glinting on the blue pottery coffee pot in the center of our breakfast-nook table. Aroma of coffee spiced the air.

In contrast with the rose leather-backed chair, Granger's usually ruddy face seemed almost milk white. His forehead was wrinkled with a thoughtful frown. His jaw was set. His lips were drawn in a grim line.

I stared at him, anxiety stirring in me. I liked to see him happy. He looked so miserable this morning. Actually old. He was staring bleakly at his fork and

spoon.

Pity gushed through me. I put my hand gently over his tension-clenched fingers that made no effort to pick up the hot buttered toast I had set before him. "Granger" I said, consideration coloring my low-toned voice. "Honey, something is troubling you. Won't you let me help?"

He lifted his gray eyes. A new shock of pity shot through me as I saw the worry they mirrored.

"Please, Granger," I pleaded. "Tell me what's

wrong.

9.

"I" As he started to speak a prickle of fear raced along my spine.

Was he going to say that he sensed something missing in our marriage? I'd given him everything I had to give a man. Yet the thought of having hurt him because I was well-not the sort of woman who could give him mate-love, tortured me.

Then he wet his lips and his voice was leaden as he told me, "Melba-I'm-I'm a wash-out as a husband. I had no right to have tied you down to an an old man!"'

His self-accusing words surprised me so much that for a moment the room seemed to rock. I suppose it was I who swayed. I steadied myself.

"You-you think you've failed me as-as a hus-

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band?""

That was one thing I never wanted him to think. He would be a good husband, a satisfying husband to a heterosexual girl. But I was lesbian. Oh God!, I thought, anguished, Has he sensed my lack of satisfaction when we are in bed together? I'd tried so hard, so very hard to make him think I was content. Where did I fail him?

Tears were flurrying to my eyes. I tried to blink them away. My heart felt as if someone were taking stitches in it with a sharp needle and a coarse thread that hurt. I went over and put both arms about my husband's broad shoulders. I pressed my cheek against his in a gesture of sincere affection.

"Granger honey" I said softly. "You're a good husband."

"No." He shook his head and said beatenly, "I can't make you pregnant."

9.9

"Don't blame yourself," I said in a rush of tenderness. "In time you will."

Then he told me of his decision to consult a doctor. "Granger," I said, warm assurance throbbing in my voice. "Even if if you should find you can't be a father-we can adopt a baby. Don't feel disappointed. Either way it's all right with me.

9.9

"You're a wonderful wife!" He squeezed my hands. "I-I tried to make you happy," I replied. Blushing to the roots of my blonde hair I couldn't help thinking, Even if I can't be in love with you-I try to please you.

Unaware of my thoughts, he pulled me down to his lap and held me close. His hand slid beneath my robe and fondled my breast. I let him kiss me. I returned his kiss with my lips. But I couldn't help it that I felt no stirring of passion in my heart. I had a need to keep reminding myself that I had no valid reason to feel guilty about not being able to feel passion for

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