But even if nothing would ever come of their mutual attraction, Jenny decided she should at least do something about the rotten impression she'd made. She'd been upset, too upset to really think about what she was saying. Now, though, she figured she owed him an apology. After that, she'd just have to see what happened. If he apologized, too, which she thought he should, then maybe they could start over.

Having decided to clear her conscience, Jenny thought she might as well get it over with as soon as possible. Howell was a common name, but Rimrock probably only had a couple. She'd find his number and call him right away.

Peaches greeted her at the door, her stumpy tail wagging. "Hi, Peach," Jenny said. "You get lonely?" She dropped her purse on the hall table and gave the dog a hug. "It's just you and me, now. Peach.

We're in charge, you know, so you have to be on your best behavior. No wild parties, okay?"

Peaches waddled into the kitchen and looked longingly at her feeding dish.

"You're too fat," Jenny said sternly. She opened the refrigerator and took out a cold chicken leg. "I'm allowed," she explained, when Peaches whined. "I'm not a blimp and besides, I didn't have any breakfast." Then she relented and put a couple of bites into the dish.

She opened the telephone book, found one Howell, and copied the number onto a piece of note-paper. She reached for the phone, then stopped. She ought to plan exactly what she was going to say, that was much better than a bunch of umm's and uh's.

Still eating, she wandered into the living room, trying to decide whether to try to be funny about it, maybe try to make him laugh, or just keep it straight and to the point.

There was a desk in the Uving room, a beautiful, oak rolltop that had been her great-grandfather's. It was the one piece of furniture that always went with the Fowlers on their numerous moves, and Jenny loved all its tiny drawers and cubbyholes.

She sat at the desk and rolled up its top, revealing a sleek, slate-gray telephone with a built-in answering machine, looking very out-of-place on the polished, golden wood. Sort of like a spaceship in a cornfield, Jenny thought. Then she noticed that there were three messages on the machine.

She punched the play button and leaned back in the chair to listen. Maybe David had called. Maybe he'd decided she had a good reason for yelling at him, and wanted to see her again. It would sure make things a lot easier.

The tiny tape cHcked to a stop, there was a beep, and then a garbled voice saying something about the eleventh, between nine and four. There was a tremendous clanging in the background, but Jenny thought she heard the name McPherson. If she did, then it meant the painters were coming the day after tomorrow, and she should stick around the house, even though they probably wouldn't get there till three-forty-five.