eyes regarding her without challenge. “Do you compete?” “Occasionally. The training to achieve anything of value interferes too much with what I do.” She could see he didn’t expect her to understand. “Being rich enough to do that must be pleasant.” Georgia went, as usual, where angels would fear to tread. “I doubt I’ll ever find out.” A slight smile acknowledged her curiosity. Allison smiled herself and then realized how far the conversation had strayed and reverted immediately to business. “Georgia can help you. Cover the basics with her, and I’ll ring you when I’m back at work so we can deal with anything that’s outstanding,” she said, demonstrating she too could be decisive. He nodded. “I’ll see Georgia tomorrow,” he agreed, stepping back from the bed. “You should be resting rather than talking.” Then he was gone. Georgia remained silent until he’d passed beyond earshot and then let out a squeal of ecstatic mirth. “I’ve got him to myself all day tomorrow,” she exulted. “Perhaps I can pretend to be a bit dense and stretch it out another day. Of course, we’ll have to lunch together to continue our discussions, perhaps even dinner as well.” Georgia’s brightness made the pain in Allison’s head seem suddenly worse, and a waft of air from under the sheet reminded her of the clammy sweat of her nausea. “I need a shower,” she interrupted crossly. “If I’m to stay in bed, I must be clean.” “You’ve a spare nightgown and your own private bathroom. Hang on a tick, I’ll call the nurse,” Georgia said, suddenly concerned with things other than the man who’d just left. “I don’t need a nurse to shower,” Allison grumbled, but allowed Georgia to press the call button on the control pad attached to her bed. The indignity of showering sitting down on a chair, then having the nurse assist her back into bed at the end of it, took up half an hour and diverted Georgia from the subject of Stuart Ferguson—at least until the arrival of the flowers.
“My bet is on the one in the bed,” Georgia answered the rhetorical question, her straight face marred only by a twinkle in her dark brown eyes. One display went on a shoulder-high shelf opposite the foot of the bed, while the florist placed the smaller one on the bedside cabinet. “These cards go with them,” she said, handing Allison two heavily embossed cream envelopes. “Thank you,” Allison said, taking both envelopes and opening the one that accompanied the larger display first. Inside, an ornate Get Well card, printed in gold, carried the best wishes of all at Mayfield & Associates. The handwriting was neat, evenly spaced, the cursive slope regular in all the letters, but she didn’t recognize it. Opening the other card, which, like the display, was smaller, Allison found a more soberly printed version of the Get Well sentiments signed in the same handwriting on behalf of the staff at I-Tech Enterprises. A “PTO” in the bottom right-hand corner prompted her to turn it over and read the short note: Although our respective bosses sent
the flowers, I add my personal good wishes and trust that you will soon
be well enough for us to meet more appropriately. Allison showed the cards to Georgia, who read them with a smile. “We both know that Frederick Mayfield
would never think to send flowers. My bet says Ken Simpson is no better
and the bronzed, green-eyed god who’s just left instigated this.
Why don’t you ring our beloved boss and thank him for the flowers?
He won’t know a thing about them. A view the hospital chose not to share. The senior intern came in and reviewed her condition, rang her local doctor, and condemned her to a stay of three days. She could go home on the weekend, he said, but only on the proviso she rested until Monday. Georgia listened with poorly concealed glee. “ It’s time someone made you act sensibly,” she said. “You’ve been pushing yourself since…” Her voice died away. |